Howard Williams, Melanie Giles - Archaeologists And The Dead_ Mortuary Archaeology In Contemporary Society-oxford University Press (2016).pdf

ARCHAEOLOGISTS AND THE DEAD

Archaeologists and the Dead Mortuary Archaeology in Contemporary Society

Edited by

HOWARD WILLIAMS AND MELANIE GILES

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © Oxford University Press 2016 The moral rights of the authors have been asserted First Edition published in 2016 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2015954519 ISBN 978–0–19–875353–7 Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

Foreword Mike Parker Pearson

In the past decade, archaeologists working in the UK have had to review their relationships with the dead—and the living—mainly as a result of the legislative ‘crisis’ in burial archaeology (see Pitts and Sayer 2010). They have been working with the legacy of Victorian burial legislation never intended for archaeological cases, and a system of licensing excavations of human remains that grew out of the discipline’s professionalization and bureaucratization in the 1990s. The Ministry of Justice’s announcement of a requirement to rebury all such remains within two years of excavation—regardless of their condition, origin, or date—sparked a vigorous and successful national campaign reasserting the importance of the long-term curation of ancient human remains (Parker Pearson et al. 2013). Liaison between the profession and the Ministry of Justice seems to have resolved the licensing crisis for now, but there are continuing problems in both policy and practice. In my own work, I have had to accept the Ministry of Justice’s requirement that the excavation of 5000-year-old Neolithic cremation deposits at Stonehenge be screened from the view of thousands of bemused visitors (in accordance with the conditions of the archaeological licence) whilst simultaneously being filmed for television documentaries that reached a global audience. This contradictory situation is all the more ridiculous given that public audiences are exposed on an unprecedented level to both real and fictional corpses through television, film, and other media. This situation regarding the archaeological dead must be set against a background in which most individuals in the UK and Western Europe have never been more distanced from the actual process of dealing with their own dead. At present, however, there is little political appetite for wider reform of legislation or guidance for mortuary archaeology, which would be needed to address holistically these contradictions in policy and practice (Ministry of Justice 2011). Other issues that have recently faced the discipline, and occasionally caught the public eye, include calls for reburial and repatriation, questions of ownership and responsibility, conflicts in museum ethics and heritage practice, and discussions over when and how we display the dead to the public. It is timely and good to see many of these topics touched on by papers in this volume. British archaeologists have also profitably reached out to colleagues in other

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countries to explore how their legislative frameworks, cultural beliefs, and disciplinary attitudes shape archaeologists’ relations with the living as well as the dead, and other papers in this edited book make an important contribution to such conversations. What emerges from the research and debates in this book is the need for archaeologists to defend robustly the value and significance of human remains and mortuary archaeology: their scientific importance for long-term studies of disease and the health of the population (e.g. Roberts and Manchester 2005), questions of ancestry and mobility (analysed through DNA and isotope studies), as well as transformations in cultural beliefs and mortuary practices over the millennia. Some of these areas of research will inevitably prove to be something of a Pandora’s box (especially those touching on questions of identity and origin) but these are issues of global importance that cannot be ignored. We need to make a critical contribution to such debates, and not leave it to journalists or others with only limited perspectives or understanding of the data, and appropriate methods and interpretative frameworks, to speak on our behalf. Another priority for us is the continual development and testing of techniques, along with evidence-based discussion of our results in ways that capture the public’s attention and imagination. However, we also face an additional problem: recent years have seen a growing compartmentalization of expertise, with a massive growth in public archaeology and heritage promotion that can sometimes appear quite disconnected from scientific analysis. In promoting the study of the past, we must not lose sight of the content and complexity of research results, and we must educate a new generation of archaeologists in the best ways of presenting thoughtful analysis and empirically sound interpretations to the media. When done well, scientific results can captivate an audience and inspire debate—the Amesbury Archer is a good example here (Fitzpatrick 2013). We should also have the courage of our convictions. Some recent exhibitions that shield the general visitor from viewing human remains have done so out of a concern not to cause offence to a small minority. Yet curators must consider carefully whether such groups—a tenth or less of the population, on the basis of surveys—actually form even a minor proportion of their visitors. Results of these surveys undertaken as part of the Avebury consultation (Thackray and Payne 2010) suggest that museum-goers are already a selfselected public, most of whom are fascinated by human remains and expect to see them on display. Hiding them from the view of the curious who wish to be informed creates a problem that would not otherwise exist. The public expects us, as expert professionals, to lead the way on these debates. The apparent crisis in curatorial confidence that Jenkins sees as symptomatic of a loss of nerve more widely in the humanities (Jenkins 2011) therefore also needs addressing. The explicit showmanship and shock factor of Gunther von Hagens’ ‘Body Worlds’, for instance, reminds us that (despite the controversy

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surrounding the exhibition) a certain proportion of the general public are ready to be confronted in new ways by the visceral reality of the human body. We need to be confident about our role and bold in our remit. After all, human remains and mortuary contexts give us unparalleled insights into who we are, and where we come from. They also inform us of how past lives have differed radically from own as well as connecting us to those past lives otherwise long forgotten. They give us a unique perspective on the human condition and on what it means to be human. It is in this spirit that I look forward to new areas of discussion of our relationships with the dead, explored by this volume.

B I BL I OG R A P H Y Fitzpatrick, A. P. 2013. The Amesbury Archer and the Boscombe Bowmen: Early Bell Beakers at Boscombe Down, Amesbury, Wiltshire, Great Britain. Volume 1, Salisbury: Wessex Archaeology. Jenkins, T. 2011. Contesting Human Remains in Museum Collections, London: Routledge. Ministry of Justice. 2011. Statement on the exhumation of human remains for archaeological purposes. Available from: http://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov. uk/20130128112038/http://www.justice.gov.uk/downloads/guidance/burials-and-co roners/statement-exhumation-human-remains-archaeological.pdf (Accessed 14 July 2014). Parker Pearson, M., Pitts, M., and Sayer, D. 2013. Changes in policy for excavating human remains in England and Wales, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 147–58, Woodbridge: Boydell. Pitts, M. and Sayer, D. 2010. The human remains crisis, British Archaeology, 115, 34–5. Roberts, C.A. and Manchester, K. 2005. The Archaeology of Disease, Stroud: Sutton Publishing.

Preface This book developed from two conference sessions co-organized by Melanie Giles and Howard Williams in 2010. The first took place at Easter 2010 as part of the Southport IfA (Institute for Archaeologists, now the Chartered Institute for Archaeologists) annual conference, the second in December 2010 at the Bristol TAG (Theoretical Archaeology Group) conference. Attracting a diverse range of heritage professionals and archaeologists as speakers and audience, the sessions provided the inspiration and foundation for this book. Chapters were commissioned from the presenters and further contributions were commissioned between 2010 and 2012. Together, this book presents an Introduction, eighteen case studies evaluating current debates, practices, and challenges regarding the archaeological excavation, study, display, and interpretation of mortuary remains, and a concluding commentary. The range and character of this book collection set it apart from previous works and make it a valuable contribution to the study of mortuary archaeology’s many interactions with contemporary society. The geographical range of the papers spans the UK, Northern, Western, and Central Europe, and North America, thus contrasting with previous studies that are either Britishfocused or dedicated to the treatment of human remains in post-colonial contexts such as North America and Australasia. Still, given the venues of the conference sessions and the expertise and networks of the editors, there remains a UK focus to many dimensions of the book, including the Introduction. While not denying the variability in public perceptions and engagements with the archaeological dead worldwide, the distinctive strengths of the volume remain evident by drawing the emphasis away from museums in isolation and away from post-colonial contexts where most literature has tended to focus. Hence, the range of environments and practices covered by the book also make it distinctive; this is a book about mortuary archaeology in the field, in the lab, in the media, and in academic publications as much as it is about museums and repatriation. The book also presents new perspectives and methodologies in interrogating well-trodden debates; from the discussion of art, variability in the treatment of human remains between localities and regions, and discussion of human remains in the media. The chapters deal with how and why people in contemporary society think and feel about, and engage with, mortuary archaeology, but equally it situates the archaeologist within contemporary society and part of contemporary mechanisms for identity-creation, memory reproduction, and ontological consolidation. In these different regards, the book

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captures current debates but also serves as a platform to present a new vision for the range of interactions and engagements between mortuary archaeology and contemporary society that warrant further investigation in the future: public mortuary archaeology. We are grateful to all the authors for their hard work, patience, and support, and particularly to Lynne Goldstein for her concluding review and Mike Parker Pearson for his foreword. Many thanks are also due to the many anonymous referees who have provided expert appraisals and constructive suggestions regarding the chapters. Further thanks go to OUP’s anonymous readers and the team at OUP to helped guide this book to publication, and to Penny Gray Jones for her work in preparing the index. Thanks finally to our families and friends without whose support this book project would never have been finished. Howard Williams and Melanie Giles February 2016

Contents List of Figures List of Tables List of Contributors 1. Introduction: Mortuary Archaeology in Contemporary Society Melanie Giles and Howard Williams

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Part 1 Investigating the Dead 2. Questions Raised in Excavating the Recent Dead Sian Anthony

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3. Personhood and Re-Embodiment in Osteological Practice John McClelland and Jessica I. Cerezo-Román

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4. Separating the Emotions: Archaeological Mentalities in Central Italian Funerary Archaeology Ulla Rajala

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5. Slave-Trade Archaeology and the Public: The Excavation of a ‘Liberated African’ Graveyard on St Helena Andrew Pearson and Ben Jeffs

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6. Habeas Corpus: Contested Ownership of Casualties of the Great War Martin Brown 7. Bones Without Barriers: The Social Impact of Digging the Dead Faye Sayer and Duncan Sayer

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Part 2 Displaying the Dead 8. Museum Practice and the Display of Human Remains Hedley Swain

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9. Displaying the Dead: The English Heritage Experience Sarah Tatham

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10. The Immortals: Prehistoric Individuals as Ideological and Therapeutic Tools in our Time Nina Nordström

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11. Covering the Mummies at the Manchester Museum: A Discussion of Authority, Authorship, and Agendas in the Human Remains Debate Karen Exell 12. Making an Exhibition of Ourselves: Using the Dead to Fight the Battles of the Living Tiffany Jenkins 13. To Gaze Upon the Dead: The Exhibition of Human Remains as Cultural Practice and Political Process in Scandinavia and the USA Liv Nilsson Stutz 14. Firing the Imagination: Cremation in the Museum Howard Williams

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Part 3 Public Mortuary Archaeology 15. Contemporary Pagans and the Study of the Ancestors William Rathouse 16. ‘Tomb to Give Away’: The Significance of Graves and Dead Bodies in Present-Day Austria Estella Weiss-Krejci 17. Digging the Dead in a Digital Media Age Duncan Sayer and Tony Walter

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18. Writing About Death, Mourning, and Emotion: Archaeology, Imagination, and Creativity Trevor Kirk

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19. Reconstructing Death: The Chariot Burials of Iron Age East Yorkshire Melanie Giles

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20. Reflections on Intersections of Mortuary Archaeology and Contemporary Society Lynne Goldstein

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Index

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List of Figures 2.1 Excavation in 2010 at Assistens cemetery

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3.1 The ‘National Cemetery’, Tucson, 1870

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3.2 Southern Arizona Veterans Memorial Cemetery

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3.3 All Faiths Memorial Park

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3.4 All Faiths Memorial Park plaque

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3.5 All Faiths Memorial Park ceramic tile mural

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4.1 Occupations of the interviewees

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4.2 Interviewees’ attitude towards the dead

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4.3 Problems facing funerary archaeologists

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4.4 Ultimate outcome of funerary research

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4.5 Self-definitions of the interviewees

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5.1 Rupert’s Valley 5.2 Excavation with St Helenian volunteers

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5.3 Site open day, August 2008

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5.4 The excavation site in May 2008

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5.5 Group 2019

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7.1 Visitors to Barrington are fascinated by skeletons in 1990/1

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7.2 Visitors look on as Oakington cemetery is investigated in 1993

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7.3 Visitors venture onto site in 2011 to peer at the skeletons in their graves 153 9.1 The early seventeenth-century memorial of Henry and Mary Grey

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9.2 Eighteenth-century De Grey tombs

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9.3 ‘George’ on display

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9.4 A Roman-period dog burial

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9.5 Part of the Buried Lives exhibition

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9.6 Display of a complete skeleton and isolated bones

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10.1 The reconstruction of the Mesolithic grave from Bäckaskog

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10.2 The facial reconstruction of Bäckaskog Woman

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10.3 Tollund Man

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10.4 Grauballe Man

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10.5 Grauballe Man on display

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10.6 Grauballe Man ‘reburied’

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10.7 The display of bones in 1948

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10.8 Re-excavation in 2007

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10.9 The public spectacle of re-excavation

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10.10 A symbolic gesture to the empty coffin

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10.11 Opening the lead sarcophagus, 2007

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10.12 The bones on display

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11.1 The body of Lindow Man

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11.2 The body of the embalmed body of Asru in April 2008

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13.1 Metropolis exhibition at Kulturen in Lund, human crania

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13.2 Metropolis exhibition at Kulturen in Lund, human crania from executed individuals

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13.3 The display of Archbishop Jakob Erlandsen’s tomb

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13.4 The cast of the cranium of Archbishop Jakob Erlandsen

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13.5 Entrance to the osteology area at the National Museum of Natural History in Washington DC (Smithsonian)

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13.6 Mummies on display at the National Museum of Natural History, Washington DC (Smithsonian)

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13.7 The Written in Bones exhibition at the National Museum of Natural History, Washington DC (Smithsonian)

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13.8 The Written in Bones exhibition forensic case files

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14.1 Cremated human bone

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14.2 Cremated human remains placed upon an outline of a human skeleton

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14.3 Arrangement of Iron Age cinerary urns

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14.4 The Colchester Vase

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14.5 Mock-up of Romano-British cremation burial

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14.6 Cremated human bone in test-tubes

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14.7 The striking juxtaposition of the cinerary urn and tombstone of centurion Marcus Favonius Facilis

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14.8 Denmark’s oldest grave

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14.9 A plan of an Iron Age urnfield

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14.10 Mock-graves and illustration of an Iron Age cremation

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14.11 Bronze Age cremations with silhouettes of their occupants

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14.12 Iron Age cremation from northern Sweden

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14.13 Display of female jewellery and cremains

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16.1 On 30 June 2011 thirty human remains in possession of the Austrian Academy of Sciences and one skull owned by the Federal Pathology Anatomy Museum were handed over to a delegation of five Australian Traditional Owners

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16.2 The federal states of Austria and locations mentioned in the text

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16.3 Holy heads and a holy body at the parish church St Nikolas, Hall in Tirol

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16.4 Charnel houses and ossuaries in Austria. Top left: Eggenburg, Lower Austria; bottom left: Hallstatt, Upper Austria; right: Kirchdorf, the Tyrol

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16.5 Different types of graves at Graz Central Cemetery

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16.6 Expired graves at the Central Cemetery in Graz

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16.7 Graz Central Cemetery

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16.8 Examples of contemporary tombs in different stages of use-history

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16.9 Construction of a garage in the area of the old Währing General Cemetery in 2003

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16.10 Rites of passage in the city of the dead (Graz Central Cemetery)

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19.1 Peter Connolly’s reconstruction of an Iron Age chariot burial

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19.2 Reconstruction of Worsley Man

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19.3 The Iron Age family, Festival of Britain diorama

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19.4 The death of Lindow Man

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19.5 Wetwang Slack chariot burial 2

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19.6 The Wetwang Slack female chariot burial no. 2

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19.7 The North Grimston anthropoid hilt

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20.1 Advertisement from the late 1950s Tucson Citizen newspaper for the Hunzicker Construction Company

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List of Tables 14.1 Broad categories identified in the display of the cremated dead in museums

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14.2 Key displays of cremation at HO

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14.3 Key displays of cremation at CM

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14.4 Key displays of cremation at MS

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14.5 Key displays of cremation at HM

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List of Contributors Sian Anthony, Doctoral Candidate, Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, University of Lund, Sweden Martin Brown, WYG Environment Planning Transport Ltd, Leeds, UK Jessica I. Cerezo-Román, College Fellow, Department of Anthropology, Harvard University, USA Karen Exell, UCL Qatar (Doha), University College London Melanie Giles, Senior Lecturer, Archaeology, School of Arts, Languages and Cultures, University of Manchester, UK Lynne Goldstein, Department of Anthropology, Michigan State University, Michigan, USA Ben Jeffs, CEO, Blackfreighter Archaeology and Conservation, UK and USA Tiffany Jenkins, Independent sociologist, writer, and broadcaster, Edinburgh, UK Trevor Kirk, Visiting Research Fellow, University of Chester, Chester, UK John McClelland, Assistant Professor, School of Anthropology, Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, USA Liv Nilsson Stutz, Senior Lecturer, Department of Anthropology, Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia, USA Nina Nordström, Senior Researcher, Institute of Prehistory, Early History and Medieval Archaeology, Eberhard Karls University, Tübingen, Germany. Andrew Pearson, Pearson Archaeology Ltd and Research Associate, Department of Archaeology and Anthropology, Bristol University, UK Ulla Rajala, Postdoctoral Researcher, McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, University of Cambridge William Rathouse, Doctoral Candidate, University of Wales Trinity St Davids, Lampeter, Wales, UK Duncan Sayer, Senior Lecturer in Archaeology, School of Forensic and Investigative Science, University of Central Lancashire, Preston, UK Faye Sayer, Senior Lecturer in Archaeology, Department of History, Politics and Philosophy, Manchester Metropolitan University, UK

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Hedley Swain, Area Director South East, Arts Council England Sarah Tatham, Interpretation Officer, English Heritage, UK Tony Walter, Professor of Death Studies, Centre for Death and Society, University of Bath, UK Estella Weiss-Krejci, University Dozent, Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology, University of Vienna, Vienna, Austria Howard Williams, Professor of Archaeology, Department of History and Archaeology, University of Chester, Chester, UK

1 Introduction Mortuary Archaeology in Contemporary Society Melanie Giles and Howard Williams

MORTUARY ARCHAEOLOGY IN THE UK

Reburial and repatriation The 1980s and 1990s saw dramatic sea changes in the archaeological engagement with the dead in Australasia and North America, typified by the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) of 1990. However, it has only been far more recently that different, distinctive, but still fundamental challenges to the archaeological study, display, and curation of mortuary remains have affected the UK, Europe, and Scandinavia. While classic examples of disputes over the archaeological excavation of human remains have deep roots in the late twentieth century, the last decade has seen significant shifts and challenges for mortuary archaeology (see Sayer 2010a). In this regard, the UK situation is instructive, if not necessarily typical. At the turn of the millennium, the Working Group on Human Remains (whose final report was published in 2007) created a strong political climate which encouraged unconditional returns of ancestral remains acquired from elsewhere in the world and held in British museums. This was rejected by many institutions which had to balance such edicts against their acquisition policy (DCMS 2003), but its impact was to encourage a more open atmosphere of discussion. Slightly later, the impact of the 2005 DCMS ‘Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums’ provided a strong (if not binding) steer in terms of aspects of curatorial acquisition, research protocols, and collections management advice, designed to systematize best practice. Importantly, it enshrined a three-fold conceptual principle that human remains are of ‘unique status, are often of high research value, and should be treated with dignity and respect’ (DCMS 2005: 16). This document provided an important mandate for

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archaeological excavation, research, and curation, at a time when calls for repatriation and reburial were on the rise. However, it was an ‘aspirant code of ethics’ which as Redfern and Clegg (2013: 2) argue, was not enforceable: relying on the professionalism of both individuals and institutions for its implementation. (In addition, the 2004 Human Tissue Act also impacted on those institutions holding human remains or fragments of them, less than 100 years old, though archaeological examples of this are rare.) Some UK museums began repatriating parts of their ethnographic collections much earlier than this: Besterman (2004: 3) reported that Manchester Museum had decided to return human remains acquired as recently as 1992. These requests continued in the new millennium: recent cases from the British Museum include one from New Zealand (Te Papa Tongarema) in 2006, and from Torres Strait Islanders in 2012 (the former leading to repatriation of bone fragments; the latter refused on the grounds that it was not demonstrable that mortuary rites had been interrupted or disturbed during this acquisition). A recent claim from Torres Strait Islanders to the Natural History Museum in 2011 has precipitated the largest single return of ancestral remains from such an institution. Repatriation claims did not just include human remains themselves but (as the DCMS criteria noted, Redfern and Clegg 2013: 1) objects decorated with human substances such as nails or hair, animals associated with burials, or material culture taken from mortuary contexts, often removed directly from bodies. Another such example is the ‘Ghostdance shirt’ repatriated from the Glasgow’s Kelvingrove Museum to the Lakota people of South Dakota in 1999 (Allen 2013). Whilst many of these reburial requests have been difficult and timeconsuming to handle, they have resulted in some richly rewarding conversations and engagements, and an enhanced awareness of the colonial legacy of many collections. Yet there have also been claims from closer to home within the UK, such as the neo-Pagan request (from a splinter element, separated from but purporting to represent CoBDO, the Council of British Druid Orders) for the reburial of ancient British remains from the Alexander Keiller Museum, Avebury (Thackray and Payne 2010). Meanwhile, segments of the academic community have responded in vigorous defence of the retention and continuing curation of scientifically valuable human remains (BABAO 2010, for example). Others have been more open-minded about reburial, and connections with claimant groups (see Rathouse this volume). Some curators have controversially even turned to reburial as a solution for over-crowded museum stores, where the quality of archival information associated with human remains renders them of little research potential (see Levitt and Hadland 2006). The outcomes of these claims have been far-reaching, with advocates promoting the importance of respecting the dead according to the World Archaeological Congress’s Vermillion Accord (see Sayer 2010a: 132–3). Furthermore, in his recent review, Duncan Sayer proposed that archaeologists

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think beyond the profession and scholarship and adopt broad and adaptable but clear ethical principles in dealing with the archaeological dead, including objectivity, accountability, openness, and honesty (Sayer 2010a: 138). However, critical and academic engagements exploring the application of these principles have been sparse and slow. An exception has been the recent volume edited by Giesen (2013), which provides a handbook to these processes, directing excavators and curators to salient changes in legislation and museum practice (e.g. White 2013 on England and Sharp and Hall 2013 on Scotland), with some rich institutional case studies, e.g. Museum of London (Redfern and Bekvalac 2013); Perth (Sharp and Hall 2013); and Hancock (Scott 2013), or Barton-upon-Humber (Mays 2013). It also points to curatorial issues, such as the decreasing volume of archive space (McKinley 2013). These studies together reveal how many museums have recently updated their catalogues of human remains, enhancing their research potential. Yet as the papers on curatorial storage and access policies in that volume argue (Woodhead 2013; Mays 2013), the value of new analyses on such remains (of whatever date or origin) cannot be regarded as a given: studies must be justified in terms of specific research objectives and demonstrable academic and public benefits. Arguably, the last decade has been a profitable period of self-reflection in many different areas of archaeological practice: from how human remains are excavated, analysed, stored, how access is managed, and how the dead are displayed and to what ends (see Lohman and Goodnow 2006 for a seminal suite of studies, and chapters in this volume by Swain, Tatham, Nordström, Exell, and Nilsson Stutz). An increasing number of institutions have undertaken surveys which reveal that, although most of the general public expect to see human remains in museums and are positive about their experience, there are subtle differences in opinion as to how this is best accomplished. It is not just a vocal pagan minority who objected to sudden or abrupt encounters with the dead: many such surveys record small numbers of complaints from people sensitive to the visceral display of human mortality, or individuals who wanted greater choice over viewing such remains (see Kilmister 2003; Carroll 2005; Cambridgeshire Archaeology 2006; Alberti et al. 2009; BDRC 2009; the Manchester Museum 2011). Curators acknowledge the importance of museum space which is not one of simple passive ‘viewing’ of the dead: as Redfern and Clegg (2013: 1) note, it is a space of contextualization, interpretation, and engagement. Indeed, recent years have also seen a new wave of critical academic reviews of exhibitions, focusing on how the dead are displayed (see the models provided by Williams, Nilsson Stutz, and Nordström, this volume). Clearly, a majority verdict among archaeologists and heritage specialists is in favour of the excavation of mortuary contexts and the display and study of the artefacts, structures, and human remains uncovered. However, this does not equate with a cosy acceptable of the status quo: the display

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and curation of the archaeological dead is being critically and carefully appraised in relation to specific instances and circumstances. Moreover, what is increasingly evident is that mortuary archaeology is not a form of either pure scientific or humanistic enquiry to which public engagement can be tacked on subsequently. Instead, all mortuary archaeology is a form of public mortuary archaeology, created within varied and specific historical contexts and socio-political frameworks with its research questions and methods reflecting and directing broader social values and aspirations to explore morbidity and mortality in the human past.

The ‘crisis’ in burial archaeology Against these developments was set a worrying change in the interpretation of burial legislation affecting the excavation and study of mortuary remains. The tried-and-tested method of licensing the excavation of human remains was revoked by the Ministry of Justice (Sayer 2010a). From the period of 2008–10, the Ministry of Justice also demanded that all human remains (regardless of date, religious belief, or burial context) were reburied within two months of excavation (Parker Pearson et al. 2013: 151). To many, this seemed to play to the calls of the aforementioned minority pagan groups within the UK. A period of professional uncertainty and consternation followed: voiced through articles by Pitts and Sayer in British Archaeology (2010b), letters to the Ministry of Justice, questions in Parliament from Professor Colin Renfrew, and an open letter to Kenneth Clarke from 40 professors of archaeology and related sciences (published in British Archaeology 2011, as well as the Guardian: Cunliffe et al. 2011). The issue swiftly gained international press and media attention (see Parker Pearson et al. 2013: 153), providing an opportunity for open debate (although this did not meet with universal approval within the discipline—see Papers from the Institute of Archaeology 2011). In practice, however, this campaign proved very successful: the Ministry of Justice began re-issuing licences for excavation in late 2011, which included permission for the retention of human remains in museums or other suitable curatorial repositories. Whilst it is unlikely that the law will be reformed in the near future to clarify the official position of the government, for now, the application of the current system has restored the system of licensing excavation and permitting retention for analysis and long-term curation. The thornier problem of how commercial and research archaeology is funded, and whether this deals with the processing of the dead up to the point of accessioning and curation, or whether projects provide full funding towards publication and exhibition, is yet another unresolved issue. However, this ‘burial crisis’ in the UK, as Sayer (2009) describes it, has forced professional archaeologists to re-evaluate their own relations with the

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dead within and beyond the museum context (see Sayer and Sayer this volume). Moreover, while some of these developments are specific to the UK, they chime with various other developments elsewhere in Europe and beyond, in which archaeologists have recognized that the public dimensions, and engagements with the excavation, treatment, display, and curation of the dead, as well as the interpretation and teaching of mortuary archaeology, extend far beyond the sensitivities of post-colonial context and abstract ethical musings. Prior to this, studies of mortuary archaeology had mainly focused on how the general public felt on these issues. Such studies were caught up in a process which Jenkins (2011) describes as ‘a crisis of confidence’ in the profession: symptomatic of a wider loss of professional confidence in academic expertise across the humanities (see her chapter in this volume for a development of that argument). Yet many of the curators undertaking such consultation activities used them to canvas opinions amongst their major user-groups, and gain a wider picture of diverse and sometimes divergent opinions (see Swain this volume). For many, it reassured them of majority support for their practices, but it also often prompted reflections on how future exhibitions might be more sensitively designed to take account of other views (for example, an unpublished, internal visitor survey undertaken by J.E. Broughton for the British Museum in 2007, reflected in curatorial articles within the volume edited by Fletcher et al. (2014) as well as Tatham this volume). Yet some of these changes have been controversial, revealing faultlines of cultural politics, political tensions, and dimensions of personal or institutional power (see Exell this volume).

Naming the dead One dimension worthy of discussion in this introduction, a theme that crosscuts many of the chapters, is how we engage with past humanity through individuality. The archaeological dead have repeatedly caught the public’s imagination during this last decade in novel ways, in part due to some highprofile media cases (Sayer and Walter this volume). Building on a long tradition of discovering celebrity skeletons and mummies circulating in British and European collections, including, for example, Tutankhamun and Ötzi as well as a striking range of Iron Age bog bodies (see Giles 2009), the past decade has seen further high-profile individual discoveries of prehistoric, protohistorical, and historical personages. Examples include the Amesbury Archer, the Spitalfields woman, the Prittlewell Prince, and, perhaps most famous of all, the excavation of the body of King Richard III of England. As archaeologists we might be critical of this fetishization of a single burial or body over a wider understanding of the contemporary population and changes in the treatment of the dead over time and space, particularly where it focuses on the royal

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persona or historical personage who is the focus of a personality cult (see Meyers and Williams 2014). Yet this obsession with the dead individual is not simply a media creation or a translation from the need to identify individuals in the investigation of modern clandestine and accidental deaths, or indeed in the investigation of war graves (see Brown this volume). Often the excavators themselves have coined these titles: a need to ‘name the dead’ seems widespread, including numerous instances where the exact identity of human remains will never be known. In this way, a single charismatic individual, material-rich, or curious burial is often chosen to act as an effective ‘public ambassador’ for a wider suite of burials or set of archaeological features. Whilst this might be stimulated by the need to talk with the media, this ‘humanizing’ trait is common on many archaeological sites within the UK, and indeed, it is often transferred into museum settings (e.g. Williams 2009). The rights and wrongs of naming iconic bodies on display such as ‘Ginger’ (a Predynastic mummified corpse from Gebelein, Egypt, now renamed officially ‘Gebelein Man’) or ‘Pete Marsh’ (the local name for ‘Lindow Man’: a late Iron Age/early Roman bog body found in Cheshire), both curated by the British Museum, is a case in point. The juvenile remains at the heart of the Avebury reburial consultation are also controversially known as ‘Charlie’. Like the general public, archaeologists and curators seek to humanize the dead and connect with them through the creation of a persona, though whether these personal names are indications of respect or not, is now a matter of debate. As Williams (this volume) explores, such media stories are almost exclusively confined to mummies and inhumations: corpses which conform to the expectations of seeing the skeletonized or mummified remains of a once fully fleshed single human body. This is despite the reality that the vast majority of human remains in Western museums are fragmented (cremated or excarnated) or implied but absent (as with bodies revealed indirectly through soil-stains, coffins, and mortuary artefacts and their contexts of discovery). Such remains offer different, less immediate, less ‘abject’ identities and relationalities for professionals and the public, as yet largely unexplored. In most of these cases, the result of painstaking, interdisciplinary research is a detailed biography—a life history—as well as an account of their death and burial, which we use to animate the human remains behind the glass, on the page, or on the computer screen. In the past decade, there have been more avenues to enhance the engagement with past people. The impact of isotope analysis used to explore diet and origin, refined accelerator mass spectrometry carbon dating and other scientific methods have provided new ways of exploring human remains. Meanwhile, alongside two- and three-dimensional reconstructions and virtual databases, digital media have enhanced our strategies for recording and communicating stories using the remains of the dead. Such narratives are also part of how we—as archaeologists—negotiate our own identity in relation to the dead, reflecting on aspects of age, gender, disease, or

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injury, which might prompt us to reflect on our own life histories, beliefs, and feelings about mortality. Whilst we might argue this is a primary function of displaying the dead to the general public, we too are beneficiaries of such a cross-cultural engagement through time. Arguably, this is why many of us go into the profession in the first place. Yet whilst recent volumes on human remains are rich in studies of the public’s perception of the dead, it is rare to find professionals reflecting on this process, or debating contested or conflicted attitudes within our discipline. What might we gain from exploring the process? These are issues which many of the chapters in this volume touch upon (particularly Rajala, and Pearson and Jeffs). In addition, Kirk’s chapter reflects on the role of the archaeological imagination, the language we use to talk about the dead, and the inspiration the dead provide to the living. Meanwhile, the chapter by Giles examines how we represent the dead visually, and how we can use reconstructions of burials to challenge ideas about past societies and their engagement with the dead whilst also acknowledging these visualizations are of our own time, and of our making.

Plural identities: fragments and absences What is also increasingly evident and being explored in mortuary archaeology’s engagement with contemporary society is how the archaeological dead take on many different identities beyond the prehistoric or historical individual. The scale and breadth of mortuary archaeology has amassed rich and detailed stories about individual graves, but also entire cemetery populations from particular periods of the human past. Furthermore, archaeological investigations of multi-phased monuments and cemeteries reveal stories which span centuries and millennia. Both gradual and radical shifts over time and space in the treatment and disposal of the dead in the human past are powerful narratives in their own right. Hence, through the processes of their excavation, display, and public dissemination, through museums but also increasingly through the media and a range of publication outlets, the archaeological dead are becoming increasingly variegated in their presences in popular culture. While individual bodies might provide a direct and evidential ‘human’ story for popular dissemination and consumption, surface traces and archaeological excavations can equally tell rich and diverse stories of life and death in the human past through large-scale population studies. Often, the interplay between individual biographies and broader narratives of life and death in the human past provide the most powerful narratives of all. Whether we are discussing the diseases and disposal methods affecting post-medieval bodies like those uncovered from the eighteenth-century crypt at Spitalfields (Molleson et al. 1993; Reeve and Adams 1993), the cremated remains from

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an Iron Age cemetery (Williams this volume) or indeed displays of the disarticulated skeletons of bodies interred in Neolithic megalithic monuments, archaeologists convey different narratives about the past and the dead through a wide spectrum of mortuary material cultures, architectures, and spaces as well as bones. It is also crucial that mortuary archaeology recognizes that the archaeological dead find many citational as well as tangible presences in popular culture. Especially with the commemoration of mass deaths in wars and disasters, the rise of cremation, and the widespread use of short-lease burial plots during the twentieth century, modern Western societies have developed sophisticated cenotaphic traditions of dealing with the dead (Tatham this volume; Weiss-Krejci this volume). Field and museum archaeologists have become adept at handling narratives that derive as much from the absence of, as well as the fragmented nature of, the archaeological dead as through skeletons and mummified cadavers (e.g. Tong et al. 2015). One only has to look to the striking assemblages of Greek and Roman sarcophagi and tombstones on display in museums across Europe, most often excavated from disturbed contexts and separated from human remains, to appreciate the vivid stories about the Roman dead that they can tell even without the dead on display. A classic example to illustrate this point is the misleadingly termed ‘Sutton Hoo Treasure’ providing the centrepiece in the refurbished room 41 at the British Museum: ‘Sutton Hoo and Europe AD 300–1100’. Elsewhere in the British Museum there are skeletons, mummies, and the cremated dead as well as portraits and statues created for mortuary and commemorative contexts. Yet the Sutton Hoo Mound 1 assemblage holds a different and distinctive relationship with the dead, one of many which have been hitherto unexplored in discussions of mortuary archaeology and popular culture: it presences a powerful, kingly, and unquestionably absent human body. When excavated in 1939, Mound 1 at Sutton Hoo revealed a ship containing a chamber festooned with lavish grave-goods, but no demonstrably human bones survived. This did not prevent the rapid attribution of the grave to the apostate king of the East Angles: Raedwald. Had this king or another person (or persons) been interred, their remains had long vanished due to taphonomic processes (Carver 2005: 191–2; McCombe 2011: 209–16). In the absence of a tangible body for display, the reconstructed helmet with moustachioed face-mask persists in a role it may have held when displayed in the sixth and early seventh centuries: it provided a confronting ocular presence for those engaging with it. In the museum context of the British Museum’s gallery, this role has been adapted through its original reconstruction, its re-reconstruction (McCombe 2011) and most recently through its redisplay as a greeting presence for the entire assemblage of Room 41, centrally placed at average adult eye-level. Through this museological biography, the helmet has

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emerged to become a supercharged icon, not only for the story of Sutton Hoo and early England, but by implying and materializing an absent-ancestor for generations of visitors to the museum (McCombe 2011: 216–35; see also Williams 2011). The helmet also sits within a far wider network of allusions and representations of the Mound 1 burial found in multiple locales. Most prominently, the National Trust visitor centre at Sutton Hoo itself represents Mound 1 and its assemblage through numerous media, including the displays of replica artefacts, the guidebook (Plunkett 2002), publications, illustrations by Kelvin Wilson, photographs, models, re-enactors, and souvenirs, as well as the giant artwork mounted upon the exhibition building (Marzinzik 2007: 56, 2013; see also review by McCombe 2011: 235–42). Together these material and virtual media translate and distribute the helmet and other treasures from Mound 1 as icons of their age and of British history more broadly. Mound 1’s occupant has acquired a distributed personhood created to negotiate an absent body, with the helmet possibly one of the most readily identified symbols of the British past through a wide range of tangible and digital presences (Marzinzik 2007: 60–1, 2013; McCombe 2011: 241–8). Indeed, the entire mock-up of Mound 1 at the Sutton Hoo Visitor Centre, with a mannequin posed to represent the postulated location of the dead body, and the surviving burial mounds themselves accessible to visitors, together distribute Mound 1’s occupant’s corporeal absence and create multiple nodes in which different dimensions of the grave’s contents and perceived occupant are disseminated. This distributed personhood of the absent dead is extended into the Suffolk countryside as a landscape of memory (Holtorf and Williams 2006). This is evident in the Sutton Hoo landscape, where Mound 1 is situated in relation to the physical traces of a short-lived and varied burial ground which incorporated only one other intact wealthy human burial together with an inhumed horse beneath Mound 17 (Carver 2005: 115–37). Other forms of absent dead instead pervade the Suffolk heath, making it a landscape of ghosts rather than skeletons and cadavers. These included the robbed inhumation graves beneath Mound 2 and Mound 14 (Carver 2005: 107–15) and numerous cremation burials (Carver 2005: 67–105). Most striking of all were the outstanding soil stains of thirty-nine unfurnished burials dated to the eighth to eleventh centuries AD and representing the use of the mounds as the focus of at least two cemeteries of execution burials (Carver 2005: 315–59). The archaeological narrative constructed by Martin Carver for Sutton Hoo is a classic example of how complex multi-phased fieldwork since 1938, striking discoveries, detailed public engagement, and eloquent archaeological writing, can create rich narratives pertaining to the archaeological dead which thrive in spite of, and perhaps because of, the absence of a body. In this regard, the excavation of the Prittlewell Prince follows suit: despite no bones surviving, this rich and varied burial assemblage was discovered within

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an early seventh-century chamber grave. Such graves can also serve to bring the dead to life in the historical and public imagination, but in a different, cenotaphic, sense to the presence of bones themselves. Through these strategies, the complex, varied, individual, and collective, articulated and disarticulated, robbed and unrobbed, burned and unburned, corporeal and cenotaphic, identities of the archaeological dead permeate contemporary society. The key lesson from this discussion is that the archaeological dead exist behind and between archaeological things and heritage locations as much as they reside in them. Therefore, thinking through and exploring the intersections between mortuary archaeology and contemporary society is far more than the study of articulated human remains. Indeed, mortuary archaeologists have yet to fully identify and explore the mnemonic and social power of mortuary absences and traces of absence in contemporary society that are revealed through archaeological practice. From empty sarcophagi and tombs to the sculpted spaces left following the removal of memorial brasses, from casts and replicas of human remains to the traces of vagaries of survival of only selected bones, fragments, and absences offer considerable potential for further research in the archaeology and heritage of death, burial, and commemoration.

TELLING TALES: ARCHAEOLOGISTS AND THE DEA D This leads us to consider the shifting role of mortuary archaeology in contemporary society as more than a means of investigating past lives and past societies but as a specific form of contemporary memory work involving the archaeologist as a death-dealer. As the above review of the UK indicates, the intellectual, socio-political, and even legal climate of mortuary archaeology is shifting. Its history could be told as one of progressively sophisticated scientific techniques, enabling us to investigate intimate details of biography or the circumstances of death. We could also reflect on the seminal impact of forensic archaeology, and high-profile forays into more recent burials, such as the war dead (see chapters by both Anthony and Brown this volume). Or alternatively we could reflect on recent trends for exploring how ethnographic studies of personhood or materiality have enriched and developed osteological studies (such as the work of Joanna Sofaer 2006, and see McClelland and Cerezo-Román this volume). However, seeing the discipline as driven either by high-profile discoveries, new techniques of analysis, or modes of an interpretation is to gain a rather jaundiced view of mortuary archaeology. Behind the headlines of discovery and debate lies a realm of living archaeological practice in which the dead are encountered: their lives reanimated and their stories retold. The authors of this

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volume give insights into the variety of commercial and research projects, analytical specialists, museum curators, visual artists, and writers who are increasingly engaged in more nuanced and reflective accounts of the dead, but also the process of engaging with people from the past through their human remains. Authors in the book have therefore been encouraged to reveal some of the networks (or, in more popular recent parlance, ‘meshworks’), through which these ideas flow. As international examples in this volume illustrate, exactly how that it accomplished, and to what end, varies greatly from context to context. The studies in this collection also reveal how mortuary archaeologists are, of course, embedded in the society of which they are a product: they may challenge or conflict with certain values or ideals about the body, human mortality, and the value of the dead, but they are also historically constrained by them. In this sense, we find ourselves in common cause with papers in Clegg et al. (2013: 12) who note that ‘It is no longer sufficient to say, I’m a scientist, museum curator or archaeologist, trust me—such statements are arrogant and lacking in consideration.’ In response to some of Jenkins’s concerns regarding the role of curators and the museum display of the dead, their book provides concrete examples of productive partnerships between professionals and the public, whereas our volume hopes to begin to question that very divide between ‘public’ and ‘professional’. This is because members of wider contemporary society are makers of meanings about the dead as much as professionals are part of the audience for new research, discoveries, and displays. Yet, of course, archaeologists bring to any such encounter a particular (perhaps even culturally peculiar) set of experiences and relations with the dead. Many of us will have routinely handled human remains as part of our professional training and fieldwork experience. Whilst this is palpably different to preparing the recent dead for burial or cremation, it is an unusual experience for the vast majority of people and professionals in Western societies. Many of the authors have tried to reflect on this, showing how these insights might be turned to good use on issues relating to the contemporary dead and their place in modern society (particularly the chapter by Weiss-Krejci). Mortuary archaeology has therefore become an integral part of public archaeology, not only through the excavation of human remains per se within the context of both commercial and research excavations (see Sayer and Sayer this volume) but also through community archaeology (Baldry et al. 2011). Moreover, public outreach strategies involving museums and mock-up archaeological digs with a wide range of mortuary contexts and remains are increasingly commonplace (see Williams and Williams 2007). Engagement with mortuary archaeology can take place through all manner of exercises employed on archaeological open days, as explored recently by Cadw for the Tinkinswood Neolithic chambered tomb (Reynolds 2014). Moreover, dealing with the dead is part of the uncanny, and even horrific, experience of

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engagements with the corporeal dead. As such, it resonates with, and has inspired, many fields of Western popular culture (Moshenska 2006; see also Moshenska 2012). Through mortuary archaeology and its numerous direct and indirect citations in popular culture, we are forced to encounter the ‘inhumane’ dimensions of past societies including conflict and brutal killings (e.g. Brown this volume; Giles 2009) as well as the emotionally sensitive fate of those who perished of disease and at an early age. Therefore, mortuary archaeology is not only about the discovery and study of past communities through their funerary contexts and remains, it equally concerns being an archaeologist and doing archaeology. Excavating tombs and analysing human remains is, for many members of the public, the very popular essence of being and performing the roles of archaeological detective and archaeological adventurer (see Holtorf 2006). Mortuary archaeology is frequently a medium for exploring (and perhaps sometimes valorizing) death and funerals in the human past, but sometimes it serves to celebrating and romanticize the unsettling and yet fascinating and ‘heroic’ death-dealing of archaeologists themselves. In this regard, archaeologists, in different ways and to different degrees, have become deathworkers: mediators who construct narratives about the dead—not simply individuals but entire communities and societies in the human past—for the living (see Walter 2005). This applies as much to the recording of memorials in graveyard surveys and digging in close consultation with communities for a range of aims and motivations (Williams and Williams 2007) as to the role of archaeologists in the specific revealing and identification of human remains of remembered and cherished loved ones killed in recent conflicts (e.g. Renshaw 2010, 2013; Brown this volume). In this sense, museums may fulfil scientific and educational functions through the display and curation of funerary remains but also social and emotional ones in negotiating modern engagements with mortality through the display of mummies, skeletons, and a wide range of other forms (see also Sayer 2010a,b). Archaeologists are not simply employed sets of specialist skills, but creating communities and publics engaging with both the past and a range of other themes that interconnect pasts, present, and futures in particular locales, including mortality, social memory, and multivalent social identities. Hence, as Sayer (2010b) strongly advocates, the dead are not taboo in modern society, and archaeology is one of the mediums (and hence archaeologists are mediators) by which mortality is engaged with (see also Giles 2009; Williams 2009). In order to develop and expand the role of archaeologists as mediators as well as investigators, we need to overtly define mortuary archaeologists as public intellectuals as well as fieldworkers and heritage practitioners, narrating stories about the dead, but also critically exploring the uses and abuses of mortuary archaeology in present-day mortuary and commemorative cultures (see Williams 2014a,b).

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A final issue is that the media by which mortuary archaeologists operate is now rapidly shifting. As well as the dig site and the museum, in addition to academic books and popular magazines, the archaeological dead increasingly populate a range of other media from public lectures to television programmes (Williams 2007). Furthermore, the archaeological dead have, over the last two decades gone digital and gone online. Increasingly, mortuary archaeology’s relationship with society is not only transforming itself, diverging from a corporeal focus, but also reaching new and varied communities online (e.g. Meyers and Williams 2014; Tong et al. 2015). Archaeologists have yet to tackle head-on how the very corporeality and materiality of their subject is being transformed by digital media. The investigation of the virtual dead has yet to fully begin (Sayer and Walter this volume; see also Williams and Atkin 2015).

INTRODUCING THE BOO K: THE D EA D AND THE ARCHAEOLOGIST This introduction has highlighted particular themes in contemporary mortuary archaeology as a key component of public archaeology within and beyond the dig and the museum, showcasing the chapters in this volume where they fit in with these debates. This section provides a final overview of the volume as a whole. The book is arranged in three broad sections. The first explores the archaeological process, the second examines the context of the museum, and the third presents wider accounts of interactions between society, media, and mortuary archaeology. Together, the eighteen studies navigate the complex terrain of archaeological method, theory, and practice relating to the dead, both ancient and more modern, showing how they are informed by, and contribute towards, contemporary society. Geographically, many of the chapters predominantly focus on the UK, but there are constrasting studies from Northern and Western Europe (WeissKrejci; Anthony; Williams; Rajala; Nordström) as well as North America (McClelland and Cerezo-Román; Nilsson Stutz) and St Helena (Pearson and Jeffs). Some chapters offer comparative studies between international contexts, which often look beyond conventional fields of analysis (Nilsson Stutz, Swain). Theoretically, a new range of approaches are brought to bear upon these case studies, including sociological studies of contemporary society and how people engage with the dead (Weiss-Krejci, Sayer and Sayer); examining the role of archaeologists as particular forms of mortuary specialists (Rajala; Williams; McClelland and Cerezo-Román); and exploring the process

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from excavation to reburial as a mortuary process (McClelland and Cerezo-Román). Several chapters examine museums as key mortuary arenas in the present day: places for identity construction of the dead, and also memory construction for the living (Nordström; Williams). Others focus more explicitly on contest and policy making (Jenkins; Exell; Brown; Rathouse; Nilsson Stutz; Weiss-Krejci) often in relation to controversial case studies. The chapter by Pearson and Jeffs, however, illustrates the potential for discoveries to sit ‘between’ narratives, or escape simple impositions of meaning, even jarring with accepted historical accounts. What emerges in the latter part of this volume is the changing climate in which we engage with and write about death (Kirk), especially in the vibrant new field of community archaeology (Sayer and Sayer). The chapter by Sayer and Walter examines the particular role of new digital media: how these literally media(te) our discoveries, whilst Giles examines new ways of visualizing the dead. Many of these chapters (Anthony; Williams in particular) explore the intersection between heritage and the archaeology of death and thus the contribution archaeologists make towards contemporary society’s long-term perspective on mortality. Methodologically, the volume offers a suite of new techniques which inform this shift in disciplinary focus: interviewing not just the visiting public as participants in excavating the dead (Sayer and Sayer) but archaeologists themselves (Rajala), or encouraging auto-ethnography—personal reflections in the field (Brown) or lab (McClelland and Cerezo-Román); interrogating professional and public discourse (Kirk), examining digital media and the internet (Sayer and Walter); and critically reviewing, re-designing, or commissioning imagery (Giles) and installations (Williams). The volume therefore builds on recent edited works on policy and practice such as Giesen’s edited volume (2013) and exemplars of collaborative professional-public partnerships (Clegg et al. 2013) by arguing there is a new space in which the profession can profitably re-examine its own relationships with the dead. In order to reposition itself as part of wider society, mortuary archaeology as a sub-discipline and mortuary archaeologists as practitioners must regard themselves as first and foremost public archaeologists and public intellectuals. Our aspiration is openness and engagement as Sayer (2010a) advocates, acknowledging the significant contribution we have to make on humanity’s relations with the dead . . . as diverse, conflicting, contentious, and inspiring as that may be.

A C K NO W L E D G E M E N TS Thanks to Anna Mackenzie, Robert McCombe, and Tony Walter for comments on a draft of this manuscript. All errors remain the authors’ responsibility.

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B I BL I OG R A P H Y Alberti, S. J. M. M., Bienskowski, P., Chapman, M. J., and Drew, R. 2009. Should we display the dead? Museum and Society, 7(3), 133–49. Allen, P. 2013. Glasgow’s Ghost Dance shirt: reflections on a circle to complete, in M. Clegg, R. Redfern, J. Bekvalac, and H. Bonney (eds) Global Ancestors: Understanding the Shared Humanity of our Ancestors, 63–80, Oxford: Oxbow. BABAO 2010. Association of Biological Anthropology and Osteoarchaeology: Code of Practice. Available from: http://www.babao.org.uk/index/ethics-and-standards (Accessed 16 June 2014). Baldry, S., Burrill, C., Hatton, M., and Snelling, H. 2011. Community archaeology and human osteology: the Sedgeford experience, in G. Moshenska and S. Dhanjal (eds) Community Archaeology: Themes, Methods and Practices, 90–9, Oxford: Oxbow. BDRC 2009. Research into Issues Surrounding Human Bones in Museums. Available from: http://www.babao.org.uk/index/cms-filesystem-action/eh%20opinion_survey_ report.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). Besterman, T. 2004. Returning the Ancestors, Manchester: University of Manchester Museum. Cambridge Archaeology 2006. Life and Reburial in Cambridgeshire. Available from: http://www.babao.org.uk/index/cms-filesystem-action/cambridge%20hsr%20sur vey.pdf (Accessed 14 June 2014). Carroll, Q. 2005. Bodies: who wants to rebury old skeletons? British Archaeology, 82, 11–15. Carver, M. 2005. A Seventh-Century Princely Burial Ground and its Context, Reports of the Research Committee of the Society of Antiquaries of London, No. 69, London: Society of Antiquaries of London. Clegg, M., Redfern, R., Bekvalac, J., and Bonney, H. 2013. Conclusions, in M. Clegg, R. Redfern, J. Bekvalac, and H. Bonney (eds) Global Ancestors: Understanding the Shared Humanity of our Ancestors, 162–3, Oxford: Oxbow. Cunliffe, B. et al. 2011. Reburial requirement impedes archaeology, The Guardian, 4 February. Available from: http://www.theguardian.com/science/2011/feb/04/ reburial-requirement-impedes-archaeology (Accessed 29 June 2015). DCMS (Department for Culture, Media and Sport) 2003. The Report of the Working Group on Human Remains: London: DCMS. DCMS (Department for Culture, Media and Sport), 2005. Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums, London: DCMS. Fletcher, A., Antoine, D., and Hill, J.D. 2014. Regarding the Dead: Human Remains in the British Museum, London: British Museum. Forum, Papers from the Institute of Archaeology, 21, 5–33. Available from: http:// www.pia-journal.co.uk/23/volume/21/issue/0/ (Accessed 29 June 2015). Giesen, M. (ed.) 2013. Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Giles, M. 2009. Iron Age bog bodies of north-western Europe. Representing the dead, Archaeological Dialogues, 16(1), 75–101. Holtorf, C. 2006. Archaeology is a Brand! The Meaning of Archaeology in Contemporary Popular Culture, Oxford: Archaeopress.

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Holtorf, C. and Williams, H. 2006. Landscapes and memories, in D. Hicks and M. Beaudray (eds) Cambridge Companion to Historical Archaeology, 235–54, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jenkins, T. 2011. Contesting Human Remains in Museum Collections, London: Routledge. Kilmister, H. 2003. Visitor perceptions of Ancient Egyptian human remains in three United Kingdom museums, Papers from the Institute of Archaeology, 14, 57–69. Available from http://pia-journal.co.uk/articles/abstract/10.5334/pia.202 (Accessed 29 June 2015). Levitt, S. and Hadland, L. 2006. Museums and human remains, paper presented to: Respect for Ancient British Human Remains conference, 17 November 2006. Lohman, J. and Goodnow, K. (eds) 2006. Human Remains and Museum Practice, Paris/London: UNESCO and Museum of London. Manchester Museum. 2011. Consultation Outcomes on Human Remains—The Manchester Museum. Available from: http://issuu.com/manchestermuseum/docs/con sultation_outcomes_on_human_remains_031011# (Accessed 14 June 2014). Marzinzik, S. 2007. The Sutton Hoo Helmet, London: British Museum Press. Marzinzik, S. 2013. Anglo-Saxon archaeology and the public, in H. Hamerow, D. A. Hinton, and S. Crawford (eds) The Oxford Handbook of Anglo-Saxon Archaeology, 1025–42, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mays, S. 2013. Curation of human remains at St Peter’s Church, Barton-uponHumber, England, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 109–22, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. McCombe, R. 2011. Gold under Gravel, Gold under Glass: Anglo-Saxon Material Culture through Excavation, Collection and Display 1771–2010, Unpublished PhD Thesis, University of Manchester. McKinley, J. 2013. ‘No room at the inn’ . . . Contract archaeology and the storage of human remains, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 123–46, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Meyers, K. and Williams, H. 2014. Blog bodies: mortuary archaeology and blogging, in D. Rocks-Macqueen and C. Webster (eds) Blogging Archaeology, 137–70, E-book: Succinct Research, http://hdl.handle.net/10034/337528 (Accessed 29 June 2015). Molleson, T., Cox, M., Waldron, A. H., and Whittaker, D. H. 1993. The Spitalfields Project. Volume 2. The Anthropology: The Middling Sort, CBA Research Report 86, York: Council for British Archaeology. Moshenska, G. 2006. The archaeological uncanny, Public Archaeology, 5(2), 91–9. Moshenska, G. 2012. M. R. James and the archaeological uncanny, Antiquity, 86, 1192–201. Parker Pearson, M., Pitts, M., and Sayer, D. 2013. Changes in policy for excavating human remains in England and Wales, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 147–58, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Pitts, M. and Sayer, D. 2010. The human remains crisis, British Archaeology, 115, 34–5. Available from: http://www.archaeologyuk.org/ba/ba115/feat5.shtml (Accessed 29 June 2015). Plunkett, S. 2002. Sutton Hoo, London: The National Trust. Redfern, R. and Bekvalac, J. 2013. The Museum of London: an overview of policies and practice, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 87–98, Woodbridge: Boydell Press.

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Redfern, R. and Clegg, M. 2013. Introduction in M. Clegg, R. Redfern, J. Bekvalac, and H. Bonney (eds) Global Ancestors: Understanding the Shared Humanity of our Ancestors, 1–9, Oxford: Oxbow. Reeve, J. and Adams, M. 1993. The Spitalfields Project, Volume 1, The Archaeology: Across the Styx, CBA Research Report 85, York: Council for British Archaeology. Renshaw, L. 2010. The scientific and affective identification of Republican civilian victims from the Spanish Civil War, Journal of Material Culture, 15(4), 449–63. Renshaw, L. 2013. The dead and their public. Memory campaigns, issue networks and the role of the archaeologist in the excavation of mass graves, Archaeological Dialogues, 20(1), 35–47. Reynolds, F. 2014. A site’s history does not end: transforming place through community archaeology at Tinkinswood chambered tomb and surrounding landscape, Vale of Glamorgan, Journal of Community Archaeology and Heritage, 1, 173–89. Sayer, D. 2009. Is there a crisis facing British burial archaeology?, Antiquity, 83, 199–205. Sayer, D. 2010a. Ethics and Burial Archaeology, London: Duckworth. Sayer, D. 2010b. Who’s afraid of the dead? Archaeology, modernity and the death taboo, World Archaeology, 42(3), 481–91. Scott, G. 2013. Curating Human Remains in a Regional Museum: Policy and Practice at the Great North Museum: Hancock, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 99–108, Woodbridge: Boydell. Sharp, J. and Hall, M. 2013. The quick and the deid: a Scottish perspective on caring for human remains at the Perth Museum and Art Gallery, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 75–86, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Sofaer, J. 2006. The Body as Material Culture. A Theoretical Osteoarchaeology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thackray, D. and Payne, S. 2010. Avebury Reburial Request Summary Report. London and Swindon: English Heritage and National Trust. Available from: https:// content.historicengland.org.uk/content/docs/consultations/avebury-reburial-requestsummary.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). Tong, J., Evans, S., Williams, H., Edwards, N., and Robinson, G. 2015. Vlog to death: Project Eliseg’s video-blogging, Internet Archaeology, 39, http://intarch.ac.uk/jour nal/issue39/3/toc.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). Walter, T. 2005. Mediator deathwork, Death Studies, 29(5), 383–412. White, L. 2013. The impact and effectiveness of the Human Tissue Act 2004 and the Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums in England, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 43–52, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Williams, H. 2007. Introduction: themes in the archaeology of early medieval death and burial, in S. Semple and H. Williams (eds) Early Medieval Mortuary Practices: Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology & History, 14, 1–11; Oxford: Oxford University School of Archaeology. Williams, H. 2009. On display: envisioning the early Anglo-Saxon dead, in D. Sayer and H. Williams (eds) Mortuary Practices & Social Identities in the Middle Ages: Essays in Burial Archaeology in Honour of Heinrich Härke, 170–206, Exeter: University of Exeter Press.

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Williams, H. 2011. The sense of being seen: ocular effects at Sutton Hoo, Journal of Social Archaeology, 11(1), 99–121. Williams, H. 2014a. Antiquity at the National Memorial Arboretum, International Journal of Heritage Studies, 20(4), 393–414. Williams, H. 2014b. Monument and material reuse at the National Memorial Arboretum, Archaeological Dialogues, 21(1), 77–104. Williams, H. and Atkin, A. 2015. Virtually dead: digital public mortuary archaeology, Internet Archaeology, 40. Available from: http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue40/7/4/ index.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). Williams, H. and Williams, E. J. L. 2007. Digging for the dead: archaeological practice as mortuary commemoration, Public Archaeology, 6(1): 45–61. Woodhead, C. 2013. Care, custody and display of human remains: legal and ethical obligations, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating human remains: caring for the dead in the United Kingdom, 31–42, Woodbridge: Boydell. Working Group on Human Remains. 2007. The Working Group on Human Remains Report. Available from: http://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.uk/+/http:/www. culture.gov.uk/reference_library/publications/4553.aspx (Accessed 1 March 2016).

Part 1 Investigating the Dead

2 Questions Raised in Excavating the Recent Dead Sian Anthony

I N T R O D U C TI O N The decision to excavate a modern cemetery in the heart of Copenhagen prompted questions which revealed how the sensitive borderlines surrounding the recent dead are dealt with by archaeologists. When the plans for a new metro line were revealed in Copenhagen, the location of one station within a historic cemetery was controversial. Assistens cemetery is an early example of a landscape, or garden, cemetery (Rugg 1998; Tarlow 2000), designed and ordered according to fashionable contemporary garden principles and aesthetics. It has remained a much-loved place where famous personalities are buried as well as many ordinary citizens of Copenhagen. Although burial within the cemetery has become increasingly rare, it is still in occasional use for new interments and for gardens of remembrance for the burial and disposal of ashes. However, in the 1980s changing municipal plans for the cemetery re-designated large sections of it as a park, as described in Helweg and Linnée Nielsen (2010). This change of status enabled the Copenhagen metro company (Metroselskabet) to consider the placement of a station in one corner of the cemetery. Excavation of this site from 2009 to 2011 resulted in the archaeological recording of the material culture of the cemetery including around one thousand burials, their grave-pits, funerary material culture, and some aspects of the working life of the cemetery (Anthony et al. 2016). Assistens cemetery was originally created in 1760 and later expanded in 1805/6. The excavation focused on the north-west corner of the 1805/6 extension, an area surrounding a cemetery administration building (graverbolig). The area was filled by the mid-nineteenth century and continued to be used intensively for the next hundred years. In the latter part of the twentieth century, coffin burial became less frequent but continued until the 1980s. The

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occasional placement of cremation urns began in the early twentieth century and continued in large numbers into the 1990s (Helweg and Linnée Nielsen 2010). Burial is now uncommon in the entire cemetery and only takes place in special circumstances. In contrast to UK cemetery regulations, Danish law allows for graves to be removed after only twenty years, so there is the possibility of reusing grave plots after this short period by removing the previous coffins. This has made Assistens cemetery a dynamic burial environment and, in some areas, graves intercut and replace earlier interments. Of crucial significance for the study of the history of the European cemetery, the majority of the burials interred at Assistens were from 1850 to 1950, meaning that the information retrieved extends our archaeological knowledge of belowground mortuary practice in a European city context far into the twentieth century. This also meant that the excavations were often of burials that took place within the living memory of those who have worked in and used the cemetery. The sensitive nature of these modern dates led to the establishment of certain principles by the archaeologists in the very early stages of planning in agreement with the cemetery authorities and the metro company. These principles were set early on to allay public (and developer) concerns about the project yet there was little open engagement or discussion on the foundation of these principles with mourners using the cemetery or the wider public. Those principles discussed here are: (a) limiting public observation and maintaining a low profile for the project and (b) rapid reburial. Combined, they had a major effect on both the practical execution of the work and of its long-term legacy for research. The overriding agenda was of respectful handling of the dead combined with investigation of material concerns of death, although the issue of exactly what this consisted of was not defined until the excavation was underway. However, the project missed an opportunity of open dialogue within our profession as well as with the local Nørrebro or Copenhagen community and wider audiences on these issues.

EXCAVATING MODERN OR CONTEMPORARY CEMETERIES The excavation of historic cemeteries and church vaults containing graves interred up to the middle of the nineteenth century is now a well-established archaeological phenomenon, primarily in Europe’s cities and towns (e.g. Hvass 2002; Tagesson 2007; Thomsen 2008; Powers and Miles 2011). The typical motive is excavation ahead of the development of the site. The research value of projects of this date is accepted, although the work does tend to be

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restricted by the rapid pace required by commercial projects. However, modern (here defined as late nineteenth- and twentieth-century) cemetery projects are far rarer and extend well into the era of ‘contemporary archaeology’, although where the border between modern and contemporary archaeology is remains debated among different scholars (e.g. Burström 2007: 12–4; Wienberg 2010: 23). Still, the key point here is that the Assistens project brought the archaeological excavation of cemeteries far closer to the present day than is usual. Now the archaeological investigation of death in modernity is growing. For funerary material, the pioneering work at the early modern site at Christ Church, Spitalfields (Molleson et al. 1993; Reeve and Adams 1993) took place in the 1980s and has successfully proved the academic nature of the work whilst balancing responsibility and ethics. Even archaeological research into the most modern of cemeteries is not new in itself, but when this does occur, it tends to focus on the most readily available data above ground: memorials and their landscape settings (Tarlow 1999; Mytum 2004, 2006; Sørensen 2011; Williams 2012). These recent studies have shown the potential for applying archaeological theories and methods to the study of death’s materialities in the contemporary world without necessarily excavating. Yet in doing so, they suffer from being relatively two-dimensional analyses of mortuary space. Indeed, the only regular application of below-ground archaeological techniques at sites of conventional burial and commemoration tends to be during crimescene analyses (e.g. Davenport and Harrison 2011). As an excavation of a modern cemetery, the Assistens project has common features with forensic work, such as shared techniques. However, it differs from crime scene investigations in motive and scale: to remove part of a legally sanctioned cemetery rather than investigate clandestine burials for medico-legal or judicial grounds. However, the archaeological research at Assistens reveals clearly how excavation can bring new knowledge to the study of death in modernity which is inaccessible via any other research method, archaeological or otherwise. The Assistens case is all the more important because archaeologists are not often directly involved in setting the agenda for the exhumation of modern cemeteries and church vaults. Instead, this kind of work is usually completed by private companies who often work together with an archaeologist recording some of the material culture on the coffins. Although having high professional standards and respect towards their task, their primary aim is not to investigate or record but simply to remove: a form of clearance with respect. This is closer in nature to the routine small-scale exhumations of graves that occur in Denmark and other European countries on a regular basis and are completed by cemetery staff (T. Olsen, Centre for Cemeteries, Copenhagen, pers. comm.). The motivation may be similar to archaeological cemetery excavations, but the time-frame extends into the modern period and the techniques and extent of investigation is very different. Archaeological

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recording of earth-cut burials of modern periods are rare and often restricted in scale, access, or opportunities to fully record (e.g. Melikian 2004). The initial motivation in excavating Assistens was research on the skeletons rather than an exploration of wider social attitudes to death. Subsequently, the research design realigned this focus to allow complementary objectives, combining physical anthropological and archaeological aims, which aided the project to work as an integrated unit (Anthony et al. 2009). Although the project began as a cohesive part of the whole metro project, Assistens was detached from the other archaeological sites and labelled as an ethical clearance project (Københavns Bymuseet 2007). In practice, the project was carried out archaeologically, which appears to imply that archaeological work in itself is perceived as inherently ethical. The project in this form was not considered by the Danish heritage agency (Kulturarvsstyrelsen) to be within the bounds of Danish museum law and thus it worked outside of the protection of the law, financed by the developers through a separate contract from other excavations on the metro project. The developers were certainly motivated by a wish to be respectful when removing the cemetery without alienating the local community rather than a desire to have the archaeological features investigated. However, they also saw the value of the archaeological approach in helping to ameliorate the impact of the project on the local area. The project was also unusual in Denmark where large-scale excavations of modern and contemporary archaeology are rare. However, although the methods and techniques were adapted for the circumstances, the work did not represent a marked break from burial archaeology of other periods. Therefore the Assistens project combines several unique aspects of cemetery research because it: • covered aspects of above- and below-ground archaeology • extended excavation into more modern periods • combined techniques and motives of archaeology, physical anthropology, and exhumation and forensic work. Should archaeologists excavate such recent mortuary contexts? Part of the answer is, when the rare occasion arises, why not? The modern date of the cemetery is a reason to consider carefully the ethics, aims, and objectives but not to ignore the opportunity for research as discussed for other periods (Pitts and Sayer 2010). The material record has provided not just new perspectives but transformed understandings of death in modernity (Williams 2011a). The case for archaeological investigation, like any cemetery, rests on the knowledge gained concerning funerary behaviour and mortuary landscapes. The investigation of the three-dimensional spaces within a cemetery has been afforded little prior research. Moreover, the relationship between regulations and actual practice in cemetery organization and grave management has rarely been explored in the three-dimensional environment provided by the Assistens

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project. Therefore, the work at Assistens has the potential to shed new light on gravediggers’ practices including the work involved in removing earlier burials when cleaning out old grave plots. Comparisons of personal grave-goods, coffin materials, and decoration can also stand out as creating a source of information on what was chosen by the family in relation to the normative funerary culture expected in society. Aspects of the management and activities within the cemetery can also be analysed from a below-ground perspective. Not only does this study have the potential of understanding the specific evolution of historical conditions and human and material agents affecting cemeteries over the last two centuries, but may reveal lessons for understanding mortuary behaviour in the more distant human past.

PRINCIPLES OF THE P ROJECT The Assistens project lay on another sensitive borderline; the historical significance of the project derived not simply the modern date but the relative fame of the cemetery itself as a tourist destination in Copenhagen. It is also a well-kept garden cemetery where winding paths and evocative surviving gravestones create a recreation oasis in the diverse neighbourhood of Nørrebro, 2 km north of the city centre. The oldest section of the cemetery is a designated heritage landscape and this status is perceived by the community and visitors as extending to its entire boundaries (Fig. 2.1). Although creating a metro station would bring benefits to the area it would also disturb the integrity of this multi-functional heritage space. Hence, bringing in archaeologists rather than large-scale exhumation professionals could be interpreted as introducing a level of respect and legitimacy to the project, although to many people the very act of excavation implies disrespect. Through dialogue with forensic anthropology advisors from the Panum Institute, Copenhagen, as well as some discussion in the media concerning the site (e.g. Mathiasen 2009), the project’s overarching values were established. These values were based upon preconceived ideas of respect for the dead and the heritage status and community value of the cemetery. I wish to focus on how two main principles were enacted during the archaeological work and what the consequences were that ensued from them.

Keeping a low profile The aim was not to emphasize the nature of the work, with the idea being that there would be less chance that emotionally disturbing or disrespectful information would be released. Although the possibility of opening up the site was

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Fig. 2.1 Excavation in 2010 at Assistens cemetery in the neighbourhood of Nørrebro, Copenhagen (Photograph by Sian Anthony)

noted in a pre-excavation museum statement, priority was given to keeping the daily work unpublicized (Andersen and Zander 2009: 9). The principle of keeping a low profile manifested itself in several ways. Firstly, this excavation was one of many undertaken in the city for the metro project. However, Assistens was specifically not advertised, in contrast to the publicity afforded the other sites. Also, there was less media-oriented activity during the excavation itself. Only carefully considered information was released on the museum website. Moreover, newspaper articles were only released after the excavation was finished and the graves removed from view (Stockmann 2011). During the work itself, the site was closed to the public with a fence built around the site. Twenty-four hour security ensured that entry was strictly regulated and tours were only given to professional colleagues. During the erection of the fence there was some interest, and even some verbal hostility, towards construction workers by local residents. Yet this rapidly decreased and the site soon became a concealed private place within a public landscape. The visibility of the excavation work was also controlled; the site was surrounded by high residential buildings and work took place under large white marquee tents. Intact coffins or remains were moved around the site in closed boxes or being covered by cloth, so there was no possibility of the remains being viewed. It was clear that it was the human bodies, not necessarily material culture, that were perceived to be the source of most problematic feelings for public observation. Broken-up coffin wood, inscribed jewellery, or

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cremation urns did not seem to provoke the same reactions by excavators and were moved around the site without objections or concealment, perhaps because they were viewed as context-free finds and did not immediately resemble dead persons (see Williams this volume). Images too were important for the adequate scientific presentation of the findings, yet throughout the project’s duration few were released to the public. The focus was instead mostly on general site views of staff working rather than the bodies; it may be that this procedure should continue when dealing with very modern cemeteries. However, further research and publication may be enhanced by certain images, but this also bring its own problems on grounds of taste and sensitivity. So the release of information continues to operate in an ethical and sensitive manner beyond the physical excavation and into the discussion and dissemination of any publicly disseminated outputs of the project. Overall these actions had the effect of maintaining a low profile. This is not to say that archaeologists were hiding what was happening because there were information boards on the site fence and on the museum website. Moreover there was no constraint imposed upon archaeologists as to who could answer questions from the public when asked. However, there was an element of selfcensorship during conversation; archaeologists were often keen to be vague and offered minimal detail of what was happening. Archaeologists, including myself, played down the aspects of the work that they perceived other people may have thought troubling. Consequently, access to the site work was carefully controlled and this sense of self-censorship lasted through to the completion of the site report. These actions were not an official request and were never documented as such during the project preparation. Each decision was discussed and agreed separately which created the principle through incremental stages instead of an overall strategy. The consequences of these aggregations strike against much of the current thinking of archaeology work—to be open, reflexive, and involve communities, and to present archaeology as a vital part of reinforcing common identity and heritage rather than a preserve for academics and specialists. The consequences resulted in a subtle presentation or negation of both the work on the site and the archaeologists work identity, a reduction to that of ethical cleaners. Despite strong and consistent support for the project from the museum and metro company, this had the effect of toning down some of the ambitions for the project and also helped to strengthen ideas that modern death should be removed from the public gaze.

Reburial and respect The aim of reburial lay in the idea that the excavation was a disturbance of the buried individuals. If they were then reburied relatively quickly, a short distance away in the cemetery, having never left the boundaries of the

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cemetery itself, the reburial was perceived to compensate for the disturbance of human remains. However, Danish law allows for removal of burials and all those excavated were legally available for this process. Yet the public response showed a distinct lack of awareness on this matter and a sense that locality overrode legality in the values ascribed to the dead (Lynnerup and Harvig 2012). In the early planning of the project, the focus lay on the skeletons and bodies rather than their associated funerary material culture such as coffin furniture or grave-goods. However, just prior to excavation, the standard was upheld by the excavation leaders that any grave-goods had an important commemorative link with the people they were buried with and should be respected as much as the human remains and reburied. This was only questioned when unusual or rare artefacts were excavated, but it was maintained. Reburial of investigated skeletons and associated artefacts took place throughout fieldwork and was completed by the end of the excavation. Reburial took place in unused grave space in areas unaffected by development; this lay to the south of the original grave positions in the cemetery. The principle of immediate reburial ensured that there were more complex practical problems on site, particularly for the osteological recording because there is no possibility of reanalysis at a later date. This is an acknowledged problem in field excavation: excavating a site destroys it; there is no possibility of rerecording rubbish pits or graves. Yet this is not such a common problem for artefacts or human remains where, although the vital contextual information has been destroyed, there is retention of the item and the ability to restudy with new methods or simply to confirm original interpretations. Therefore on Assistens it was more of a challenge for the physical anthropologists and the finds analysts which led to intensive on-site recording and the need for sophisticated facilities. Although such a rapid response for reburial had not been required by Danish authorities, the structure and down-played nature of the project prohibited a debate over the need for reburial of such remains such as have occurred in the UK (Sayer 2010). The work at Assistens was at the centre of a complex issue in which the recent date of many graves was combined with the powerful affinity of the place for the community. This led to a feeling that the human remains should be retained within the cemetery space. To do otherwise would have been to disturb the integrity of the cemetery and create a perceived disrespect in moving dead bodies. Archaeologists are well aware that misunderstandings and poor communication can result in significant disputes between their profession and other interested parties such as happened at the African Burial Ground in New York or Prestwich Place in Cape Town (Cantwell and diZerega Wall 2003; Shepherd 2007). Despite these examples, there was, unfortunately, limited discussion concerning these issues in Copenhagen. On reflection, a more open explanation of the archaeological aims and indeed justification of why it was so important could have benefited the project and

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enhanced understanding and engagement among the public. Only after the end of the project was there time and room for consideration on ethical issues. The result of the decision to immediately rebury the dead prevented future physical research on the archaeological material and because limiting factors meant that not all skeletons were able to be fully analysed before reburial, the possibility of returning to complete this work is lost. In mitigation, X-rays were taken on-site and an exception was made to collect small samples of bone for future isotope analysis, but the possibility of future analysis requiring other methods or material was also removed. On a wider scale, reburial was directly equated with respect towards the dead, as if this was the only option or opinion. With little inclusive discussion on how to deal with Assistens, respect was used as a facade to cover our work and to avoid delving into the thorny discussions over attitudes to the dead body in public life and in archaeological practice.

CATEGORIZING THE DEAD As Assistens was a site designated as an ethical clearance, our definition as archaeologists was called into question. The bodies of the people excavated were similarly challenged, were they valid for archaeological study in the same way as ancient bodies? An ethical clearance might suggest removal but not study, yet from the start interpretation and research was the intention. What was excavated was a cemetery of the potentially identifiable, recent material remains of the dead, of which these three factors of identity, date, and the very physicality of the bodies create a complex interaction which defines why recent bodies can be perceived as different to ancient archaeological bodies. The modern date of Assistens led to an increased possibility of identifying individuals. Combined evidence from stratigraphic recording, engraved jewellery, and cemetery registers (although few coffin plates were found) all led to a large number of identifications. This produced a dilemma both during excavation and afterwards in the report writing: do we release the names of these people along with detailed recording of their remains when some of their families may object? This is a problem only partially solved by limiting discussion of named people but will need resolution to enable meaningful analysis of certain aspects of the data. Identified bodies could be linked to living family or friends, photographs, and heirlooms that were physically in touch with the body. For the anonymous ancient dead, this dilemma is rarely an issue. Occasionally ancient bodies are identified or given names and become available for public consumption in a similar manner to modern celebrity bodies (Nordström 2007, this volume; see also Brown this volume). Museum of London guidance for the display of identified individuals is stated as happening only if there is consent from any known descendants (Swain

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2006; see also McManamon 2006 for discussion in American policy), but there may be only extremely rare cases when this could be obtained. This guideline could be continued for the dissemination of information from known individuals excavated from the modern period, but in large assemblages this could be a huge and complex task and involve determining which relative had the authority to make that decision. For these reasons and also due to the legal nature of burial removal in Denmark, consent from families was not sought during the research at Assistens. The body is of vital importance in modernity and if this can be reassigned to an identity then the humanity is given back to the physical remains. If a body remains anonymous and remains as part of a collective analysis of society in general, rather than a specific example, then archaeological research may be seen as more respectful. The date of the remains is also an important factor in considering the validity of research on recent bodies. Denmark has a legal requirement where bodies must lie undisturbed for 20 years after burial, but after this date they can be removed and disposed of as charnel. Other European countries have similar legal requirements and grave reuse is deemed acceptable. However, it is unclear if it is acceptable to conduct research on the remains: this question is rarely considered. Why do we differentiate between burials thousands of years old and those fifty years old? Those of recent date are perhaps closer to us and remind us of our own families; it seems a more personal experience, although this connection may be seen as symbolic (Swain 2002: 99). They can be seen as more recognizable in belonging to our own society whereas ancient bodies may be easier to investigate as they are outside of the community (Crossland 2009). An investigation into such a recent cemetery can bring out strong feelings for the public and the archaeologist by re-excavating their own personal grief. This could enhance empathy for the burials being excavated. Some approaches to contemporary archaeology emphasize this emotional link with the recent past and suggest it to be part of the motive for the investigation (Burström 2007). Yet there are also views that recognize the validity of studying the very recent past combined with ideas that after death the body is not important and therefore they become it becomes available for research on the same terms as the ancient dead. The third factor is the actual physical presence of the body. Many excavations and museums successfully display skeletons and mummies to the great delight and education of the public who choose to view them. One great difference at Assistens was the level of preservation—how would it be to see and smell the decaying soft tissue of a more recent body? Here theories of abjection (Kristeva 1982) play a role in the perception of the materiality of death. I see the displays of modern humans at the Body Worlds exhibitions (von Hagens 2001) as similar in experience to viewing a mummy as they do not have associated smells of decomposition or softer and liquid characteristics on display and they are still managed in controlled circumstances and static.

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The body we inhabit is a mixture of flesh, liquids, and harder skeletal material; it is mostly hidden from us in life, barring a cut finger or similar accident (Sofaer 2006). It is becoming rarer in our societies to experience the decomposing softer body of the recent dead. Burial or burning of the body removes this materiality from our presence quite effectively (Sørensen 2009). For this reason, cremation is an elimination of the abject decomposing body and there is potential for freeing it from the boundaries of a cemetery by scattering ashes in other locations (Williams 2011b). Such ‘cremains’ facilitate very different experiences and practices to the necessity for burying a body in a legally defined place. Although the scattering of cremation ashes in Denmark is strictly controlled and rare in comparison to other countries, there is still a removal of the boundaries of the individual material body in placing cremation remains in the legally sanctioned communal grave area (fællesgrav) (Sommer 2008: 322). It is far harder to relate a single bone or cremated ash to a single person and therefore easier to categorize this material as lacking a human identity (see Williams this volume). At Assistens, the remains ranged from cremation ash to abundant soft tissue remains and it was the latter that were equally most fascinating and challenging to deal with. The nature of each body was labelled according to its preservation and completeness, which affected its treatment through the process of excavation and analysis. For some bodies with soft tissue, this categorization and identity provided by archaeologists will continue to dominate archaeological discussion in comparison to skeletal remains. For disarticulated bodies, the primary identity consists firmly of low-priority and unidentified collectively researched material, so the materiality of each body is used to create divergent identities in archaeological research. There appears to be a conscious effort to decouple the physical body from the identity of the person, and these competing factors surrounding the identity, completeness of the remains, the context, and age of the remains all combine to make a complicated network of attitudes that means it is sometimes just easier to rebury and not to provoke discussion. In the strategies employed to control the dead body, we examine society’s attitudes to death which are often described as inconsistent and contradictory. It is uncertain if there was, or is, a death taboo in contemporary Western societies, or if in fact there is a multitude of ways of dealing with the dead body (Walter 1991). Sayer (2010) makes a strong case that there is a lessening of the taboo towards death in modern society particularly in the media of which archaeology plays a part. Yet excavating something that may still contain fresh reminders of our bodies can be a slightly different and disturbing prospect, particularly within a more open, public area. Perhaps for this reason, the engagement with the dead individual and its fleshed components, Assistens was covered from view, the surrounding apartment blocks overlooking the site were shielded from unwanted views. Could we have experimented with public tours when we could never control what was under the lid of the next coffin?

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The general feeling amongst staff was that it was a good thing not to have the public looking over their shoulder as they dealt with each individual circumstance. Combining these emotions and reactions with the contextual situation in the cemetery, viewing the body where the decaying process had taken place and was even still active could be a powerful deterrent to visitors. This is not a clean and context-free situation and further there are other material remains that can also provoke strong emotions: a wedding ring, clothes, or a child’s toy has the potential to affect people in different ways and bring back memories of grieving that they had dealt with in their own lives. Examining the attitudes revealed in this site could clarify a great deal of our perspectives on death, mortality, grieving, and memory, and share how we, as archaeologists, work with this material. Archaeological reports of historic period cemeteries can be circumspect in presenting their results; it can often be difficult to identify even basic details as to how many bodies were identified. Connections between the identified individual and documentary biography are often in separate sections and evidence rarely explicitly compared. The information can be found because individuals are referred to by context number, but it often requires a targeted and lengthy search to uncover connections between the osteology, the documentation, and the funerary material culture. This can be contrasted with cemetery reports from other periods such as the early Anglo-Saxon cemeteries of Snape (Suffolk) (Filmer-Sankey and Pestell 2001) and St Mary’s, Southampton (Birbeck 2005) where integration of information is more common and promotes a greater sense of the overall burial context. This may highlight the tendency of archaeologists to study only one aspect of the material but also shows the subtle effects of trying to respect the dead by separating out bodies and identities in order to conduct ethical research, a process which was undertaken for the report on the First World War soldiers in Fromelles, France (Loe et al. 2014). Exceptions where all aspects are combined are rare and generally skewed towards elites, often within family vaults where more information is present, for example the burials from vaults at Christ Church, Spitalfields or St Martins in Birmingham (Molleson et al. 1993; Brickley and Buteux 2006). The reluctance to explicitly examine material biographies of identified recent individuals is in marked contrast to the ancient dead.

WHAT IS THE S IGNIFICANCE AND RELEVANCE OF THIS T YP E O F PRO J E C T TO TH E C O N T E M P O R A R Y W O R LD ? The factors surrounding categories of the dead are partially created by archaeologists. They combine the concealment of death in contemporary society as

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well as how contemporary society and the archaeological professional distinguish between the mortuary practices of the distant past and the surrounding present. A primary reason for research must be the extension of knowledge about funerary behaviour, the cemetery population, and working life. In this regard, this project like any other should be judged significant and relevant from the interpretations and insight that come from it. This must be allied with a need to serve the present—how exactly does this research improve our contemporary society? A key way this project impacts on the understanding of death in the contemporary past is by contributing to the debate concerning the future of mortuary landscapes, the disposal of our dead, and what is considered acceptable behaviour within cemeteries. With trends towards new forms of commemoration on the grave plot, there are frequent conflicts concerning the appropriateness of objects that are not associated with traditions of mortuary material culture on graves (Sørensen 2011). The information gained can be used to understand the development of these traditions and show how many have changed in the modern period. Another debate concerns the increasing congestion of cemeteries and therefore the maintenance and reuse of cemeteries and grave plots. These preservation issues impact on arguments on the ‘lift and deepen’ debate (Dunk and Rugg 1994; Cemetery Research Group n.d.) in the UK where gaining extra space in grave plots will often not be such a clean and easy method as may be suggested. It seems that the European public may not have the information to make informed choices on the realities of what can and does happen in cemetery practice. The unfamiliarity of people with modern cemetery practice, as exemplified in the initial debate over Assistens in Denmark, is also highlighted by a controversy in Sweden in 2008 (Brändström 2008). Here the common, but undeclared, act of breaking a newly buried coffin lid during the gravefilling to speed decomposition was filmed by a member of the public and this led to a wider debate of contemporary practice. There has been little contribution from below-ground archaeology on these matters and the evidence for Assistens shows clearly that twenty years is not always a sufficient period to reduce a body to a skeleton. So the Danish system has a lot more potential to highlight complex issues if brought to open public debate and can better inform other countries’ practice too. Where previously the family may have had a role in these acts and would have had the opportunity to judge appropriate behaviour, they now have a limited and closely defined passive role. The separation of family from mortuary practice and the creation of specialists have allowed these practices to continue without debate and influence from the wider community and become traditions. Modern mortuary behaviour so becomes the domain of the specialists, including undertakers and cemetery workers, but also archaeologists and anthropologists (see also Giles and Williams, this volume). It therefore becomes our responsibility to inform

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others about our work and the practices happening today, as much as those of the past. However, the contribution of archaeology should not necessarily be critical of these solutions and practices as these are serious problems which require complex solutions but can help to encourage debate. Archaeologists should not be afraid to confront our own prejudices on these matters but contribute to the debate and help produce the solutions—which should not always result in an answer of excavation by archaeologists or of hiding the work that we do engage with.

CONCLUSION This brief review has highlighted some aspects of the debate that should have happened long before Assistens cemetery was excavated. The ongoing analysis and interpretation of the results also continue to face these questions, both in the museum report of the site excavation (Anthony et al. 2016) which is due to be published and my own doctoral research on aspects of modernity in funeral and cemetery practices, with a focus on the management and mortuary practices revealed at Assistens cemetery. The questions raised by excavating the recent dead relate, firstly, to the specific aspects of Assistens highlighted by the principles of reducing attention to the site by keeping a low profile and respectful handling of the dead resulting in reburial. Regarding the project itself, it is clear that there was a great deal of control over the process of the excavation by archaeologists; it was conceived as a project to be organized by specialists with lesser input from the wider public. Some of this should have been discussed in a wider context, although many of the principles enacted have been widely approved of. This situation may, in part, relate to Danish concepts of what projects are regarded as heritage or archaeology as well as the nature of large development projects within a capital city. The principles enacted seemed to support archaeologists in their work but they also led to a concealment of the project and prevented opportunities for the public to question or discuss it. A longer and more engaged preparation period prior to excavation could have discussed what exactly constituted respect towards the dead and might have resulted in a more open situation for the project. A wider question of examining the differences between the recent dead and the ancient dead focuses upon how recent bodies are categorized through their closer association with the living by their ability to be identified and their closer proximity to us through more recent date and physical presence. There are broader issues too, relating to mortuary archaeology from all periods. Calling for an open excavation policy (Parker Pearson this volume; Sayer and Sayer this volume) is in principle and for the majority of excavations a vital factor in opening up the work of archaeologists to the public.

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To achieve this with the recent dead would also require a great deal of commitment, preparation, and agreement from the community. This challenges and redefines what we see as our role as archaeological professionals. During professional or public presentations about the Assistens project, the immediate reactions received often reveal great interest in the research but also feelings of disgust and some discomfort, even from archaeologists who study death and burial or who have frequently excavated cemeteries of other periods. The idea of a project like this, dealing with very recent mortuary remains, crosses some boundaries, but it also challenges us to contest our concept of ourselves as professionals and our relationship with contemporary society. As archaeologists we should be challenging our image and providing new answers whilst accepting the rights of others to have contrasting opinions and abilities to influence the work we do. It is our responsibility as archaeologists to make archaeology relevant as research but also relevant to what is happening in our surrounding world and accessible to the public.

B I BL I OG R A P H Y Andersen, V. L. and Zander, K. 2009. Redegørelse for den arkæologiske udgravning på Assistens Kirkegård i forbindelse med Metro Cityringen. Museum of Copenhagen, unpublished Museum report. Anthony, S., Dahlström, H., Dunphy, A., and Jørkov, M.-L. 2009. Method Statement for Assistens Kirkegård, Copenhagen. KBM3830, 2009. Museum of Copenhagen, unpublished museum report. Anthony, S., Keenan, S., Winther Johannsen, J., and Jørkov, M.-L. 2011. Assistens Kirkegård, Copenhagen, Archaeological Report No. KBM3830, Museum of Copenhagen, unpublished museum report. Brändström, M. 2008. Excavating Machine Crushes Coffin in Vännäs, Sveriges Television, 7 May 2008. http://www.svt.se/nyheter/regionalt/vasterbotten/har-krossargravskopan-kistan-i-vannas (Accessed 29 June 2015). Birbeck, V. (ed.) 2005. The Origins of Middle Saxon Southampton: Excavations at the Friends Provident St Mary’s Stadium 1998–2000, Salisbury: Wessex Archaeology. Brickley, M. and Buteux, S. 2006. St. Martin’s Uncovered. Investigations in the Churchyard of St. Martin’s-in-the-Bull Ring, Birmingham, 2001, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Burström, M. 2007. Samtidsarkeologi. Introduktion till ett forskningsfält, Lund: Studentlitteratur. Cantwell, A.-M. and diZerega Wall, D. 2003. ‘We were here’: The African presence in colonial New York, in A.-M. Cantwell and D. diZerega Wall (eds) Unearthing Gotham: The Archaeology of New York City, 277–97, Yale: Yale University Press. Cemetery Research Group. n.d. Executive summary, from D. Davies and A. Shaw. 1995. Reusing Old Graves: A Report on Popular British Attitudes, Crayford: Shaw and Sons. Available from: http://www.york.ac.uk/inst/chp/crg/reusing.htm. (Accessed 8 February 2012).

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Crossland, Z. 2009. Acts of estrangement. The post-mortem making of self and other, Archaeological Dialogues, 16, 102–25. Davenport, A. and Harrison, K. 2011. Swinging the blue lamp: The forensic archaeology of contemporary child and animal burial in the UK, Mortality, 16(2), 176–90. Dunk, J. and Rugg, J. 1994. The Management of Old Cemetery Land: Now and the Future, Crayford: Shaw and Sons. Filmer-Sankey, W. and Pestell, T. 2001. Snape Anglo-Saxon Cemetery: Excavations and Surveys 1824–1992, East Anglian Archaeology Report No. 95, Ipswich: East Anglian Archaeology. Helweg, S. and Linnée Nielsen, M. (eds) 2010. Assistens Kirkegård 250, Copenhagen: Center for Kirkegårde, Københavns Kommune. Hvass, L. 2002. Borgernes begravelse, Helsingør Kommunes Museer Årbog, 2001, 69–98. Kristeva, J. 1982. Powers of Horror. An Essay on Abjection, New York: Columbia University Press. Københavens Bymuseet. 2007. Arkæologisk og kulturhistorisk forundersøgelse. Med vurderinger af de fremtidige placeringer af skakte og stationer til Cityringen. Ver. 12-03-2007. Museum of Copenhagen, unpublished museum report. Loe, L, Barker, C., Brady, K., Cox, M., and Webb, H. 2014. ‘Remember me to all’: The archaeological recovery and identification of soldiers who fought and died in the battle of Fromelles 1916, Oxford Archaeology Monograph Vol. 23, Oxford: Oxford Archaeology. Lynnerup, N. and Harvig, L. 2012. The ethics of anthropological analyses of human remains, in H. Harnow, D. Cranstone, P. Belford, and L. Høst Madsen (eds) Across the North Sea: Later Historical Archaeology in Britain and Denmark, c. 1500–2000 AD, 297–303, Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark. Mathiasen, A. P. 2009. (‘Metro levelling the dead to the ground’) Berlingske, 4 April 2009. http://www.b.dk/koebenhavn/metroen-jaevner-de-doede-med-jorden (Accessed 29 June 2015). McManamon, F. P. 2006. Policy and practice in the treatment of archaeological human remains in North American museum and public agency collections, in J. Lohman and K. Goodnow (eds) Human Remains and Museum Practice, 48–59, London: UNESCO and Museum of London. Melikian, M. 2004. An archaeological watching brief of the exhumation of the Jesuit cemetery at Manresa House, Roehampton, London Archaeologist, Summer 2004, 230–3. Molleson, T., Cox, M., Waldron, A. H., and Whittaker, D. H. 1993. The Spitalfields Project. Volume 2. The Anthropology: The Middling Sort, CBA Research Report, 86, York: Council for British Archaeology. Mytum, H. 2004. Rural burial and remembrance: Changing landscapes of commemoration, in D. Barker and D. Cranstone (eds) The Archaeology of Industrialization, 223–40, Leeds: Maney. Mytum, H. 2006. Popular attitudes to memory, the body, and social identity: the rise of external commemoration in Britain, Ireland and New England, Post-Medieval Archaeology, 40(1), 96–110. Nordström, N. 2007. De odödliga: förhistoriska individer i vetenskap och media, Vägar till Midgård 10, Lund: Nordic Academic Press.

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Pitts, M. and Sayer, D. 2010. The human remains crisis, British Archaeology, 115, 34–5. Powers, N. and Miles, A. 2011. Non-conformist identities in 19th-century London: Archaeological and osteological evidence from the burial grounds of Bow Baptist Chapel and the Catholic Mission of St. Mary and St. Michael, Tower Hamlets, in C. King and D. Sayer (eds) The Archaeology of Post-Medieval Religion, Soc. PostMedieval Archaeol. Monogr., 6, 233–48, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Reeve, J. and Adams, M. 1993. The Spitalfields Project, Volume 1, The Archaeology: Across the Styx, CBA Research Report 85, York: Council for British Archaeology. Rugg. J. 1998. A new burial form and its meanings: cemetery establishment in the first half of the nineteenth century, in M. Cox (ed.) Grave Concerns: Death and Burial in England 1700–1850, 44–53, York: Council for British Archaeology Monographs, 113. Sayer, D. 2010. Who’s afraid of the dead? Archaeology, modernity and the death taboo, World Archaeology, 42(3), 481–91. Shepherd, N. 2007. Archaeology dreaming: post-apartheid urban imaginaries and the bones of the Prestwich street dead, Journal of Social Archaeology, 7(1), 3–28. Sofaer, J. 2006. The Body as Material Culture. A Theoretical Osteoarchaeology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sommer, A. L. 2008. Locus fluxus og dødens rum—supermodernitetens kirkegårde under forandring, in M. Hviid Jacobsen and M. Haakonsen (eds) Memento mori— døden i Danmark I tværfagligt lys, University of Southern Denmark studies in history and social sciences, vol. 368, 321–37, Odense: Syddansk Universitetsforlag. Sørensen, T. F. 2009. The presence of the dead: cemeteries, cremation and the staging of non-place, Journal of Social Archaeology, 9, 110–35. Sørensen, T. F. 2011. Sweet dreams: biographical blanks and the commemoration of children, Mortality, 16(2), 161–75. Stockmann, C. 2011. 1100 Opened Coffins Give Copenhagen Another Story, Politiken, 28 May 2011. http://politiken.dk/kultur/ECE1294065/1100-aabnede-kister-giverkoebenhavn-en-anden-historie/ (Accessed 29 June 2015). Swain, H. 2002. The ethics of displaying human remains from British archaeological sites, Public Archaeology, 2, 95–100. Swain, H. 2006. Public reaction to the display of human remains at the Museum of London, in J. Lohman and K. Goodnow (eds) Human Remains and Museum Practice, London: UNESCO and Museum of London: 97–105. Tagesson, G. 2007. Kropp, identitet och material kultur—Linköpings domkyrkogård under tidigmodern tid, in L. Ersgård (ed.) Modernitet och arkeologi: artiklar från VIII Nordic Tag i Lund 2005, 53–74, Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Tarlow, S. 1999. Bereavement and Commemoration. An Archaeology of Mortality, Oxford: Blackwell. Tarlow, S. 2000. Landscapes of memory: the nineteenth century garden cemetery, European Journal of Archaeology, 3(2), 217–39. Thomsen, T. 2008. Udgravningen af Holstebro Kirkeplads, Holstebro Museum Årsskrift 2008, 10–24. von Hagens, G. 2001. Gruselleichen, Gestaltplastinate und bestattungszwang, in F. J. Wetz and B. Tag (eds) Schöne neue korperwelten: Der streit un die austallung, 260–82, Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta.

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Walter, T. 1991. Modern death: taboo or not taboo?, Sociology, 25(2), 292–310. Wienberg, J. 2010. Ljusets arkeologi. Att bejakta moderniteten, in A. Lihammer and J. M. Nordin (eds) Modernitetens materialitet. Arkeologiska perspektiva på det moderna samhällets framväxt, 17–26, Stockholm: Museum of National Antiquities. Williams, H. 2011a. Archaeologists on contemporary death, Mortality, 16(2), 91–7. Williams, H. 2011b. Cremation and present pasts: A contemporary archaeology of Swedish memory groves, Mortality, 16(2), 113–30. Williams, H. 2012. Ash and antiquity: archaeology and cremation in contemporary Sweden, in A. Meirion Jones, J. Pollard, M. J. Allen, and J. Gardiner (eds) Image, Memory and Monumentality: Archaeological Engagements with the Material World, 207–17, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

3 Personhood and Re-Embodiment in Osteological Practice John McClelland and Jessica I. Cerezo-Román

I N T R O D U C TI O N The repatriation movement in the USA has had a profound impact on how human remains are viewed by osteologists and archaeologists. Federal repatriation legislation, including the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA, PL 101–610; 25 U.S.C. 3001 et seq., 1990) and the National Museum of the American Indian Act (NMAIA, PL 101–185; 20 U.S.C 80q et seq., 1989) have led museums to transfer control of collections to affiliated descendant communities. Similar laws have been enacted in the states (e.g. A.R.S. §41–844, §41–865 [Arizona]; Cal. Health and Saf. Code, §8010, et seq. [California]; La. R.S. 8:671, et seq. [Louisiana]; Me. R.S. 13:1371– A [Maine]), with some preceding federal action and others a response to it (Seidemann 2010). Ancestral skeletal remains and objects were once regarded as cultural resources under the authoritative control of scientists (ColwellChanthaphonh 2009: 6–12). The struggle for the rights of indigenous people and others to determine disposition of ancestral remains challenged scientific authority and led to self-reflection on the part of the profession. Osteologists and archaeologists were reminded that they are dealing with deceased persons and that their actions are socially constructed manipulations of the dead, not unlike the work of other mortuary practitioners. This work is inextricably concerned with reconstructing identities. This involves both an effort to characterize the identities of past individuals or groups in life and to transform the dead anew, creating new identities for a variety of audiences. The process of identity reconstruction may be considered a re-embodiment of the person and that process is what this chapter is about. We illustrate this discussion with a case study of the analysis and repatriation of individuals exhumed from the Alameda-Stone Cemetery, Tucson, Arizona, USA. We use this example to

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show how individual and community identities are formed, neglected, transformed, and reconstructed in a large multicultural burial assemblage. The human body is universally regarded as an aesthetic object and an inseparable component of personal identity, but its value as an object of scientific inquiry is perhaps uniquely emphasized in Western thought. Once restricted to science and the medical profession, interest in the materiality of the body has now found a much broader audience. The popularity of the travelling Body Worlds exhibition, scientifically oriented television series such as Secrets of the Dead (Public Broadcasting Service), or fictional television programs such as CSI (CBS Corporation) or Bones (Fox Broadcasting Company) are only a few examples. Perhaps reflecting this phenomenon, college courses in human osteology are in such high demand that, at the University of Arizona, it has been found necessary to maintain waiting lists for registration despite opening additional sections and increasing the frequency of course offerings. As academics and professionals, we must ask ourselves: why this is so? It regrettably does not reflect increased demand or financial rewards for trained osteologists. Rather, we suggest that people are simply fascinated with past lives, partly in their own search for personal identity in a pluralistic and secular society. On a larger scale, others have remarked on the importance of archaeology for developing a sense of community or national identity (Arnold 1999; Williams and Williams 2007). Below, we consider how the body is transformed through excavation, analysis, and/or fragmentation in the process of archaeological research. We then explore the ways in which new identities are reconstructed through a process we refer to as re-embodiment. In this process, osteologists serve as mediators between the dead and the descendant communities and have reclaimed some of the ceded authority they once exercised over ancestral remains by serving as expert witnesses to past lives. We begin our examination of these processes by considering the ways in which bodies and persons are imagined.

ENCOUNTERING THE DEAD Anthropologists, beginning with Mauss (1985), Douglas (1966, 1970), and others, have maintained that the concept of the self and the body is culturally constructed. In physical terms, what distinguishes one body from another is that both are delimited by an external membrane. Yet, we recognize that this membrane is highly permeable and culturally specific (e.g. Douglas 1966; Schwarz 1997). The body may be altered during life through the addition of decorative elements such as piercing, tattoos, or prostheses, some of which are physically separable and others not. Artificial limbs, pacemakers, or dental crowns might be classified as bodily appendages, while jewellery, even if worn

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habitually, as fully separable. What does and does not constitute the body is a cultural construct. For example, some people now regard smartphones as extensions of their bodies in that they may find it difficult to function without them. Our memories are increasingly hand-held or stored in an electronic cloud. Is the body delimited only by the outer layer of skin, or should it properly include all the manufactured accoutrements or social networking links that now define the person? We use the concept of personhood derived from identity research and which has been suggested for use particularly in the study of mortuary practices by archaeologists (e.g. Gillespie 2001; Jones 2005; Fowler 2005; Brück 2006a; Cerezo-Román 2014). Marcel Mauss in the early part of the twentieth century was one of the first to question and problematize the notion of person and suggested that frames of reference for personhood change through time and space. Fortes (1987) mentioned also that personhood is negotiated and dependent upon social relationships and in light of specific moral codes. This idea suggests that personhood is a social category, that it is inherently dynamic and relational, and that it only takes on meaning through the enactment of relationships. Exploring the relational aspects of personhood is not new and goes back to the 1980s (e.g. Daniel 1984; Strathern 1988). Social anthropologists, such as Debbora Battaglia (1983, 1990, 1995), Marilyn Strathern (1988, 1999), and Nurit Bird-David (1999), among others, explored the notion of personhood. In some of these works, they used the notions of dividual versus individual to argue that individuals rather than being indivisible units were composed of transferable substances or relations. Conklin and Morgan (1996: 659) consider that, in anthropological literature, Western individualism has often been described as egocentric, differentiated, bounded, and autonomous. This contrasts with non-Western persons who are described as sociocentric or less individuated, less autonomous, and more interdependent or relational (Glaskin 2012). In addition, they also mention that personhood either could be explored within the notion of self in the particular culture and time under study without preconceived ideas that non-Western cultures are going to be de facto sociocentric. It is necessary to ground the analysis of social practices within a specific time and context in order to explore personhood. Gillespie (2001: 75), building on this concept and applied to mortuary archaeology, states that personhood derives from the enactment of connections within a society, including relationships between different individuals, individuals and groups, individuals and objects, and the living and dead, among others. These connections shape social constructions symbolizing and referring to individuals (Gillespie 2001: 76; Cerezo-Román 2014). We recognize that the concept of what constitutes a human burial or the deceased human body itself is culturally constructed (e.g. Kaliff 2004: 251–3; Kaliff and Oestigaard 2008; Rebay-Salisbury et al. 2010). Several archaeological and ethnographic studies of past and present populations (Cerezo-Román

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2014; Rakita et al. 2005; Rebay-Salisbury et al. 2010) have emphasized that perceptions of the dead and interactions between the living and the dead vary through time and space and between cultures. These perceptions and interactions with the dead are usually reconstructed through study of the archaeological record of past populations, as well as through interviews, oral histories, and ethnographic work among industrialized and non-industrialized societies in the present. Osteologists, archaeologists, and descendant communities also interact with deceased individuals in the course of archaeological projects and accidental discoveries. These interactions and perceptions are subjects of inquiry and undergo continual revision, negotiation, and change through time. As a result of interactions with Native American communities and reinforced by current concerns with embodiment and social identity (Hamilakis et al. 2002; Robb 2002; Sofaer 2006; Borić and Robb 2008; Knudson and Stojanowski 2008), our own perspectives have continued to evolve as well, leading us to examine alternative concepts of burial and the deceased body. We propose that the expanded awareness that can be gained through this process has the potential to improve archaeological practice at the same time that it responds more effectively to the wishes of descendant communities. However, recognizing that perceptions of the dead are culturally constructed, we do not advocate a single homogenous concept of the dead body in the past or the present. Repatriation under state and federal laws is not only about returning human remains to the place or people of origin, but also about restoration. As codified in NAGPRA, restoration is not limited to the physical remains of a deceased individual, but also to those items ‘ . . . that, as a part of the death rite or ceremony of a culture, are reasonably believed to have been placed with individual human remains either at the time of death or later . . . ’ [25 U.S. C. 3001 §2(3)(A)]. At various times in our interactions with Native American tribal representatives from several tribes in the Southwestern USA (e.g. Tohono O’odham, Navajo, among others), we have become cognizant of the importance of the concept of ‘wholeness’ with regard to the restoration of the burial in context.1 The word ‘whole’ is commonly understood as completeness or the property of being intact and unbroken. A less common meaning is related to health. A person may be described as whole when free of injury or restored to health. Wholeness is a common theme in Native American approaches to healing. For example, rejuvenation through a restoration of wholeness is an organizing principle of Navajo ritual such as sand painting (Quintero 1995). Native American nurses also place an emphasis on holistic care, and some describe the process as ‘putting puzzles back together’, or ‘putting the pieces of the quilt together’ (Lowe and Struthers 2001: 281). Wholeness may also be understood to refer to spiritual integrity. The O’odham word hekia translates as pure, whole, or entire, whereas Hekia S-ap’ekam Gewkthag refers to the Holy Spirit (Saxton et al. 1998).

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Repatriation of human remains and associated funerary objects also involves a process of putting the pieces back together and could be somewhat similar to Native American perceptions of healing. In this case, the process constitutes a re-embodiment of the burial through a reassembly of all the components of the burial and reestablishment of the relations between them. There are other ways of achieving this, but in the repatriation process it can be suggested that an archaeological burial assemblage—the deceased and the accompanying material—is not seen as divisible but as a whole entity.

MA NIPULATION AND TRANSFO RMATIO N OF THE D EA D In many societies, mortality is regarded not as merely termination of life, but as a transformation or series of transformations of the body and the spirit (Hertz 1960 [1907]; van Gennep 1960; Bloch and Parry 1982). Concepts of personhood attached to the body may go through a similar series of transformations, which may be related to a cycle of death and regeneration. Funerary rites and processes may mark some or all of these transformations, which may follow different paths. In the process, individual identity (or identities) may be transformed in various ways. Identity may be lost, transformed into that of an anonymous ancestor, or merged with others into a group identity of ancestors, among others. In accord with these spiritual transformations, the physical body may be preserved intact, separated into parts, fragmented and dispersed into separate ritual deposits, and/or destroyed. Defining the body’s limits and its materiality in life may not be a simple matter, but the boundaries of the body become especially blurred after death. A multitude of mortuary processes have been employed in the construction of the dead body, including fragmentation, manipulation, consolidation, embellishment, or destruction. Regardless of the mortuary processes employed, the physical remains begin a process of transformation merging with the surrounding soil through decomposition, or with the air in the case of cremation. Defining the boundary or limits of the physical body at death is culturally, chronologically, and spatially specific. However, the body of the dead person, by its presence, possesses agency that affects experiences, provokes memories, and alters decision-making and the actions of the living (Tarlow 1999; Chesson 2001; Hallam and Hockey 2001; Williams 2004: 265). Even after the mortuary and mourning rituals are over and many years and centuries have passed, dead bodies can still hold a sense of agency to the living. The deceased body in the form of skeletal remains, by its presence

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in an archaeological excavation, can alter decision-making and the actions of the living and community. Current state and federal laws, such as NAGPRA, dictate specific procedures regarding the treatment of the dead of past populations. Usually the parties involved, prior to archaeological excavation, form agreements with potential descendant communities that specify procedures for handling the remains and objects. In the past, one way in which the dead body may have had social agency was in the choice of mortuary treatment. Presently these bodies, now in skeletal form, still have agency and, in the most general sense, personhood. On occasion in archaeological excavations, laboratories, and museums, the authors have witnessed archaeologists, crew members, and descendant community members actively avoiding physical contact with human remains and funerary objects and/or being in the same room where these items are excavated, analysed, and/or stored. On the other hand we also have experienced individuals treating the remains as if they were living entities. These behaviours suggest that the dead in these instances may be seen as actors and/or sources of pollution, among other possibilities. The personhood of the dead may persist in this sense and the accompanying objects may be designated as aspects or extensions of the personhood of the individual, entangled with the deceased’s biography by the act of being placed in the grave in the past, and/or entangled with the materiality of the dead (e.g. Hoskins 1989; Gosden and Marshall 1999; Hallam and Hockey 2001; Jones 2004: 35; Brück 2006b: 76; Cerezo-Román 2014). Federal and state legislation indirectly foster similar views regarding the treatment of human remains from past populations. From these perspectives, we can see that the act of disinterment, separating the skeletal remains and the objects that have been placed in close proximity, alters the concept of wholeness and personhood. From a physical perspective, it is clear that disinterment leaves behind something of the body. The excavation process separates the skeletal components of the body from those portions that have decomposed and been transformed into sediment. In this procedure, the material objects formerly placed with the body are separated into different bags to protect the material for transportation, and to facilitate analysis. From a cultural perspective, it is evident that the social relations signified by the placement of the remains with associated objects have been physically severed or transformed by separation from the earth and original context. The burial and the remains embody these past social relations. However, once disinterred these contexts are transformed. It is impossible to disentangle the personhood of the deceased from this context without alteration. Disinterment is an act of transformation of the personhood of the deceased through separation from the original context and construction of a new interpretive framework by the osteologist and the archaeologist. These new relationships are established between the dead and the living, in this case between the disinterred individual, the archaeologist, osteologist, and descendant communities.

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As a result of the repatriation legislation previously mentioned, archaeological disinterment in the USA is generally conducted only after consultation with lineal descendants or potentially affiliated descendant communities. The deceased individual enters a process of disposition, usually ending with reinterment at another location. As Williams and Williams (2007) have noted, archaeological inquiries can operate as a form of mortuary commemoration as well as a means of uncovering the past. Osteologists must recognize that, like traditional mortuary practitioners, they have an obligation of trust to the descendants to honour the deceased through professional standards of care and a willingness to carry out their wishes. These obligations also include proper archaeological excavation and documentation in the field to minimize loss of information. Precise and replicable methods and techniques for documentation and interpretation of the burial context and remains are also necessary to be able to reconstruct past practices and re-establish past connections between remains, materials, and archaeological contexts. The osteologist, in documenting and studying human remains in conjunction with the archaeological contexts, relates the deceased with specific cultural contexts where past social relationships were formed. The deceased individual interacted through his body, and his life experiences are partially revealed in osteological analyses. These experiences cannot be fully understood when separated from the burial context and/or associated objects. The human remains and context where they were found are integral to the cultural (re-)construction of personhood of the deceased individual, which is based on mutually identifying relationships manifested in the materiality of the body (Sofaer 2006), and the relationships signified in the burial assemblage. Consequently, we find it useful to conceive of the body in a more expansive sense as being constituted of the physical remains as well as the objects and the relationships they signify. Native American perspectives of wholeness inform this view, but may not be equivalent. For example, the Navajo concept that body parts retain the power to affect the living (Schwarz 1997) may or may not be shared by excavators or osteologists. Nevertheless, archaeologists are motivated by legal requirements as well as recognition that each fragment represents the whole person in striving to recover all parts of the body, no matter how fragmentary.

Re-Embodiment The attempt to restore the body to something like its original burial context involves a reassembly of its constituent parts. The bringing-together of fragmented or separated skeletal remains allows complete osteological documentation to take place. The osteologist’s practice is embodied experience as it involves physical manipulation of the remains of the deceased person and a

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series of prescribed actions or gestures related to reassembly of the body. During this process, it is accepted practice to place the skeletal elements in anatomical position. The osteologist interacts with the deceased through their own body as they interpret the life of the deceased and facilitate the repatriation process by reassembling the burial components. When engaged in this activity, the osteologist’s relationship with the human remains shifts depending on circumstances. We see parallels between osteological practice and the experience of certain medical practitioners (Mol 2002; Bird-David and Israeli 2010). In a study of nurses and doctors who are involved with the care of persons in persistent vegetative states, it was demonstrated that concepts of personhood shift, depending on circumstances (Bird-David and Israeli 2010). Patients are identified as being in persistent vegetative states when they are completely nonresponsive to stimuli. In some daily care practices, nurses seem to treat the patients as objects, but in others, they view the patients differently as subjects: the authors refer to this as situational personhood. Mol (2002), on the other hand, suggests that a body is not viewed and defined only in one way. Views and interactions toward a body can be multiple depending on perspectives. Osteologists may relate to human remains as objects under some circumstances, especially when focused on detailed observation of specific traits in disarticulated elements. However, when the remains are reassembled in anatomical position, there is more of a tendency to regard the human remains as a person and not as an object. In addition once the biological profile of the deceased is reconstructed, such as the sex, age at death, pathological conditions, and stature, a personal biography of that person/human remains emerges. Perception of personhood is also influenced by specific actions and curation policies. For example, we have found that the physical act of using gloves while handling the remains in the lab alters the interaction. In some circumstances, gloves may be used out of health concerns, but in museums, the concern is mostly with protecting objects from alteration. In the case of human remains, this gesture also signifies a social distance that conditions one to recognize the personhood of the subject. Identifying the number of individuals who had been placed in the grave and their age and sex is important both for those concerned with archaeological research as for the descendants engaged in reinterment of their ancestors. This is also an integral part of the process of establishing cultural affiliation. As defined by NAGPRA, cultural affiliation refers to ‘ . . . a relationship of shared group identity which can reasonably be traced historically or prehistorically between a present-day Indian tribe or Native Hawaiian organization and an identifiable earlier group’ [25 U.S.C. 3001 §2(2)]. Gathering a preponderance of evidence for cultural affiliation between the burial and a present-day claimant is required for legal compliance with the act and its regulations. However, the osteological and cultural affiliation analysis also serves to

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conceptually re-establish the relationships that were severed at the time of excavation and removal of the body from its original burial context. Osteologists also have a role to play in this process through learning about the embodied life experiences of the deceased individual. Bioarchaeology, as defined by Jane Buikstra (1991: 172), refers to a ‘new form of regionally based, interdisciplinary research in mortuary site archaeology and human osteology . . . with the active participation of both archaeologists and physical anthropologists . . . ’. In practice, bioarchaeologists have largely been concerned with the population as the unit of study, although at the analytical level populations are composed of individuals rather than an intermingled collection of skeletal body parts. In recent years, there has been increased interest in a more individually focused approach, which others (Saul and Saul 1991; Robb 2002) have termed ‘osteobiography’. This approach utilizes reconstruction of one person’s embodied life experiences, facilitated by examination of skeletal indicators of age, sex, health, and activities. The biological profiles or osteobiographies can then be combined with the larger archaeological context to study the life experiences of past populations. These embodied experiences are an important aspect of identity that the osteologist may be able to gain access to (e.g. Cohen and Bennett 1993; Becker 2000; Robb 2002; Perry 2004; Sofaer 2006). When we add the objects found in the grave as signifying social relationships of the deceased and the burial context itself, the archaeologist gains insight into the specific ways in which personhood could be constructed or negotiated through social interactions. The following case study is an illustration of how individual and community identities were formed, neglected, transformed, and reconstructed in a large multicultural burial assemblage.

EMBODIMENT AND PERSONHO OD AT THE ALAMEDA-STONE CEMETERY, TUCSON, ARIZONA From 2006 to 2009, the authors participated as consultants in a large historic cemetery excavation project, directed by Statistical Research Inc., under contract with the Pima County, Arizona Cultural Resources and Historic Preservation Office (Heilen and Gray 2010). The Alameda-Stone cemetery (also referred to as National Cemetery) served as Tucson’s only public cemetery from c. 1862 until 1875, whilst an adjacent military section remained in use until 1881. The period of use spans the period immediately after the acquisition of southern Arizona by the USA as a result of the Gadsden Purchase in 1854. Prior to this, Tucson was an established community of Hispanic 2 and Native American residents. The period in which the cemetery was in use was

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Fig. 3.1 The ‘National Cemetery’, Tucson, 1870. The walled portion was reserved for military burials. Photograph by John Vance Lauderdale, Yale Collection of Western Americana, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library

one of major social, political, and economic changes (Sheridan 1988). Shortly after the Gadsden Purchase, non-Hispanic migrants from elsewhere in the USA began to arrive. Initially, the migrants consisted almost exclusively of adult males, including a military garrison that arrived in 1856. Within a few years, there was a significant shift in economic power. By 1860, these men held almost 90 per cent of the property in Tucson, despite representing less than 20 per cent of the population. There was also an influx of Confederate and Union soldiers during the American Civil War (1861–5), followed by the re-establishment of a permanent US Army post. Despite these developments, persons of Hispanic ancestry continued to constitute a majority of Tucson’s population until early in the twentieth century. As the presumed final resting place for an ethnically diverse community, the cemetery (Fig. 3.1) was an urban landscape in which economic, social, religious, and cultural identities were displayed and negotiated. By the 1870s, ethnic divisions in residential locations had appeared (Sheridan 1988), with Hispanic population concentrated to the south of the city centre and the area where the cemetery was located primarily in Anglo-American3 hands. The north-east corner of the cemetery parcel also stood in the way of a proposed alignment for the Southern Pacific Railway which was to arrive in 1880. Probably in anticipation of this development and the new economic potential of the property, the City Council officially closed the public portion of the

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cemetery to new burials after May 1875. After the arrival of the railroad, there were numerous reports that the condition of the cemetery had deteriorated, serving as a trash dump and a privy (O’Mack 2005: 37). In January 1881, a letter to a local newspaper lamented that Tucson’s citizenry were using the tombstones in the military section for target practice (Arizona Weekly Star [AWS] 27 January 1881). One month later, it was reported that many graves were open and decomposing bodies were visible (AWS, 3 February 1881). On various occasions, the city notified the public that anyone whose family members were buried there should remove the remains at their own expense and reinter them in a new city cemetery located to the north (later also subsequently abandoned) (O’Mack 2006: 7–20). By this time, it is likely that many graves were no longer marked, making it very difficult to locate a specific grave. There are no documents indicating how many graves may have been relocated, with the exception of the military section. The military systematically exhumed most of their graves in 1884. They were initially reinterred elsewhere in Tucson and later transferred to the Presidio cemetery in San Francisco. The cemetery lay fallow for another five years when the following appeared in a local newspaper: ‘The old graveyard, which now belongs to the city, is the general dump ground and receptacle for the offals [sic] of the city. A person walking through it finds everything in it from a dead rat to a dead horse. There are also, tin cans, old shoes and boots, etc., ad nauseum, and to cap the climax, the ground has a number of holes which were formerly graves, and if a pedestrian happens that way after dark he is liable to fall into one of the numerous pits and get his neck broken. It is gratifying to know that the ‘Patres Conscripta’ have taken the matter in hand and will cause the whole property to be improved and placed on the market.’ (Arizona Daily Star (ADS), 27 February 1889: 4).

By 1889, the cemetery was clearly considered an inconvenience and a public nuisance, leading the city council to subdivide and sell the property to private landowners, regardless of whether or not graves had been relocated. The decision was not universally welcomed, as a petition had been offered proposing to preserve the old cemetery as a park. The City Council denied the petition. It is possible that the denial of the petition may have been motivated by more than the prospect of economic gain or a matter of pubic sanitation. O’Mack (2006: 18) noted that the identities of the petitioners were not recorded and wondered if they might have represented portions of the community not represented by council and mayor, all of whom were AngloAmerican. Without individual markers, the dead had become anonymous ancestors, yet within living memory for many families. Their identities became matters for negotiation. For the Anglo-American city fathers, it may have been an unwelcome reminder of the people who had been displaced. It may also have been part of an urge toward modernization, exemplified by the

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separation of cemeteries in parks distant from the urban core, a major element of the Beautification of Death movement of the mid-nineteenth century (Sewell et al. 2010: 223). This is reminiscent of the Urban Renewal movement of the post-Second World War era, when large swaths of Tucson’s historic barrios were erased—once again diminishing visible evidence of Tucson’s Hispanic past (Otero 2010). The initial redevelopment consisted of private residences and was followed in subsequent years by small-scale commercial buildings. Because basements were (and still are) uncommon in Tucson, disturbance to any graves that were not relocated was minimal. However, the abandonment of a cemetery with loss of the information relating to the individuals buried there was destructive to the social relationships signified by the presence of Tucson’s founders. In subsequent years, continuing through the first half of the twentieth century, disturbances to the cemetery continued. There were occasional reports of burials uncovered in the course of utility or road construction, although, the greatest impact was due to the construction of a multi-storey building with a basement in the summer of 1953. By this time, many people had forgotten that the land had once been a cemetery. Excavation commenced with heavy equipment and within a few minutes, the first skeleton was disturbed (ADS, 18 June 1953: 1). Anthropology students from the University of Arizona were called and they did their best to recover bodies in advance of the shovel. Little could be done to record the archaeological context under these circumstances. Anthropology student Garland Marrs remarked, ‘You know, it breaks my heart to dig this way.’ With the exception of newspaper articles, no records of their excavations have survived. We will never know precisely how many burials were disturbed, but it is likely that several hundred had been present (Heilen and Gray 2010: 16). According to Arizona State Museum accession records, the remains of fewer than thirty individuals from these excavations were formally accessioned.4 There is no evidence of reburial of the remains from the 1953 excavations at any of Tucson’s extant cemeteries. It is likely that those who were not delivered to the Arizona State Museum were simply removed to a landfill. There was a newspaper report that human skeletal remains had been found in fill from the old cemetery that had been deposited on another city lot (Tucson Daily Citizen (TDC), 9 July 1953: 20). By the midtwentieth century, if the dead were conceived of as having any agency, it was mostly a matter of being in the way of progress. However, this inconvenience was partially offset by their perceived value as archaeological resources and a subject for publicity. Another newspaper account was headlined: ‘Anthropological Gold Mine Uncovered in New Excavation’. The accompanying photograph has the caption: ‘Who Said “Rest in Peace”? Even the dead give way to the march of time’ (TDC, 18 June 1953: 2). Other than the frustration expressed by the anthropology student, newspaper accounts record no public complaints regarding the disturbance of these graves, but the journalists may

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have been influenced by the fact that the basement was part of the new Tucson Newspapers building. The community, increasingly populated by recent migrants with no relation to the early pioneers, had seemingly moved beyond the need to remember Tucson’s founding. By the early 2000s, the property was one of the last remaining spaces available for a major development in downtown Tucson. The city and county urgently needed to expand court facilities and the site was selected for redevelopment once again. This time, however, the social context of cemetery redevelopment had changed substantially as a result of increased appreciation for historic preservation, state and federal legislation regarding the protection of human burials, and most notably, twenty years of interactions with Native American communities regarding the discovery and repatriation of human burials. At this time, no-one knew how many individuals remained in their graves beneath the pavement, but redevelopment would mean an intensive project of archaeological investigation and consultation with all potentially affected descendant communities (Goldstein and Anyon 2010). Although construction of a new court facility would inevitably require disturbance of additional graves, it was also an opportunity to make amends for the callous disregard for the departed of prior years, to renegotiate their identities, and the identities of their descendants, and ultimately to restore a sense of wholeness for the community at large. Since the cemetery likely included a complete cross-section of the community, extensive consultations were held with many stakeholders. Opinions differed regarding the advisability of the proposed redevelopment, but the question of whether or not to proceed with construction was not subject to the approval of the descendant groups. Rather, the consultations were primarily to determine what kind of disposition of human burials should take place if the project were to proceed. A consensus was reached on this issue (Goldstein and Anyon 2010). Protocols were adopted regarding the types of documentation that would be permitted and these varied depending on the cultural identity of the deceased. It was agreed that the remains of all individuals discovered during the project would be reinterred along with the objects found in their graves. The integrity of the burial was maintained throughout the process, but ultimate disposition followed divergent paths that depended on the cultural affinity of the deceased. Different groups preferred different treatments and memorialization, some public and some private. Thus, a major research goal of the project from the beginning was to ascertain the cultural identity of the deceased as presently conceived, although it is possible that the categories in use today differed from those recognized by the deceased themselves and it was recognized that many individuals may have had multiple ethnic identities. Consequently, the cemetery would not be relocated as a whole. Burials from the military section were to be reburied by a veterans group in a military cemetery. Individuals who could be affiliated with specific Native American

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tribes would be repatriated to that tribe for reburial in tribal cemeteries in accordance with their traditions. Burials identified as Hispanic would be repatriated to Los Descendientes del Presidio de Tucson, an organization representing Tucson’s founding settlers. These individuals, other individuals not represented by specific descendant communities, and those for whom no cultural affinity could be determined were to be reburied in a new specially prepared section of All Faiths Memorial Park in Tucson, located on the eastern periphery of the metropolitan area. The necessity to make an assessment of cultural affinity dovetailed with the major bioarchaeological research goals. In light of the historical evidence for an ethnically, religiously, economically, and linguistically diverse community, this determination also underlay many of the major research questions. For example, differences in occupation might be expected to be expressed in the skeleton. Health may have varied in accord with socioeconomic status. So identity research proceeded along two parallel tracks—one to determine what identities the deceased would have in the present and the other to ascertain what their identities may have been in life. These are not necessarily equivalent. One other category of social identity was recognized for the present— whether or not the individual had been interred in the military section. This category took precedence over that of ethnic assessment as all of these individuals were to be interred as one group in a military cemetery. Other types of identities central to personhood: familial, occupational, political, socioeconomic, fraternal, spiritual, institutional, recreational, friendship, or other social relationships may have loomed larger in the minds of mid-nineteenth-century Tucsonans, but these aspects of personhood were of secondary importance since the objective was to facilitate disposition to descendant communities self-identified primarily by differing ethnicity and ancestry. The archaeological excavations took place from 2006 through 2008 and resulted in the discovery of more than 1100 graves and human remains representing more than 1300 individuals. Osteologists documented the human remains and archaeologists recorded the attributes of all associated artefacts in a laboratory located on-site. The osteological documentation always began with an articulation of the skeletal elements in anatomical position before any observations were recorded. Osteological indicators of age and sex often vary throughout the skeleton, but these observations were tied to the individual rather than to separate elements. With the recording of basic osteological data, a biological profile could be developed and attention turned to reconstruction of identities and cultural affinity. No grave markers or other artefacts with clues to the names of the deceased had survived, so it was only possible to arrive at an estimate of likely group affiliation.5 The cultural affinity assessment developed for this project relied on three general categories of evidence, with no category taking precedence

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(Goldstein et al. 2010). The categories were osteological information, contextual evidence, and historical records. The osteological assessment relied primarily on metric and non-metric variables. These were compared with reference samples of persons of known ancestry to arrive at a statistical likelihood of group membership. The associated artefacts, grave and container construction, and other aspects of the archaeological context formed a second component of this determination. To assist in this effort, each descendant group provided a list of criteria regarding the presence of artefacts, the type of burial container, or other funerary attributes they expected might appear in the burial of one of their ancestors. This list was not comprehensive, nor were the attributes exclusive to each group, thus, assessment also relied on documentary sources. The third component of affinity assessment consisted of historical evidence that offered expectations for the different communities likely to be represented and the material culture correlates that were likely to be expressed in a grave. Goldstein et al. (2010) succeeded in determining some kind of cultural affinity for slightly under half of the burial population. The identified groups included individuals who were likely Hispanic, Euroamerican, 6 Native American, and African American, but also included a category termed ‘multiple affinities’. These were individuals with skeletal and contextual attributes suggestive of more than one cultural affinity. Given the history of migration and social fluidity in Tucson of the mid-nineteenth century, it is not surprising that many individuals fell into the latter category. Due to the vagaries of preservation and/or lack of contextual indicators, there was also a category termed ‘culturally unidentifiable’. This process of assessing cultural affinity is a laudable model for consistent application of multiple lines of evidence and transparency. It succeeded in providing a basis for determination of group membership that would determine the disposition of individual burials. The assessment also has some relevance to the construction of personhood, if primarily from the vantage point of twenty-first-century observers. We must be cautious, however, that we do not overemphasize the importance of these ethnic affinities in the construction of personhood in nineteenth-century Tucson. Personal identity is situational and fluid and the burial context is a snapshot which may or may not express those attributes of greatest importance to the individual in life. A more nuanced exploration of personhood requires a fine-grained exploration of individual cases. Several of these were selected for discussion in one chapter of the final report (Keur et al. 2010). The following two examples (Burial Feature 18924 and Burial Feature 1278) are cases in which the biological profiles and burial treatments yield a glimpse of how personhood was constructed. The remains of the young woman in Burial Feature 18924 (Keur et al. 2010: 680–81) were especially remarkable in the extent and severity of dental disease for one of her age (estimated to be between 18 and 30 years at the time of

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death). There were numerous carious lesions and abscesses, many teeth had been lost prior to death, and there was an extreme development of dental calculus on the remaining teeth. Nearly all the long bones were affected by an infection that had been active at death and there were several developmental anomalies; some of them possibly affecting posture and appearance. The severe deposition of dental calculus and the extent of postcranial infection suggest that the young woman may have been inactive or may have received long-term care for an extended period prior to death. Wire fragments surrounding the head, a straight pin, and a glass bead suggested that she was buried with a floral crown. The custom of burial with a floral crown is an Hispanic custom typically reserved for infants or children. Those afforded them were perceived as being without sin and they were considered to have ascended directly to heaven (Marino 1997). Perhaps the suffering that this young woman endured from disease and/or physical deformity prevented her from assuming the role of an adult despite her age. Disability is a social construct, even when there is a physical basis, and there are many strategies for accommodating or adapting to the condition (Shakespeare 1996). That this young woman was accorded such treatment in death is a testament to the affection that she must have received during life, and the relationships that she formed with others. A very different story emerges from the case of a middle-aged man in Burial Feature 1278 (Keur et al. 2010: 689–90). There are two exceptional attributes of this case, one relating to his way of life and the other to the cause of death. Assessed as a Euroamerican male of 35 to 45 years, he was found to have fourteen gold dental fillings in his mouth. Dental restorations of any kind were exceptional in this cemetery and all but one of the eleven individuals with evidence of professional dental care was male (Lincoln-Babb and McClelland 2010: 675). The quality and number of fillings suggests that this man had access to medical treatment that few others could afford. One suspects that he may have visited a dentist’s office in another, more cosmopolitan city. We have found no records of a dentist resident in Tucson during the period that the cemetery was in use. In addition, his teeth showed very little wear and there was only one unfilled cavity. One of the more striking results of the dental analyses of the cemetery population was the consistent and statistically significant difference in the degree of dental wear between individuals of differing cultural affinity. Dental wear was not one of the criteria used to assess cultural affiliation, but those individuals assessed as Euroamerican had significantly less wear overall than those assessed as Hispanic, who experienced significantly less wear than those assessed as Native American (LincolnBabb and McClelland 2010). The degree of dental wear is reflective of the hardness of dietary items. More highly processed foods are generally softer and these data suggest that differences in cuisine varied in a consistant manner with group affinity. Food preferences are also highly personal and relevant to construction of identity.

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There were no indications of trauma or arthritis in the postcranial skeleton of this man, suggesting an occupation that did not include strenous manual labor. A massive gunshot wound to the head tells us how he died. The configuration of the fractures and inferred trajectory of the bullet suggested the likelihood of a self-inflicted injury, although other possibilities cannot be completely excluded. He was buried in a simple wooden casket with two copper coins, placed one either side of his head. The adjacent grave held another adult male, who happened to have the second highest number of gold fillings of any individuals in the cemetery. The close proximity of two individuals with such rare characteristics suggests the possibility of some sort of association. The exact nature of their relationship or their places in this frontier community cannot be deduced. However, placement in the southern section of the civilian cemetery offers more clues to identity. This portion of the cemetery contained mostly adult males and very few children and has been suggested to represent recent migrants or non-Catholics (Heilen 2010: 126). The contextual and osteological clues suggest that this man had shallow roots in Tucson, but the fact that someone cared enough to place the two coins in his grave despite the nature of his death implies that he had established some ties to the community. These examples stand out from many of the other burials at the Alameda-Stone cemetery because of the richness of the contextual and osteological clues to personhood. It is not possible to gain similar insights into the construction of personal identity for everyone in the cemetery, but the examples serve as reminders that those aspects of personhood of greatest importance to the individual may be very different from those used to infer group or ethnic affinity. Final disposition of the human remains and associated objects afforded an opportunity for the identities of the dead to be transformed anew. Reinterment of the burials from the Alameda-Stone Cemetery took place at several events, both public and private, held during 2009 and 2010 (Pima County Cultural Resources and Historic Preservation Office 2013, http://www.pima. gov/JointCourts/Photos/Rep_Reburials.html#Photos). The reburial of the individuals found in the military section was the most elaborate and wellpublicized event. The reburial took place at a specially prepared historic section at the Southern Arizona Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Sierra Vista, Arizona. A motorcycle procession escorted the remains from Tucson to Sierra Vista. Celebrants appeared in period costume. The programme included speeches by Arizona’s governor Jan Brewer and Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. Adults from the military section were each accorded a flagdraped wooden casket, whilst the few children found in this section received white caskets covered with flowers. The caskets were placed in evenly spaced rows within a walled section of the larger cemetery (Fig. 3.2), mirroring the orderly, disciplined arrangement of the original military section of the Alameda-Stone cemetery. Each adult is marked with a headstone labelled

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Fig. 3.2 Southern Arizona Veterans Memorial Cemetery, Sierra Vista, Arizona. Recreated historic cemetery section. Photograph by J. McClelland

‘Unknown Soldier’; the children’s graves are marked ‘Unknown child’. Each headstone is otherwise identical and is typical of current US military practice. Other differences, such as race, socioeconomic class, or ethnicity are all subordinate to those aspects of personhood related to military service. According to historical records, this differs somewhat from the original appearance of the military section of the Alameda-Stone cemetery. There is some evidence that there had been an attempt to separate officers and soldiers (O’Mack 2006: 25). Most of the graves had simple wooden markers, but there was also at least one stone grave marker (O’Mack 2006: 36). More importantly, the original military cemetery included at least twenty civilian graves, but in the recreated cemetery, their identity, as well as that of the juveniles, has been transformed into soldiers by association. Representatives of the veterans group often mentioned that recovery of these long-forgotten veterans fulfilled a military code of honour that no soldier is to be left behind. Although most military burials had been previously exhumed, skeletal fragments remained in most of the graves and a few burials had been missed entirely. The remaining portions of the bodies are inhumed more than 700 miles distant in San Francisco. Despite this fragmentation of the body, each reburied portion has been conferred with the personhood of the deceased. The body parts have been transformed into whole persons and the cemetery as a whole has been re-embodied as a military corps that played a very specific part in the ‘taming of the West’. In her speech, Governor Brewer

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recognized the sacrifices made by these soldiers and their role in making Arizona safe (Alaimo and Younger 2009). Today the dead serve once more as a part of a narrative about Arizona’s past. The multicultural nature of the military section of the original cemetery (Euroamerican, Hispanic, Native American, and African American) and the participation of representatives of all of these communities in the reburial proceedings underlines the role that military service in the USA has played in nation building through integration of persons of many different ethnicities, languages, and religions. Individuals repatriated to the Tohono O’odham Nation were reburied by the tribe in a private ceremony in their community. Likewise, individuals identified as having cultural affinity with the Pascua Yaqui Tribe were reburied in a non-public ceremony in their own cemetery (Goldstein and Anyon 2010: 307). The circumstances which led to Native American individuals being buried in the Alameda-Stone cemetery are unknown. It is known that Tucson’s population included some Apaches who at that time did not have a designated reservation, or for other reasons chose to live in a non-Indian settlement. Others may have been persons of mixed ancestry or people who were married to non-Native American spouses. It is also possible that for other reasons, the choice was not theirs to make; they might not have had immediate family nearby. Nevertheless, both tribes chose to reinter these ancestors with other members of their own communities. The reburial at All Faiths Memorial Park took place in February 2010 with a public ceremony held in June 2010. The public observances were not as elaborately publicized or well attended as the reburial in Sierra Vista. The reburial took a very different physical form than that of the military section, partly explained by the much greater number of individuals reinterred (more than 1200 compared with 65). An effort was made to replicate the spatial context of the original cemetery, but at a smaller scale—in effect manifesting the original social relationships between the deceased and their community. Each individual and their associated objects were placed in a container in the same east–west alignment and in approximately the same location relative to the other individuals in the cemetery as originally found (Goldstein and Anyon 2010). Yet, there is no visible surface indication of the individual graves in the section of the cemetery reserved for the relocated burials from the Alameda-Stone Cemetery. Instead, the visitor faces a single plot covered by angular cobbles over a common burial pit where the bodies have been placed (Fig. 3.3). There are shifting scales of personhood represented. Initially, one sees the cemetery population as a whole—a non-individuated group of burials, strongly reinforced by the undifferentiated field of cobbles. The cemetery population is presented as a single unified body representing Tucson’s early settlers. At first impression, this looks like a mass grave, typically reserved for people who had all met the same fate, as in a way they have. All ancestries and ethnicities are merged, visually reifying the modern American mythos of a

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Fig. 3.3 All Faiths Memorial Park, Tucson, Arizona. Reburial Plot for the AlamedaStone Cemetery. Photograph by J. McClelland

melting pot in which people of all different origins are assimilated in a common national identity. This common treatment also masks, albeit perhaps unintentionally, any socioeconomic, cultural, or religious distinctions which existed in mid-nineteenth-century Tucson. When visitors turn their attention to the memorial plaque, however, they will read that some of the individuals originally buried at the Alameda-Stone cemetery (those affiliated with Native American tribes and those in the military section) have been reburied elsewhere.

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Fig. 3.4 All Faiths Memorial Park plaque listing names of those who died during the period in which the Alameda-Stone cemetery was in use. Photograph by J. McClelland

Although there was no evidence to associate specific names with the burials found at the Alameda-Stone cemetery, there are census records and death records from the time period when the cemetery was in use. Based on this historic evidence, a list of persons who died during these years is displayed on the memorial wall at the cemetery. Visitors see the names of specific individuals grouped by year and month of burial (Fig. 3.4). Some may recognize their family’s surname and remember specific ancestors, shifting their experience of personhood of the deceased to an individual, rather than a group identity. These memorial plaques are reminiscent of military commemorations, such as the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall in Washington DC, which lists the names of individual men and women who died in service to their country. The same shift in personhood is felt at this memorial. Photographs reproduced in tiles on the memorial walls depict scenes of daily life in Tucson during the period when the cemetery was in use (Fig. 3.5). A caption on the memorial marker mentions that some of the people in these photographs could be buried in the burial plot nearby. It is at this point that the personhood of these ancestors is most keenly felt. An explanatory plaque at the east end of the reburial plot is titled: ‘A Long Journey Home’. Below are photos and drawings of the city and the original cemetery as well as a brief history of the cemetery and its relocation. The prospect before the observer, however, bears little resemblance to the original cemetery, which had individual markers or headstones, some above ground crypts, walls, and sections divided by religious faith. Most importantly, the old cemetery was located in close proximity to the businesses and residences of the

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Fig. 3.5 All Faiths Memorial Park. Historic photograph of nineteenth-century Tucson reproduced in a ceramic tile mural. Photograph by J. McClelland

nineteenth-century town. All Faiths Memorial Park is located about 13 miles distant on the extreme eastern margin of the Tucson Basin. Every effort was made to treat the newly disturbed dead with respect, to protect them from further disturbance, and to restore their memory in their new ‘home’, but one cannot view the new cemetery without thinking that they were still viewed as an inconvenience. After all, the only reason that the cemetery was relocated was that the dead occupied extremely valuable land needed by the living. Excavation and removal of the preserved portions of the Alameda-Stone Cemetery was not accomplished without leaving something of the person behind. The connection with the soil and the urban nexus of the old pueblo of Tucson was severed and new relations were created in a remote location. The unified presentation of the new burial plot, the period photographs and lists of names contribute to a sense of wholeness for the descendant groups, but it also recasts the relations between the dead in a way more suitable to the present, by emphasizing commonality over difference. Acknowledging the presence of these ancestors is also important to the construction of group identities in the present, but the reality is that few of Tucson’s citizens are likely to visit this remote memorial.

P E R SON HOOD A ND TH E OS T EO LO GIS T Just as attitudes toward the body are socially constructed, so decisions about disposition are a product of negotiation. New paradigms will emerge as the social and political context of archaeology changes. Reburial is only one of

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many paths to wholeness and we do not propose that our particular concept of the body is universally applicable or that repatriation and reburial are the only proper ways to treat the remains of deceased human beings. It is partly out of historic contingency that repatriation and reburial has become the preferred outcome for the vast majority of human burials that are now discovered in the USA, regardless of ancestry. The process of dealing with ancestral remains will undoubtedly continue to evolve, but many of us are aware of being at a unique point in history. This is the era when most of the large, long-held museum collections of Native American human remains and funerary objects will be returned to their descendants. Those of us who have experienced repatriation first-hand have benefited from viewing the process partly through the eyes of the descendants. We share a sense of completion, fulfilment, and perhaps one of healing as we strive to reconstruct the past, re-embody individuals, and make things ‘whole’ again. Our actions in exhuming, documenting, and repatriating human remains and associated funerary objects create an embodied memory that is important to document (Krmpotich 2011). During the repatriation process, descendants witness osteologists and archaeologists acknowledging and honouring their ancestors and by extension, themselves. This reinforces the view that all participants, living or deceased, are worthy of respect. It is not only the identities and personhood of the dead that have been recast. Osteologists, themselves, have been transformed from collectors and custodians of the dead to interpreters and facilitators in the process of forming new identities. The relationships formed with descendant communities have contributed to an expanded awareness of the archaeological context of the body that informs this process. As participants, we have also come to recognize the agency of the dead as a powerful force. Their ultimate disposition has the potential to reform political, social, scientific, and spiritual relationships whilst binding together the descendants, archaeologists, osteologists, and other participants through shared and persistent social memories.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS We would like to thanks the editors Melanie Giles and Howard Williams for inviting us to contribute to this wonderful edited book. We would also like to thank the Pima County Cultural Resources and Historic Preservation Office, Statistical Research Inc., and all of the descendant communities for the opportunity to participate in the Joint Courts Complex Archaeological Project. Jessica would like to thank Thomas Fenn and Barbara Mills for their useful comments and edits to the text. She also would like to thank James Skibo, Rosemary Joyce, and the Archaeology Division of the American Anthropological Association for the Student Diversity Travel Grant to cover travel costs associated with attending and participating in the session ‘Theoretical Advances

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in Contemporary Archaeology’ at the 109th Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Association, New Orleans, Louisiana, where an earlier draft of this paper was first presented.

ENDNOTES 1. We wish to acknowledge Alyce Sadongei (Kiowa/Tohono O’Odham), former Curator of Native American Relations, Arizona State Museum for bringing this to our attention. 2. In current usage, the term Hispanic refers to a person who is Spanish-speaking and/ or whose lineage derives from Latin America. The Hispanic residents of early Tucson were predominately Mexican or Spanish in origin. 3. Non-Hispanic individuals are commonly referred to as Anglo-American, but historical records indicate that migrants to Tucson during this period included persons from many European countries other than Great Britain. 4. Remains of another 25 to 30 individuals from excavations during the 1960s were also accessioned by the Museum. 5. The determinations were made by Goldstein et al. (2010). We did not participate directly in this assessment. 6. This term is preferred to the aforementioned term Anglo-American, and generally refers to anyone of European ancestry having other than an Hispanic surname.

BI B LI O GRAPH Y Alaimo, C. A. and Younger, J. 2009. 1800s soldiers reburied: nearly 60 from Civil, Indian wars are reinterred at Sierra Vista, Arizona Daily Star, 17 May, Section A, Tucson AZ. Arizona Daily Star (ADS) 1889. Anonymous report, 27 February: 4, Tucson AZ. Arizona Daily Star (ADS) 1953. Tucson Newspapers, Inc. Launch New Expansion Program, 18 June: 1, Tucson AZ. Arizona Weekly Star (AWS) 1881. The Military Cemetery, 27 January: 3, Tucson AZ. Arizona Weekly Star (AWS) 1881. A Terrible Nuisance, 3 February: 3, Tucson AZ. Arnold, B. 1999. The contested past, Anthropology Today 15, 1–4. Battaglia, D. 1983. Projecting personhood in Melanesia: the dialectics of artefact symbolism on Sabarl Island, Man, 18(2), 289–304. Battaglia, D. 1990. On the Bones of the Serpent: Person, Memory and Mortality in Sabarl Island Society, University of Chicago Press, Chicago IL. Battaglia, D. 1995. Problematizing the Self: A Thematic Introduction, in D. Battaglia (ed.), Rhetorics of Self-Making, 1–15, Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Becker, M. J. 2000. Reconstructing the lives of South Etruscan Women, in A. E. Rautman (ed.) Reading the Body: Representations and Remains in the Archaeological Record, 55–67, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Bird-David, N. 1999. Animism revisited: Personhood, environment, and relational epistemology, Current Anthropology, 40, 67–92. Bird-David, N. and Israeli, T. 2010. A moment dead, a moment alive. How a situational personhood emerges in the vegetative state in an Israeli hospital unit, American Anthropologist, 112(1), 54–65. Bloch, M. and Parry, J. 1982. Introduction: death and the regeneration of life, in M. Bloch and J. Parry (eds) Death and the Regeneration of Life, 1–94, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Borić, D. and Robb, J. 2008. Body theory in archaeology, in D. Borić and J. Robb (eds) Past Bodies: Body-Centered Research in Archaeology, 1–7, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Brück, J. 2006a. Death, exchange and reproduction in the British Bronze Age, European Journal of Archaeology, 9(1), 73–101. Brück, J. 2006b. Fragmentation, personhood and the social construction of technology in Middle and Late Bronze Age Britain, Cambridge Archaeology Journal, 16(3), 297–315. Buikstra, J. E. 1991. Out of the appendix and into the dirt: comments on thirteen years of bioarchaeological research, in M. L. Powell, P. S. Bridges, and A. M. W. Mires (eds) What Mean These Bones? Studies in Southeastern Bioarchaeology, 172–88, Tuscaloosa AL: The University of Alabama Press. Cerezo-Román, J. I. 2014. Pathways to personhood: cremation as a social practice among the Tucson Basin Hohokam, in G. Cooney, I. Kuijt, and C. Quinn (eds) Fire and the Body: Cremation as a Social Context, 148–67, Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Chesson, M. S. (ed.) 2001. Social Memory, Identity, and Death: Anthropological Perspectives in Mortuary Rituals. Archeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association, Number 10. Arlington VA: American Anthropological Association. Cohen, M. N. and Bennett, S. 1993. Skeletal evidence for sex roles and gender hierarchies in prehistory, in B. Miller (ed.) Sex and Gender Hierarchies, 273–329, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C. 2009. Inheriting the Past: The Making of Arthur C. Parker and Indigenous Archaeology, Tucson AZ: University of Arizona Press. Conklin, B. A. and Morgan, L. M. 1996. Babies, bodies, and the production of personhood in North American and a native Amazonian society, Ethos, 24(4), 657–94. Daniel, V. E. 1984. Fluid Signs: Being a Person the Tamil Way, Berkeley: University of California Press. Douglas, M. 1966. Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Douglas, M. 1970. Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology, third edn, New York: Pantheon Books. Fortes, M. 1987. Religion, Morality and the Person: Essays on Tallensi Religion, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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4 Separating the Emotions Archaeological Mentalities in Central Italian Funerary Archaeology Ulla Rajala

INTRODUCTION This chapter defines the concept of archaeological mentality and suggests that it is a useful tool in characterizing archaeological thinking and practice. It is argued that pre-designed interviews, even considering their limitations (see Everill 2009: 105–7), are a good method of studying contemporary archaeological mentalities. For this purpose, the chapter presents an ethnoarchaeological investigation among a group of central Italian archaeologists, researchers, and field archaeologists involved in the study of the past peoples of the region, who are or have been engaged in pre-Roman funerary archaeology, the field of study of the author of this chapter. The study was aimed at exploring different attitudes central Italian archaeologists have towards their work, its various aims, guiding principles, and possible outcomes. This research was carried out as part of the preparatory phase of the Remembering the Dead project (Rajala 2008), with the duration of its field phase defined by financial and time constraints. The idea was to investigate the local archaeological context of the project in its planning phase, and this pilot study fulfilled its purpose from this view point. For archaeologists, the discovery, recovery, and study of human remains can be the most direct encounter with past individuals they have, giving a way to interpret the character of ancient customs, rituals, and communities (Parker Pearson 1999). Archaeologists are constantly dealing with the dead either indirectly, when trying to reconstruct the living conditions of past peoples, or directly when excavating and studying funerary remains. Although much effort has been devoted to understanding different funerary contexts (e.g. Parker Pearson 1982; Morris 1987; Lucy 2002; Tarlow 2011), less emphasis

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has been put upon understanding how our modern concerns and experiences may affect our work (Rajala 2007; Leighton 2010). In contrast, attitudes towards death have already been studied among other professions engaged in handling the dying and the dead (e.g. Cooper and Barnett 2005). Most of the archaeological treatises of the subject at the time of this study have been accounts of archaeologists’ own personal reactions or descriptions of specific cases (cf. Kirk and Start 1999; Reeve and Cox 1999). The inspiration for this study came from the interviews Mary Leighton did for her BA dissertation (Leighton 2003, 2010). She used interviews as a method to study the attitudes British excavators held towards the dead bodies and the mixed responses she encountered. Similarly, Cornelius Holtorf ’s (2006) research and Pamela Smith’s (2009) oral histories informed this work. This interview project was facilitated by Dr Francesco di Gennaro, then of the Superintendency of Rome and the University of Cassino at Frosinone. The full interviews attempted to examine the different limitations and potentials of the work carried out by central Italian archaeologists and their practical and theoretical frameworks. The results presented here concentrate on a subset of that project: the questions dealing with death, the dead, and ancestry. Since these issues are most likely to be influenced by different cultural attitudes and specific academic climates, interviewing would also allow the examination of differing archaeological mentalities in different countries.

ARCHAEOLOGICAL MENTALITIES AND ETHNOGRAPHIES OF ARCHAEO LO GY The concept of mentality was developed by the French historians of the Annales School (mentalité; cf. e.g. Le Goff 1960, 1974; Dupront 1961; Ariès 1978). They defined ‘mentality’ as the collective underlying norms and unconscious attitudes that can be used to describe the intellectual climate of the day. The ‘mentality’ has a cultural, social, and temporal context and can be defined as a mind-set or attitude common to a specific group of people. The Annales School and its three-level model of historical time-scales (histoire événementielle, conjonctures, and la longue durée: originally discussed by Braudel 1949) were influential in archaeology from the mid-1980s, especially in Mediterranean archaeology (e.g. Binliff 1991; Knapp 1992; Barker 1995; Morris 2000). The mentalities studied by these works were the past mentalities of human societies (e.g. Barker 1995; Cuozzo 2003: 15), in the same way as ancient mind-sets were advocated as a topic of study in cognitive archaeology (Renfrew and Zubrow 1994).

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However, this focus on past mentalities has never been systematically extended to the archaeological community of researchers today. For example, although Sherratt (1992) referred to the collective mentalité of the Annalistes, he did not develop this idea further in order to explore archaeological mentalities. Even if it is acknowledged that archaeological thinking is a social construct (Bernal 1994; Rowlands 1994) and the prevailing mentality of archaeology was mentioned by Fagan (1996), the study of the collective mentalities has not extended to archaeological thinking, and explicitly how these mentalities are formed in relation to theory, practice, and cultural context remain largely unexplored. The collective mind-sets of archaeologists can be called ‘archaeological mentalities’. These can be defined as a variety of attitudes archaeologists have towards their study and objectives in the current theoretical environment. In addition, archaeologists are likely to have strong social archaeological networks and share other values, such as common cultural background, education, and religious beliefs. Generally, these mentalities change through time and are bound to differ between countries and to an extent between archaeologists sharing different traditions due to varied influences and diverse cultural and social backgrounds. Thus, ‘mentality’ as a concept creates a familiar theoretical tool to study our own discipline in the contemporary world. As Johnson (1999: 45–7) has already pointed out, historians of archaeology have increasingly described archaeology as a socially constructed activity. An ‘archaeological mentality’ takes this thinking further and as a concept suggests that different kinds of archaeologies and different archaeological paradigms (cf. Kuhn 1970: 10; Trigger 1989) are likely to have been and to be formulated and applied differently in different times and places according to culture-specific practices. The application of concepts such as ‘archaeological mentality’ requires that one believes that archaeology is a socially situational practice and archaeologists can be ascribed to a loose group identity (cf. Tajfel and Turner 1986). Like historical mentalities, archaeological mentalities are expected to change in historical and ideological terms. In addition, it can be considered that ‘paradigm’ thinking (e.g. Trigger 1989: 5–7) requires the existence of archaeological mentalities at a larger scale, as a precondition. Archaeological mentalities can be studied with relevant research literature and archaeological histories, but structured interviews form a good basis for a methodology, if the aim is to study contemporary themes, not necessarily addressed in research literature. Interviewing gives an inside view into an archaeological professional community, but in the analysis phase allows its description and interpretation from outside. This type of study belongs to the field of ethnography of archaeology (Edgeworth 1990, 2006), part of a trend for non-ethnographers to use ethnographic field methods (Marcus and Fischer 1986: xix–xxii, 7). In the 1990s, interviews were used to study the

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archaeological profession in Britain (Morris 1992) and Australia (Moser 1995), and Moser (1995) even touched upon the disciplinary culture that can be interpreted to overlap with mentality. In multidisciplinary survey projects in the Mediterranean, ethnographies are collected customarily in order to understand local traditions (e.g. Christie et al. 2004) and identities (Fewster 2007). In contrast, in ethnographies of archaeology, archaeologists study, either as participant observers or interviewers, their colleagues’ practices and opinions. The approach was advocated by Edgeworth (1990) and lately the ‘ethnology of archaeology’ has developed into an umbrella term (Edgeworth 2006) incorporating anthropologists observing archaeologists (e.g. Bartu 2000) and the oral history of archaeology (e.g. Smith 2009). In Italy, only Holtorf (2006) has ‘interviewed’ archaeologists, albeit undergraduate students and using questionnaires rather than interviews. Equally, local non-archaeologists have been interviewed in Etruria and Sicily about their views on archaeology and the past (Thoden van Velzen 1996, 1999) and the perception of place (Fitzjohn 2007). Therefore, this chapter takes a novel angle and complements recent approaches in the ethnography of archaeological practice by focusing on the composition of archaeological mentalities. Although interviews were the main method of collecting data, the history of the discipline and modern history of Italy were also taken into account and will be briefly outlined to provide a context to the interviews. The chronology of the introduction, spread, and influence of the different archaeological schools varies in Italy (Cuomo di Caprio 1986; Terrenato 2000a,b), but their order of arrival, and at least recognition, is the same as elsewhere. Before and after the Second World War, archaeologists practised cultural historical archaeology, whereas after the 1960s processual archaeology ‘revolutionized’ archaeology, and since the 1980s structuralist and post-modern concepts have resulted in so-called interpretative or postprocessual archaeology (Trigger 1989; Johnson 1999). General histories of Italian archaeology (Guidi 1988; Peroni 1990, 1992; Barbanera 1998, 2000, 2003; Terrenato 1998, 2000a; also Loney 2002) and major treatises in Italian funerary archaeology (e.g. D’Agostino 1985; Bietti Sestieri 1992; Cuozzo 2003) helped to define wider Italian traditions. Special attention was paid to Italian philosophy (Croce 1948, 1969; Gramsci 1948) and events in the aftermath of the Second World War (e.g. Barbanera 1998; Galli della Loggia 1994). Subscribing to different archaeological schools could potentially affect archaeologists’ attitudes. The different ‘paradigms’ of processual, postprocessual, and similar archaeological schools are based on different philosophical stands, for example the processual ‘paradigm’ emphasized scientific thinking and universal theories (cf. Binford 1972; Trigger 1989: 289–328), and postprocessualists presented idealistic tendencies and endorsed the importance of interpretation and relativism (cf. Shanks and Tilley 1987; Johnson 1999:

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101–8). These philosophical differences on ontology, i.e. what exists, and epistemology, i.e. how things are studied and what can be studied, could potentially guide thinking in relation to attitudes, unless there are some deeper cultural outlooks shared by the archaeologists. This will be further considered below when discussing Leighton’s (2003) results examining the self-declarations of the interviewees of potentially following different archaeological schools.

T H E RES EA RC H DE S I G N The process of interviewing followed the principles of Aull Davis (1999). The practice of interviewing and the subject matter make this study part of oral history (e.g. Grele 1991) and qualitative data collection (cf. Guba Egon and Lincoln 1981; Biersack 1989), not a sociological survey (cf. Thompson 2000: 78–81). Some later archaeological studies have used mixed online surveys and targeted open interviews (cf. Everill 2009: 61–128), but this would not have been a suitable choice for this study, as will be shown below. The testimonies were expected to present a multitude of opinions that might reveal some consistent responses that could help to explore possible tendencies in the attitudes of central Italian funerary archaeologists. The main questions concerned the object of their study, i.e. the dead, and the knowledge they hope to create. The aim was to define and describe the core values of their archaeological mentality. All twenty interviews were structured with a set of pre-selected questions (see Appendix 1) on the practical and theoretical sides of funerary archaeology. The questions were designed to collect a body of comparable, qualitative data on the individual opinions and experiences. The interviewing was intended to look for common denominators in thinking and practice. Even if predesigned interviews have been criticized (see Everill 2009: 105–7), this study required clear guidelines in interviews in order to get qualitatively relevant answers, ensure that all topics were covered, make the comparison of answers easier, and overcome any language or conceptual problems. The questions fell into four categories: the excavation and research experience of the archaeologist interviewed; the practical and methodological characteristics of their funerary archaeology; the aims, scopes, and influences of their funerary research; and basic information on the interviewee. The main questions discussed in this chapter and the themes explored derive from the third section. The questions were always asked in the same order so as to cover the same themes and get comparable answers to same questions. The interviewees had the right to decline to answer a question. All interviews were carried out by the author; eighteen were carried out in Italian and two in

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English, although all interviewees were given the option of having the interview in English. The range of interviewees was dependent on practicalities and contact networks, thus the emphasis was on archaeologists who work in and out of Rome. The character of qualitative interviews meant that their number was always going to be relatively low. The period of fieldwork was constrained by practicalities and the interviews took place around Rome in July and September 2003, approximately a year before the start of the excavations (see Rajala et al. 2013). The interviews were recorded on a digital voice recorder and a questionnaire form was used by the interviewer in order to keep notes. This questionnaire was discussed with an Italian colleague, and trialled in the first interview. The issues of anonymity and data protection were discussed, and all interviewees were promised full anonymity; thus, the codes used to present specific views are random. The interviewer ensured after every interview that relevant permission was given for the use of the material. During the analysis, different answers were grouped together according to different themes. However, every archaeologist could give several answers to any single question in order to fully describe their views. The accumulation of consistent responses allows tentative conclusions to be drawn from the data. Specific examples are used to shed light on the variety of opinions. Since the case study is based on ethno-historical interviews, the discussion reflects the particularistic and varied nature of individual answers. An interview comprises interplay between an interviewer and an interviewee. The interviewee may play a role or social persona he/she expects himself/ herself to be. Since professions derive their coherence and authority from institutions and from the performances of appropriate professional personas (Abbott 1988; Jackall 1988), an archaeologist may want to perform according to a perceived archaeological persona. Since these underlying attitudes are exactly what this study explores, conforming to a norm allows the study of shared mentalities.

T H E I N T E RV I E W EE S The exact number of the interviewees had not been fixed before the outset. The intention was to reach as many professional archaeologists as possible. A professional archaeologist in this context was defined as someone with a relevant degree and working within a related Italian service having passed an application process, either in a university or the heritage sector (cf. Forte 1999). The funding and time constraints dictated that only a small test sample could be interviewed, and therefore, this work presented should be viewed as a starting point for a wider discussion.

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Ulla Rajala Head of Superintendency 5% Museum director 5% Freelance 5% Heritage management 30%

PhD student 5%

Professor 25%

University researcher 25%

Fig. 4.1 Occupations of the interviewees

A total of twenty archaeologists were interviewed. It was difficult to estimate the representativeness of this figure at the time1—any wider study should include an estimate of the overall numbers of individuals working within the discipline (e.g. Aitchison and Edwards 2003, 2008) and design the study accordingly as the figures are now available. However, this project still has validity as a case study exploring the potential of this approach. It is worth remembering that the interviewee numbers in qualitative ethnographic studies and longer qualitative interviews are often low: for example, Smith (2009) interviewed seventeen individuals for her doctoral research and Everill (2009: 109) interviewed twenty-eight individuals over a much longer period for his study of British diggers. A number of biases within this sample need to be addressed. Most of the interviewees (Fig. 4.1) were established figures, such as academics with permanent positions. They are likely to represent widely respected opinions and can control (to an extent) the content of their work. A third of the sample represented heritage management, where their work is naturally governed by the requirements of rescue archaeology. Nevertheless, they often have specified research interests within their brief. The opinions presented may be considered those of the establishment. This view is supported by the participants’ average age of almost 48 years. Women made up 40 per cent of the interviewees, which probably accurately reflects

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their representation in the established section of the profession in Italy at the time; in 2012–14 their proportion across the field, including contracting units, was c. 70 per cent. However, while some younger male researchers were interviewed, younger female researchers, visibly present at universities in high numbers, were missing from this sample. This gender bias was partly due to the timing of the interviews during the field season. All but two of the interviewees had graduated from the University of Rome. Although Rome has traditionally been a centre of important archaeological schools of thought in Italy (Vanzetti 2002), it has never been the only one. Some alternative opinions were collected, but the results as such reflect the attitudes of central Italian archaeologists knowing each other, at least through reputation, although not necessarily socializing together. A conscious choice was made to concentrate on professionals dealing with protostoria, i.e. late prehistory and the Archaic period before written records, since this study was part of the preliminary phase of an pre-Roman funerary excavation project. The subject matter of protostoria is dealt with by both prehistorians2 and etruscologists,3 and they were almost equally represented (eight and nine respectively4). The interviewees had often started in funerary archaeology as a result of practical reasons. Fifty-five per cent of the interviewees said they were given an opportunity, while 50 per cent had made an active choice to engage in funerary studies, and 35 per cent mentioned an interest in studying or reconstructing social organization through funerary evidence. A quarter suggested that excavating tombs was part of their professional duty. Work responsibilities and/or opportunity naturally affect more archaeologists working in the heritage sector, whereas academics have more often made a conscious choice. Their academic studies are also more often based on ‘old’ material, while many active excavations are run by superintendencies as rescue operations. However, repeatedly interviewees emphasized that their research projects grew out of rescue operations.

ARCHAEOLOGISTS AND THE DEA D In Leighton’s (2003) study, a majority of a group of twenty-seven archaeologists living in England5 considered the remains first and foremost as human. Although a quarter of them considered bodies as objects, only two gave their answers without hesitations and some of those who agreed, subsequently problematized their response, adding that they ought to consider them as human. Only four interviewees thought that archaeologists do not treat human remains any differently to other finds; and that an attitude of ‘respectfulness’ led to different handling of the remains. Although a wide spectrum of

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attitudes reflected archaeologists’ ideas of their professional persona and ethically correct answers (Leighton 2010), there seemed to be a tendency towards viewing human remains differently from objects. Leighton (2003, 2010) argues that, by its nature, the interview process highlights the understanding of ethics and an active process of personification as part of archaeological interpretation building, so as to (de)construct personhoods of past objects and bodies and humanize the object of their study, as encouraged by archaeological theoretical literature in the noughties (cf. Dobres and Robb 2000; Fowler 2004). When describing their work at the excavations, the interviewees did not make such a clear-cut difference between human bones and other materials (Leighton 2003, 2010). Furthermore, forensic anthropologists were perceived as ‘objective’ and more ‘impersonal’. The personification and humanizing tendency was most apparent among non-specialists [non-osteologists] who were more likely to have been affected by recent postprocessual archaeology and its non-objective thinking (cf. Shanks and Tilley 1987). Thus, the answers reflect professional personas and indicate at least partially different professional mentalities among this group. However, forensic osteologists have since questioned their simple objective view point (Congram and Bruno 2007). This emphasis on handling human remains with respect and care had no correlation with religious beliefs (Leighton 2003: 12). A number of interviewees aired the view that human remains should be excavated only when under threat of destruction (Leighton 2003: 14). These perspectives reflect wider cultural considerations, manifested in the legislation regarding human remains and the licensing for exhumation; unlike in most European countries, these restrictions also cover the excavation of pre-Christian burials. Standards and ethics (e.g. Day 1990; O’Sullivan 2001; Lippert 2005; Scarre and Scarre 2006; Sayer 2010), enhanced after the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) was passed in the USA, reflect these considerations. The humanizing attitude was less present among the central Italian archaeologists interviewed. In total, sixteen out of the twenty interviewees gave answers, which included at least one acknowledgement of objectivity and neutrality, either a consideration of the deceased as pure objects of study or matter of neutral, scientific enquiry (Fig. 4.2). Naturally, this may be the image of the persona they wanted to give of themselves professionally, as one archaeologist (I008) referred to the Italian wartime anti-fascist philosopher Croce (1948) and his guiding principle of separating all emotions from research. Clearly in reference to this idea of hyper-neutrality and, in the light of the twentieth-century Italian history as discussed more in detail below in relation to ancestry, and the avoidance of ideological connotations, another archaeologist (I005) admitted that not all emotion could be denied when revealing human remains. Only four interviewees (I001, I003, I012, I018) specifically mentioned respect towards the deceased. As if to balance

Separating the Emotions 9

Object of study 7

Neutral 4

Respect The attitude towards the dead

77

3

Emotions Scientific

2

Humans

2

No attitude

1

Not direct ancestors

1

Cannot deny all emotions

1

Piece of history

1 0

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

Number of interviewees

Fig. 4.2 Interviewees’ attitude towards the dead

these opinions, two (I001, I018) mentioned either neutrality or the scientific approach. The attitudes are split and nuanced, but there is a clear striving towards objectivity and neutrality that was, at least at the time, considered good archaeological practice in this professional context. Three interviewees working in heritage management gave examples of more sympathetic attitudes towards the deceased. In one case, a finger mark in dried clay provided indirect evidence for the care family members had shown towards their dead (I004). In another case, an archaeologist (I007) felt empathy for a past individual with a bad back. Similarly, specific moments during excavations could evoke emotion. One interviewee (I006) narrated how finding untouched cremated bones in an otherwise robbed tomb induced a sombre mood. The direct dealing with and lifting of human remains in central Italy is now the responsibility of physical anthropologists, and thus, archaeologists may feel less engaged with the deceased. However, one researcher (1016) suggested that, in reality, the moment when the bones are found (in a tomb during the excavations) is emotional. The superstitious fear of the dead that some (other) archaeologists may feel was mentioned (I018). One interviewee (I019) referred to the contrast between a neutral attitude towards the ancient dead and a very personal avoidance of modern death. Another (I002) suggested that modern Catholic cemeteries should be outside the limits of archaeological research due to their contemporaneity and sensitivity to other people’s feelings. One archaeologist (I014) suggested that Catholic archaeologists feel respect (pietas) and are expected to do so because of their religion. Since most of the archaeologists interviewed

10

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declared themselves non-religious, this point could not be explored here. However, this suggests that the Italian archaeologists could be divided according to their religious beliefs. The non-Christian character of the dead was considered totally irrelevant, even by religious Italian archaeologists. Only one out of twenty mentioned ever considering the deceased as pagans and 75 per cent saw this concept as inappropriate and irrelevant in this context. This question was an outlet for the specific declarations of non-religious attitudes or atheism. On the other hand, past religious beliefs were considered an important topic of study.

ARCHAEOLOGISTS AND THE ANCESTORS Studies of ancestry have recently been fashionable, not the least because DNA studies have proven Scandinavian, Anglo-Saxon, or more distant descent for certain groups or individuals in Britain (Foster et al. 2004; Miles 2006; Oppenheimer 2006; Sykes 2006). Parker Pearson’s (with Ramilisonina 1998) suggestions that Stonehenge was a monument for the ancestors led to the Stonehenge Riverside project (Parker Pearson et al. 2009) but different ancestral interpretations have also been fiercely criticized (e.g. Whitley 2002). This interest in ancestry led to the inclusion of this theme in the interviews. The Italian interviewees acknowledged the various historical population movements and the fragmented history of the peninsula and thus did not consider the prehistoric and protohistoric deceased their ancestors. Twentyfive per cent did not think of the deceased as their own ancestors, whereas 40 per cent considered the whole question of ancestry totally irrelevant, since the past and modern populations did not share common ancestry. According to one Italian archaeologist (I019), studying Italian history makes no sense, since modern Italy has been formed by a series of population movements. This perceived negativity is significant since most of the interviewees were also originally from the areas they study. The 35 per cent who considered ancestry did this ‘neutrally’ at a geographical level; in other words they thought of the dead as part of the local history or that of Italy. As one archaeologist put it (I007), too much had happened in between in order to study the history of the Italians. The reluctance to acknowledge the existence of national history is widely considered a special characteristic of Italian archaeology, underlined by regionalization and the recent political trend of localism (Guidi 1996). Whereas many European countries have a long tradition of creating national identities using origins narratives (e.g. Stig Sørensen 1996; Vilkuna 2001), the deliberate fascist propaganda and exploitation of Roman archaeology makes this impossible in Italy (cf. Barbanera 1998: 155–8). This denial of nationalism but also

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rejection of national pride is equally understandable in the light of the leftwing dominance of the Italian academic world (cf. Rusconi 1995; Tranfaglia 1996) and part of the influence of the only politically ‘neutral’ wartime Italian thinker, Croce (1948), who stated that all ideologies create false histories and was thus not tainted by fascism. Italian academics are dealing with specifically Italian problems surrounding fascism and the pre-war intellectual legacy (cf. Roberts 2007: 4). Although the backlash against the concept of ethnicity and cultural-historical ethnic interpretations is well known in Anglo-American and Scandinavian archaeology (e.g. Amindsen et al. 1991; Hakenbeck 2004), this distancing from perceived nationalistic tendencies was not as total as in Italy. The fascist use of archaeology killed any national narrative. The negative attitude towards nationalism in its different forms can be seen as a legacy of the ‘death of the fatherland’ (la morte della patria; Galli della Loggia 1994). The period between 1943 and 1945 meant a profound discontinuity in the relationship between the nation and the state, and the following new Republic and the young intellectuals who came into positions of power at the universities (in archaeology, cf. Barbanera 1998: 155–8; 2003: 197–221) were left with the obligation to deny the whole concept of nation (cf. Guidi 1996). The Christian Democratic Party and its coalition government never produced a united civic culture (Cartocci 1994). Nationalism was not central in mainstream Italian political discourse after the lack of any profound renewal of the country after the war became clear. The main oppositional political forces, the communists and Christian Democrats, were acting supranationally (Patriarca 2010: 214). Not only the fascist past (Barbanera 1998: 144–51) but also the right-wing Padanian Leghisti rhetoric in regional politics and apparent local commercial exploitation of the Etruscan past (Thoden van Velzen 1999) affected attitudes among archaeologists. The strongest claim to Etruscan ancestry has come from the Tuscan tomb-robbers who perceive themselves as the descendants of the Etruscans and used this to justify their actions (Thoden van Velzen 1996). Half of the interviewees consider tomb-robbing a major problem in contemporary funerary archaeology, with only limitations on archaeological funding being a greater problem (Fig. 4.3). Similarly, since 35 per cent are excavating tombs because of looting, claiming ancestry could be perceived as unprofessional: siding with the enemy. The neutral attitude towards the ancient dead can also be seen as a detachment strategy creating a convenient temporal, physical, and cultural distance between the archaeologists and the human remains and can be seen as part of the same professional image, underpinned by shared Crocean influences. Detachment and neutralization are well-known strategies to sanitize primeval fear when facing death and the dead (e.g. Howarth 1993; Palgi and Dorban 1997). Non-ancestors can be considered neutral, objectively observed.

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14 12 10 8 13 10 4

9 7 3

3

Land ownership

Guarding excavations

No problems

Time constraints

Partial destruction

Tombaroli

Insufficient funding

0

1

1 Uncertain funding

4

2

Publication

6

Fig. 4.3 Problems facing funerary archaeologists (‘Tombaroli’ = tomb robbers)

DISCUSSION It can be assumed that there are differences between Italian archaeologists according to their professional personas and/or formative experiences. Therefore, if the tendencies observed cut through all different groups among the interviewees—as they seem to do with neutrality—they can be seen as a manifestation of a mentality of a shared professional archaeological culture, situated in a specific intellectual climate. When examined closer, those who did not consider the deceased as ancestors or regarded the concept as irrelevant were present in all major groups, i.e. in heritage management (four out of six), among university professors (three out of five), and university researchers (four out of five). As a group, university researchers were the most likely to view the whole concept irrelevant (three out of five); on the other hand, in heritage management and among university professors this position was taken by two out of five as well. Two of the university professors considered ancestry at some level, but otherwise the professors emphasized the more objective relationship towards the deceased. Of those three who admitted to different emotions when dealing with bones, two worked in heritage management and one was a researcher, though an actively excavating one. This may suggest that direct contact with the dead through excavation allows a more personal relationship whereas the

Separating the Emotions

Archaeological outcome

History of a region

81

14

History of a community

11

Studying rituals

7

History of an ancient people

6

Comparative studies

4

General history

2

Other

10 0

2

4

6 8 10 Number of interviewees

12

14

16

Fig. 4.4 Ultimate outcome of funerary research

underlying philosophies and the perceived professional persona are more apparent in the academia. Although the interviewees in general do not believe funerary archaeology to provide material for writing the national history of ‘the Italians’, they recognize that burials are essential in obtaining knowledge of past cultures. A majority try to analyse them in order to study societies and communities; 80 per cent of the interviewees considered this as the most important aim of their own research. Half of the interviewees found exploring populations or ideologies important. The interviewees were much less confident about studying religion (mentioned by four) or rituals (mentioned by two). Equally, the interviewees agreed upon the final outcome of their studies (Fig. 4.4). The research aims at regional histories (70 per cent), histories of communities (55 per cent), or of an ancient people (30 per cent). Research is considered regional and this is seen as the logical consequence of the local character of cemeteries. When asked, the idea of studying the history of the Italians was considered irrelevant or senseless (I013) or it was recognized that the past peoples were not Italians (I019). This fits Lyttelton’s (1996: 45–6) view of Italian universities as the key centres of regional culture and identity. The general trends are clear, and the attitudes towards death, the dead, and the general aims of research are shared. However, Guidi (2000) has characterized current Italian archaeology as a ‘pluriverse’. Accordingly, the interviewees emphasized their own decisions on models (I006, I007, I008, I010, I016, I019) or an opportunistic approach in theoretical terms (I002). Furthermore, as one interviewee (I018) put it, they have been taught in the Italian way. The existence of a shared archaeological mentality would require

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Ulla Rajala Historian

10

Postprocessual archaeologist

7

Marxist

6

Processual archaeologist

6

Anthropologist

5

Cognitive archaeologist

4

Field archaeologist

4

Other

6 0

2

4

6

8

10

12

Fig. 4.5 Self-definitions of the interviewees

the attitudes to cross the boundaries of different ‘archaeological schools’. As suggested above, different paradigms and their philosophical bases could professionally overcome cultural attitudes, but attitudes that cut across school affiliations, even if they may be loose, can be considered as being based on more culturally specific norms and considerations, if not private opinions. Nevertheless, consistent tendencies point to the existence of ‘mentalities’. Half of the interviewees defined themselves as historians (Fig. 4.5), at least partly following Croce’s idealistic philosophy of history (cf. Barbanera 1998: 124–6). This philosophy, perceived as ‘provincial’ outside Italy, may have dominated the Italian academia because of the way it maintained conservatism and avoided outside influences (cf. Roberts 2007: 5, 44, 103–4). The spread of postprocessual archaeology may have been slowed in Italy by Croce’s ideas (Terrenato 2000b: 18) and this confirms the importance of local social situational constructs. The Marxist Gramsci has influenced historical disciplines in Italy (cf. Roberts 2007: 43–4, 103). His innovative and culturally sensitive writings led in archaeology to an improved practice of excavating and materialist studies. In the 1970s, Italian Marxist archaeologists promoted multidisciplinary research and scientific thinking (Barbanera 1998: 175–88). Among the interviewees, 30 per cent considered themselves Marxist archaeologists and the same number as ‘processual’ archaeologists. Since Marxist archaeologists introduced processual archaeology in Italy in the 1980s (Cuomo di Caprio 1986), these groups are interrelated, together with the quarter who described themselves as anthropologists and the fifth mentioning cognitive archaeology. This shows the prominence of the generation of the 1980s among the interviewees.

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All major affiliations (historians, processuals, postprocessuals, Marxists, field specialists, and anthropologists) were present in all groups in regard to views on ancestors. Four out of seven postprocessualists did not think the archaeological dead were their ancestors whereas Marxists were split evenly between geographic, negative, and irrelevant viewpoints. These variations imply that although the Italian ‘pluriverse’ draws upon varied intellectual influences, the cumulatively consistent responses suggest that certain attitudes towards the dead and ancestors are widely favoured; one could even suggest being culturally constructed in this context.

CONCLUSIONS Although the interviews reflect the different interests, influences, and lifehistories of individuals working in central Italian funerary archaeology, it can be argued that certain core attitudes towards the dead and the ancestors were commonly held at the time of the interviews (see Appendix 2). Furthermore, the ideas of the perceived aims of funerary research are clearly shared. These shared values create the still-dominant framework of central Italian funerary archaeology. This chapter shows that the study of mentalities is a relevant objective in archaeology in order to understand socially constructed archaeology in different places and at different times. If an archaeological mentality is defined as a set of attitudes shared by archaeologists from a certain region at a certain time, this study has shown the usefulness and potential of interviewing in studying the attitudes in central Italy. This method picked up consistent responses among the interviewees that revealed gender neutral attitudes towards the dead. The testimonies of the practitioners showed that these attitudes, having their roots in Crocean, Marxist, and secular thinking in different measures, crossed different sub-occupational and intellectual boundaries. Although interviews have their problems, in this case related to the size and selection of the sample, the method is optimal when the aim is to review the contemporary attitudes of the archaeologists. Interviews also allow the interviewees more freedom in formulating their opinions. However, any future studies of this nature should benefit from a wider survey of those working in archaeology in Italy (cf. Aitchison and Edward 2003, 2008; Pintucci and Cella 2014) and more comparative studies in other regions of Italy and Europe. On the whole, it is clear central Italian funerary archaeology is defined by relative intellectual independence of its established practitioners, and simultaneously, the acknowledgement of shared Italian traditions. These traditions are incorporated in the then-current central Italian archaeological mentality,

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which is reflected in the objectification of human remains and the negation of ancestral significance of those remains. Since the views related to the objectification or humanizing of the remains are in many respects different from those presented in Leighton’s (2003) interviews, it is apparent that these differences are affected by variation in current archaeological mentalities. Similarly, the Italian views on ancestry are a response to unique historical circumstances and specific intellectual climate. Thus, it is possible to define the main characteristics of a widely shared archaeological mentality that juxtaposes cultural, professional, and academic factors affecting the attitudes among these central Italian archaeologists. Considering the time passed between the interviews and this publication, following the premises of the concept, the results would probably be different, if this study were to be carried out now. It would be especially interesting to know, if the new DNA results suggesting shared local ‘Etruscan’ ancestry for ancient and modern populations in Tuscany (Ghirotto et al. 2013) would have changed, or are changing, attitudes towards the deceased and emotional attachment to regional funerary research. Nevertheless, it was possible to analyse the archaeological culture and its context in a specific time and space and try to map its potentially unique qualities when compared to the professional and personal attitudes at other times and elsewhere. Placing professional communities within their situational, cultural, and intellectual context by applying a concept such as ‘archaeological mentality’, potentially allows an emphasis upon the independent characteristics of non-Anglo-Saxon archaeologies and understanding plurality and multiculturality in archaeology.

APPE NDIX 1 Intervista Si/No (solo un modulo riempito) Data

Ora

Luogo

Scavi e ricerca—informazioni generali Esperienza di scavo di necropoli Tempo: No. dei luoghi: Scavi principali Funzione svelte A. Ispettore (soprintendenza) B. Direttore di un progetto C. Direttore degli scavi D. Responsabile per una trincea/sezione/area E. Disegnatore F. Ricercatore G. Altro: Publicazione/i principale/i (tombe) Sito Anno

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Ricerche di archeologia funeraria Ho voluto studiare le tombe perchè Il mio studio (o scavo) più importante: Perchè è il più importante: Motivo principale per gli scavi A. Salvataggio: sviluppo urbanistico progettato B. Salvataggio: trovamento casuale (costruzione) C. Salvataggio: tombaroli D. Programma delle ricerche: obiettivo primario/secondario E. Altro: Dettagli: Obiettivo degli studi A. Originalmente non le tombe B. Una tomba singola C. Una parte del cimitero: campionato D. Una parte del cimitero: non precisato all’inizio E. Tutto il cimitero F. Altro Dettagli: Propozione del cimitero scavato A. Non è un cimitero B. Ignota C. Tutto D. Una metà E. Altro: Organizzazione con cui ho scavato/a A. Soprintendenza B. Università C. Museo D. Istituto straniero E. Progetto internazionale G. Organizzazione volontaria (eg. G.A.R.) H. Altro: Dettagli: Fondi A. Costruttore B. Soprintendenza C. Università D. Accademia/Fondazione (una borsa di studi) E. Privato F. Lavoro volontario G. Altro: Dettagli: Problemi principale A. Fondi insufficienti B. Troppo poco tempo—causa: C. Distruzione parziale D. Tombaroli E. Proprietà F. Aspettative accademiche G. Aspettative pubbliche causate da rango/tipo/ricchezza del sito H. Altro: Dettagli: Lo scavo si basava su un progetto di ricerca specificato? Si/No/Non so

Ci sono stati alcune domande di ricerca specifiche? Si/No/Non so

La domanda di ricerca per il progetto: Metodologia principale: Lo scopo degli scavi: A. Salvataggio B. Trovare materiali C. Creare una tipologia D. Creare una cronologia E. Studiare la società protostorica F. Studiare una communità G. Studiare ideologia H. Studiare religione I. Studiare popolazione J. Altro: Dettagli: Vedo come risultato finale: A. Storia di una comunità B. Storia di una regione C. Storia degli italiani D. Storia umana generale E. Storia di un popolo F. Ricerca comparativa G. Trovamenti importanti H. Scoprire rituali protostorici I. Importante ricerca accademica J. Una buona carriera K. Altro: Dettagli: (continued )

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Continued Era il materiale ben rappresentativo? La mia ricerca è/era importante perchè Penso che i defunti sono: Antenati Si/No/Irrilevante

Pagani Si/No/Irrilevante

Qual’è il suo rapporto con i defunti? Quale metodo di ricerca è il più importante? Quali cose possono essere studiate nella archeologia funeraria? Quali cose non possono essere studiate? Posso vedermi come A. Archeologo/a processuale B. Archeologo/a degli scavi C. Storico/a D. Interprete E. Marxista F. Antropologo/a G. Archeologo/a cognitivo/a H. Tecnico/a I. Altro: Considero me stesso/a uno studente di Sto seguendo un esempio di Sono stato/a influenzato/a da

Intervistato/a Titolo

Nome

Cognome

Sesso M/F

Età

Nazionalità

Occupazione/lavoro

Organizzazione

Laureato/a, dottorato

Università

Materia principale

Altre qualificazioni

Note: Se possibile, La prego di provare di rispondere a tutte le domande. Lei può scegliere tutte le opzioni che Le sembrano giuste. Se non c’è spazio per tutta la risposta, La prego di continuare sull’altro lato della pagina. Se Lei vuole fare alcuni commenti sul modulo o sulle domande, sono tutti benvenuti. Si può spedire il modulo a Ulla Rajala, Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge, Downing Street, Cambridge, CB2 3DZ, UK, fax +44-1223-333503 o a Francesco di Gennaro, Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici di Roma. Grazie per Sua collaborazione.

Interview Yes/No (only form filled) Date

Time

Place

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Excavations and research Funerary excavation experience Time: No. of Locations: Main excavation(s) Main duties A. Supervisor (superintendency) B. Project Director C. Field director D. Trench/section/area director E. Draughtsman F. Researcher G. Other: Main cemetery publication(s) Site Year

Studying burials I wanted to excavate/study tombs because My most important excavation/study: The reason(s) it is the most important: Main reason for excavations A. Rescue: planned development B. Rescue: chance find during building work/extraction C. Rescue: tombaroli D. Research programme: primary target/secondary target E. Other: Details: The intended object of study A. Originally not B. Single tomb C. Part of cemetery: planned/sampled D. Part of cemetery: not predefined E. Whole cemetery F. Other Details: The proportion of cemetery studied A. Not a cemetery B. Not known C. The whole D. A half E. Other: Organisation A. Superintendency B. University C. Museum D. Foreign institute E. International project G. Voluntary organisation (G.A.R. etc.) H. Other: Details: Funding body A. Developer B. Superintendency C. University D. Academy/Foundation (Research grant) E. Private F. Voluntary work G. Other: Details: I see the following as a problematic issue A. Limited finances B. Limited time Defined by: C. Partial destruction D. Tombaroli E. Land ownership F. Academic expectations G. High public expectations: status/type/richness of site H. Other: Details: Detailed research plan Yes/No Research question of the project: Methodology of the project:

Premeditated research question Yes/No

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General questions: Aim of the excavations: A. Rescue/salvage B. Find material C. Create typology D. Create chronology E. Study society F. Study community G. Study ideology H. Study religion I. Study population J. Other: Details: Interest/scope at the general level: A. History of a community B. History of a region C. History of the nation D. History of humankind E. History of a people F. Comparative study G. Important finds H. Rituals I. Academic value J. Career K. Other: Details: Was the material acquired representative? The reason(s) why my research is valuable: Can the deceased be seen as: Ancestors Yes/No/Irrelevant

Pagans Yes/No/Irrelevant

How can the deceased be characterised? Which method is the most important in funerary studies? What can be studied using funerary data? What cannot be studied using funerary data? I see myself as a A. processual archaeologist B. pragmatic field archaeologist C. historian D. interpreter E. marxist F. anthropologist G. cognitive archaeologist H. technician I. other: I see myself as a student of I follow an example of My main influences are

Interviewee Title

First name

Surname

Gender M/F

Age

Nationality

Occupation/Job title

Organisation

Education

University

Main subject

Main qualifications

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A PPENDIX 2 The key answers of the informants to the questions in relation to their attitudes towards the dead: if they thought the dead were their ancestors, if they though the dead as pagans, and their own self-definition of their archaeological orientation and influences.

Interviewee

Attitude

Ancestors

Pagans

I am [as an archaeologist]

I001

Respect Scientific

Yes

Irrelevant Processual Field archaeologist Marxist Anthropologist

I002

Object of study Neutral

No

Irrelevant Opportunist Postprocessual

I003

Respect

Yes

Irrelevant Marxist

I004

Humans Emotions

No

No

I005

Neutral Irrelevant Cannot deny all emotions

Irrelevant Marxist Cognitive

I006

Neutral Emotions

Irrelevant

Irrelevant Cognitive

I007

Humans

Yes

No

Historian

I008

Neutral

No

Yes

Pragmatist Historian Marxist Postprocessual Neoidealist Taking continuous influences

I009

Object of study

No

No

Processual Historian Anthropologist

I010

Neutral Scientific

Irrelevant

Irrelevant Anthropologist Own thinking

I011

Object of study Neutral

Irrelevant

Irrelevant Field archaeologist Historian

I012

Respect

Irrelevant

I013

Object of study

No

Irrelevant Processual Postprocessual Irrelevant Processual Marxist Postprocessual

Field archaeologist Historian Cognitive Technician

(continued )

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Continued Interviewee

Attitude

Ancestors

Pagans

I am [as an archaeologist]

I014

Object of study

Yes

Irrelevant Anthropologist

I015

Object of study Not direct ancestors

Yes

Irrelevant Historian Postprocessual

I016

Emotions

Irrelevant

Irrelevant Field archaeologist Historian

I017

Object of study Neutral

Irrelevant

Irrelevant Processual Historian Marxist Cognitive

I018

Object of study Respect

No

Irrelevant Postprocessual

I019

Object of study

No

No

I020

No attitude Piece of history

Irrelevant

Irrelevant Historian Postprocessual

Processual Historian Anthropologist

Notes: Please, try to answer all the questions although the details can be left out. You can tick as many of the choices as you feel appropriate. You can continue answers to the other side of the page. If you feel like commenting the questionnaire, please, do. The form can be sent to Ulla Rajala, Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge, Downing Street, Cambridge, CB2 3DZ, UK, fax +44-1223-333503. Thank you for your interest.

A C K NO W L E D G E M E N TS I want to thank the Finnish Cultural Foundation for financing this study. I am grateful for Mary Leighton for inspiration and comments and for Dr Francesco di Gennaro (Superintendency of Rome and the University of Cassino at Frosinone) for extensive practical help. Cornelius Holtorf and certain Italian colleagues gave valuable advice during the chapter’s preparation. A warm thank you to all those archaeologists who participated in the interviews. Philip Mills (University of Leicester) kindly commented on earlier versions of this chapter.

ENDNOTES 1. In the absence of official statistics at the time, an exact estimate would have required studying every Italian region separately (cf. Forte 1999: 50), first analysing the work profiles of the employees of the Superintendencies (Soprintendenze), then counting private co-operatives and all museums before examining the University sector. The Europe-wide project ‘Discovering the archaeologists of Europe 2012–14’ has now

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collected figures for Italy for the period 2012–14 (Pintucci and Cella 2014) that present a slightly changed archaeological profession from 2003. However, it also refers to earlier national surveys (Pintucci and Cella 2014: 31–3) that were old or incomplete before this one. Graduated either in the discipline of paletnologia or that of protostoria. Graduated either in etruscologia or in lettere (languages/humanities). If the sum of interviewees is less than 20, the missing answers belong to ‘Other’. As with this study Leighton’s sample was small. Her interviewees represented c. 0.5% of the sector’s workforce at the time of the interviews (Aitchison and Edwards 2003). Thus, the results cannot represent the views of British or English archaeologists as a whole; the interviewees were disproportionately female, under 30, concentrated in south-eastern England, and included osteologists/forensic archaeologists and a few Commonwealth and foreign nationals. Nevertheless, Leighton’s interviews may be considered to have picked up some contemporary trends. Pintucci and Cella (2014: 15, fig. 4) estimate that the number of archaeologists working in all Italy in 2012–13 was 4,383, and they reached 185 archaeologists in Lazio and 51 in Campania with their survey. Twenty individuals in this study would have similarily represented c. 0.5% of a much later workforce with more contracting archaeological companies.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Abbott, A. 1988. The System of Professions: An Essay on the Division of Expert Labor, Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Aitchison, K. and Edwards, R. 2003. Archaeology Labour Market Intelligence: Profiling the Profession 2002–2003, Reading: Institute of Field Archaeologists. Aitchison, K. and Edwards, R. 2008. Discovering the Archaeologists of Europe: United Kingdom. Archaeology Labour Market Intelligence. Profiling the profession 2007/ 2008, Reading: Institute of Field Archaeologists. Amindsen, H., Carlstøm, S., Forseth, L., and Paasche, K. (eds). 1991. Arkeologi & etnisitet, Oslo: Universitet i Oslo. Ariès, P. 1978. L’Histoire des mentalités, in J. Le Goff, R. Chartier, and J. Rivel (eds) L’Histoire nouvelle, 402–23, Paris: C.E.P.L. Aull Davies, C. 1999. Reflexive Ethnography: A Guide to Researching Selves and Others, London and New York: Routledge. Barbanera, M. 1998. L’archeologia degli italiani. Storia, metodi e orientamenti dell’archeologia classica in Italia, Roma: Riuniti. Barbanera, M. (ed.) 2000. Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli e il suo mondo (exhibition catalogue), Bari: Edipuglia. Barbanera, M. 2003. Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli. Biografia ed epistolario di un grande archeologo, Milano: Skira. Barker, G. 1995. A Mediterranean Valley. Landscape, Archaeology and Annales history in the Biferno Valley, London: Leicester University Press. Bartu, A. 2000. Where is Çatalhöyük? Multiple sites in the construction of an archaeological site, in I. Hodder (ed.) Towards Reflexive Method in Archaeology: the

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5 Slave-Trade Archaeology and the Public The Excavation of a ‘Liberated African’ Graveyard on St Helena Andrew Pearson and Ben Jeffs

I N T R O D U C TI O N Within the framework of contractual archaeology in the UK (in which both authors largely operate) individual graves and funerary sites are regularly encountered, while they are also the object of targeted research projects. The ability to investigate a burial and to exhume human remains is a practical skill that can be taught and which may be mastered by practice. The investigation of a cemetery of any age is essentially a repetition of this basic technique, in which each grave (or indeed any feature-type containing human remains) is revealed, excavated, and the human remains recorded and lifted. Such exercises vary in scale, but the largest can address very significant numbers of bodies: one obvious example is the cemetery at Spitalfields, London, in which several thousand skeletons were exhumed. Post-excavation methods are also fairly standardized, both in terms of general archaeological reporting and the specific osteological analysis of human remains. These approaches can reasonably be said to be universal within European and North American archaeology, though inevitably with some variation in detail. As a consequence, field archaeologists are, in a technical sense, expert in dealing with the dead. Archaeologists, however, are often less familiar with the more esoteric aspects relating to the dead. Taking the British example again, the field archaeologist generally arrives at a site only after any discussion about the moral or social aspects of exhumation has been concluded. Thus, while provided with technical guidance and being aware of the wider issues involved, they are essentially there to dig. But away from such controlled circumstances, governmental frameworks for dealing with cultural heritage are either less developed or do not exist at all. Here, archaeologists can find

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themselves enmeshed in matters that go far beyond the technical and, not uncommonly, do so in societies where local attitudes and belief systems are very different to their own. This requires a skill-set for which ‘standard’ archaeological education and training has not necessarily equipped them. This chapter offers a narrative of one such example, which took place on the remote South Atlantic island of St Helena during 2007–8. Here, a team of experienced British field archaeologists, tasked with the excavation of a graveyard of considerable size and international significance, came to deal with the dead— and the living—on a number of fundamental levels that extended far beyond the project brief. It also engendered a variety of responses from the island community, which touched upon local attitudes to the dead and to heritage more generally. The site monograph for this project has now been published and follow-up studies are ongoing (Pearson et al. 2011). However, the cultural aspects—which in many ways are equally significant—have yet to be examined. This chapter offers comment on this subject, with particular focus on the interaction between archaeology and the public, both on St Helena and beyond.

ST HELENA AND THE AIR ACC ESS P ROJECT St Helena was discovered by the Portuguese in 1502 and is now home to just under 4000 people. The nearest land is Ascension Island, 1300 km to the northwest, while the island group of Tristan da Cunha—still less accessible—lies 2400 km to the south. The closest continental landfall is southern Angola, just over 1800 km to the east, with the Brazilian coast 3260 km distant to the west. With access only by ship, it takes a week to reach the island from any direction. St Helena is not only remote but also extremely small. At 17 km long and 10 km wide it occupies an area of only 122 km2, though the topographically complex landscape gives the island the impression of being rather larger. There is little flat ground, and the deeply incised valleys compel the traveller to take convoluted routes from one place to another: within living memory there have been inhabitants of the island who had never travelled to the capital Jamestown. The archaeological project arose from long-awaited plans to build an airport on St Helena. An environmental impact assessment identified a number of cultural heritage assets within the development area; because some of these were subject to impact during construction, an archaeological team was drafted in to carry out mitigation works. In that respect at least the project followed a path that is recognizable within the UK planning framework. Although the archaeological work took place across much of the northern part of the island, most efforts came to be focused on Rupert’s Valley (Fig. 5.1). Here, lost amidst a landscape of semi-desert scrub, lay a unique and disturbing

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Fig. 5.1 Rupert’s Valley. The lower of the two African graveyards occupies the sloping ground in the centre-right of the photograph. The upper graveyard is just out of shot, above and to the left of the fuel silos

find: a burial ground for African victims of the transatlantic slave trade. Liberated from slave ships by the Royal Navy during the mid-nineteenth century, many thousands of these people failed to survive their ordeal and died in a British reception depot established on St Helena. It is now estimated that some 5000 bodies are interred in Rupert’s Valley, in a mixture of single, multiple, and mass interments. A small part of the graveyards in Rupert’s Valley coincided with the line of the haul road linking the port to the site of the proposed runway. Through careful design, the road successfully bypassed all known graves, except in one location where existing buildings and the steep topography dictated an alignment that cut across part of the upper African graveyard. Test-trenching in 2007 was followed by an open-area excavation in 2008, the latter exhuming 325 articulated skeletons as well as large quantities of disarticulated human bone from a series of pits.

DATA GATHERING As directors of the excavation, this examination of the cultural aspects of the project inevitably represents our narrow, personal, and White European view

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of events and outcomes. Many St Helenians (or ‘Saints’, to use their own shorthand) certainly had a substantially different perspective. In order to understand more about their views, during the writing of this chapter we have undertaken a series of interviews with St Helenian residents and also circulated a questionnaire on and off island. These, alongside less formal conversations, have been very revealing about local attitudes and, in fact, have significantly altered our perceptions of how our work has been viewed. Even so, they remain subjective and do not provide a complete picture. The interviewees and respondents were mainly those living and working in the capital, Jamestown; there is often a social and educational gulf between town residents and others in the ‘country’ parts of the island, many of whom would consider themselves to be ‘true’ Saints. As a consequence of this approach to data-gathering, many of the assertions within this chapter are not referenced. Because the questionnaires were submitted confidentially, ‘pers. comm.’ citations would not have been appropriate. Much else that is discussed in this chapter represents common knowledge or opinion on St Helena but is not recorded in such a way as to enable citation. The chapter is, moreover, biased towards description rather than analysis. In other words, it observes how people reacted towards the project but in the main does not seek to explain the reasons why they did so. This simply stems from the fact that, as people who are neither embedded in St Helenian culture nor trained as anthropologists, we consider our interpretation of attitudes and actions to be at best subjective, and possibly misleading. For this reason, we have chosen to present only a ‘baseline’ of observation, leaving aside any attempt at deeper analysis.

ETHNIC ORIGINS AN D CULTURAL OWNERSHIP St Helena had no human habitation prior to its discovery in 1502. Its position between Africa and South America, and on a maritime highway linking Europe to the Indian Ocean, is reflected in the diverse ethnic make-up of its modern inhabitants. In addition to Europeans, the Saints can claim descent from peoples of Malagasy, Indian, Chinese, and Boer ethnicities. And, while aware of their diverse ancestry, most St Helenians identify themselves simply as a ‘Saint’. That is not to say that St Helena is homogenous and without ethnic tensions. Saint culture has traditionally differentiated on skin colour, with darker tones seen as less desirable amongst certain sectors of the community. It is likely that this attitude is a survival from the colonial period, which to a large extent entrenched a social and educational split along racial lines. Africans, however, have never been present in significant numbers, the large enslaved population of the island having mainly been procured from the

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Indian Ocean. In fact, the only major influx of Africans comprised the liberated slaves brought there by the Royal Navy between 1840 and the late 1860s. The majority of survivors did not stay long on St Helena, most being sent onwards to the British West Indies as indentured labourers. A small community of about 500 Liberated Africans was established on St Helena but many emigrated in the 1870s. From the later nineteenth century, the remaining Africans began to intermarry and gradually merged into the local population. Certain obvious surnames (such as the Waterwitch family, named after the vessel that liberated them) have now disappeared, and while some descendants of the Liberated Africans must surely exist on the island, none have yet been identified with certainty. Other chapters of this book relate circumstances where modern people (whether connected through genealogical descent or otherwise) have claimed an affiliation or cultural connection to an archaeological assemblage of the dead. For the St Helena excavation, however, where there was no obvious successor community, this has simply not been the case. There is a general feeling amongst the Saints that the graves are part of the island’s heritage. They universally express sympathy for the victims and some state an emotional connection, though the latter often seems to be a slightly studied response rather than a gut reaction. To a large extent, these sentiments have developed since the excavation; when it began there was only a patchy knowledge of the graveyards and little appreciation of who they contained, or of their international rarity and significance. As contracting archaeologists this placed us in an unusual position. Not only were we responsible for the technical process of excavation, we also became the group with the closest affiliation to the Liberated Africans. As such we became not simply archaeological practitioners but also advocates for the rights of the dead. This is not a unique response: the owner of a house in Rio de Janeiro, built over the ‘New Blacks’ slave cemetery, has since 1996 been instrumental in promoting research about the remains and bringing them to public attention. She is recently quoted as saying, ‘Nobody cared for them. They died alone in a place where they didn’t know anyone. I thought, who is going to fight for them?’1

PUBLIC ENGAGEMENT Perhaps surprisingly, given St Helena’s rich heritage and its well-known association with Napoleon, the excavation in Rupert’s Valley was the first archaeological project ever undertaken on the island. Most Saints had no direct experience of archaeology, while the available television channels are generally sport and news-based. Programmes such as Time Team, which in the

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UK have educated a generation of viewers, are not broadcast. Engagement with the St Helena Government and the public therefore began from first principles: in other words what archaeology was and why it might be regarded as important. In the context of a costly project, on an island where many experience significant economic hardship, this was (quite understandably) not always easy (Muir 2009). At the outset of the excavation, the local response was expected to go one of two ways: either great curiosity or significant antipathy. The initial reaction— rather to our surprise—came across as quite muted. This was certainly not due to a lack of awareness, since the project had been widely publicized in local newspapers and on the radio. In retrospect, there seem to have been several reasons for this apparent lack of enthusiasm. In part, it was undoubtedly genuine, stemming from the lack of any ancestral connection to the Liberated Africans (something of which we were not aware at the time). Many were not interested because it seemed to have no relevance to them. Geography also played a part: Rupert’s Valley has only a small population and is somewhat isolated; to some extent therefore we were out of sight and mind. However, it is now also clear that, for some Saints, the disinterest was deliberately cultivated. Slavery is an unspoken narrative within the modern culture, permeating the island’s folklore and being retained in aspects of the local dialect: for example, older people still speak of getting the ‘thin end of the whip’ when implying that they have been hard done by. Nevertheless, the topic of slave ancestry is an uncomfortable one, particularly for the older Saints, and there is an unwillingness to speak about it to outsiders. St Helenians are unfailingly polite and tend to keep critical opinions to themselves. It is therefore likely that what was said to us, and what was said behind closed doors, were two entirely different things.2 Throughout the excavation we made deliberate efforts at public engagement. This was one way in which our remit expanded beyond the practical archaeological work for which we were contracted, and in which most of the team had little prior experience. We had no benchmark for success or any deliberate strategy, simply a strong feeling that what we were doing was important and relevant. It also took place alongside an increasing appreciation of the great value and rarity of St Helena’s cultural heritage as a whole: something that lacks any statutory protection and is being eroded on a piecemeal basis by a combination of insensitive building development and long-term neglect. Through the medium of Rupert’s Valley, we therefore sought to increase awareness of, and enthusiasm for, St Helena’s archaeology amongst the local community. Establishing dialogue with government, the local expatriate community, and the small number of local people with an active interest in the island’s history was straightforward, formal talks being reasonably well-attended. However, these did little to reach the greater part of the Saint population.

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Fig. 5.2 Excavation with St Helenian volunteers, July 2008

In terms of the latter group, by far the most effective means of creating dialogue was simple everyday contact. This took place on the site itself, including with volunteers who we trained in excavation; some just came for a day, but others—most notably a group of sixth form students from Prince Andrew’s School—stayed with us for several weeks (Fig. 5.2). Informal conversations in Jamestown, whether on the street or in local shops and bars, were equally valuable in making contact. It is fortunate in this respect that the 2008 excavation lasted four months, as it was not until fairly late on that we ceased to be seen as transient outsiders. Even activities that had nothing to do with archaeology probably contributed to the erosion of barriers, for example the lively (if somewhat anarchic) guest radio show presented by two of the excavation staff. Some success in public engagement was demonstrated by the site open day that was held near the close of the excavation (Fig. 5.3). This event attracted several hundred ‘ordinary’ Saints, and while for some it was doubtless just a Sunday afternoon diversion (one child brought a football), most had clearly come to see our work. We took a deliberate decision to have skeletons exposed within the graves, and to be actively working on them while in public view. This enabled us to demonstrate the technical aspect of our work, again trying to clarify the somewhat nebulous idea of what archaeology was and how it was carried out. It also provided an obvious vehicle for discussion of the slave trade and its outcomes, as well as being able to ‘populate’ it by exposing its

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Fig. 5.3 Site open day, August 2008

individual victims. In return, we were rewarded by people coming forward to discuss their own slave ancestry, how they felt about the ethics of exhumation, and their opinions about reburial and memorial of the dead. The level of attendance and the extent of interest was one of the highlights of the whole project. While the open day represented a specific invitation, the excavation had in fact been completely accessible to the public at all times (Fig. 5.4). The track running up to the island’s animal quarantine station ran through its centre, meaning that it could neither be fenced off nor screened. We had periodic visits from workers at the nearby power station, as well as many other casual visitors. On one occasion, the entire St Helena Fire Service came to call. We therefore had to be mindful that all exhumations could potentially take place in full view of onlookers. This was something of a concern, since the lifting of any skeleton lacks dignity, but in the event this did not provoke complaint. More problematic was an inability to restrict photography by the public, leading to the circulation of images of the skeletal remains rather earlier than either we or the government would have preferred (Fig. 5.5). These included pictures of bodies which had simply been thrown into the grave, which were in the process of being lifted and boxed, or which were badly preserved or had been partially destroyed by previous construction work. We worried that such images might be disturbing to some in the local community, or deemed offensive to the dignity of the dead, though once again we are not aware of any complaints having arisen.

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Fig. 5.4 The excavation site in May 2008. This photograph shows its open, accessible location, between the track to the quarantine station on the left and the fuel farm and power station to the right. All excavation potentially took place within full public view

Fig. 5.5 Group 2019, comprising the burial of three individuals. Photographs such as these quickly began to circulate amongst the St Helenian public soon after their excavation. Usually they would be confined to the site archive and selectively released at a later date

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ATTITU DES TO THE DEAD Attitudes to death on St Helena are multi-layered, but are first and foremost framed within its religious practices. The island supports a range of active religious groups, including the Church of England, Catholics, Baptists, Seventh-Day Adventists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and Baha’i (Muir 2009: table 4.4). As is true for many other places in the developed world, church attendance is more common amongst the older generation, though St Helena is notable for the strength of its religious communities across all age groups. Historically a ‘Christian burial’ has been the desired norm, and this remains the case today. Cremation is rarely preferred, even when a Saint dies abroad and the body has to be repatriated. The aspiration is for a full inhumation with associated memorial following Christian tradition. In cases where a family is too poor to afford a professionally cut marker, one is usually fashioned from concrete or timber. These desires were partially (though certainly incompletely) extended to the remains of Liberated Africans exhumed in Rupert’s Valley during the building of the power station and the adjacent fuel depot during the early 1980s. Here, a significant number of skeletons were exhumed en masse, in contravention to the island’s Burial Grounds Ordinance, and their treatment provoked considerable local public anger. The government later publicly apologized for its actions. A Committee of Enquiry recommended that the remains be reinterred in Rupert’s Valley, and that the opening of the power station be accompanied by a multi-faith ceremony of blessing.3 In the event, the remains were interred in unconsecrated ground immediately outside the island’s Anglican cemetery of St Paul’s. It was understood that the bodies were unlikely to be those of Christians, which presumably explains why their grave was not located within the cemetery proper. The Bishop of St Helena presided over their reburial, but the exact content of the ceremony is not known. As a result of the 2008 excavation, the issue of exhumation and reburial has once again been raised. In a project that generated many differing opinions, the attitude to the disturbance of graves was one of the few constants. While working with human remains is not a social taboo, there was a prevailing sense that the dead should be ‘left in peace’; had the excavation been a purely research exercise it might have been strongly opposed. However, the primary objective of the excavation was to remove all burials that were within or near the footprint of the airport haul road, and which would have been disturbed by its construction. Exhumation was carried out to enable respectful reburial; the information gleaned from the assemblage was a secondary benefit. Most St Helenians therefore accepted the archaeological works as a necessity, though with a varying degree of unease.

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The subsequent osteological analysis provoked greater mixed feelings. Some Saints welcomed this study, seeing particular value in the information generated about the origins of the slaves. Presentations given to schoolchildren by the project’s osteologist were also very well received, with an emphasis on ‘populating’ the slave trade and showing its victims to be individuals with past lives and a strong sense of ethnic and cultural identity. Others were more antipathetic to what they saw as an unnecessary ‘picking over’ of the bones, which they thought to be disrespectful. These sensitivities are to some extent at odds with both past and ongoing treatment of the island’s graveyards. Several cemeteries suffer from neglect, with older parts of St Paul’s in disrepair and three nineteenth-century burial grounds having been built over in the last seventy years. In addition to the major construction works for the power station, the graveyards in Rupert’s Valley have also been subject to smaller-scale disturbance since at least the 1960s. Moreover, there is a continuing ambiguous attitude to non-intrusive disturbance of the upper Rupert’s Valley graveyard, which is periodically tracked over by vehicles and used for storage of telegraph poles and other items relating to the power station. The common factor for this neglect appears to be the lack of familial ties to those buried in the graveyards. St Helena is a close-knit community in which the family takes a central place in domestic life and society as a whole. With less than 4000 permanent inhabitants, most people are related by blood or through marriage, however distantly. For this reason the majority of graves of twentieth-century date are well-tended, with an abundance of flowers that are regularly replaced. Usually only those graves that are older are neglected. The dead in Rupert’s Valley fall beyond this psychosocial framework. They are positioned, both physically and conceptually, on the edge of society. The Saints appear to see the Liberated Africans as racially and socially distant and, without doubt, the lack of a successor African population on the island has been to the detriment of the Rupert’s Valley burials. The physical character of the graveyards also contributes to the neglect. The area occupied by burials is undistinguishable from the surrounding, unattractive, landscape of scrub, and is adjacent to industrial buildings. There are no grave markers or memorials. In short, they simply do not look or feel like graveyards, nor are they recognizable as such.4

S U P E R STI T I O N As noted above, the St Helenians are a strongly religious community, alongside which runs a deep sense of the spiritual. Ghost stories form an integral

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part of the island’s cultural backcloth and, while some treat them as entertainment, many people are very superstitious (Stewart-Taylor 1969; Mawson 1982; Schreier 2008).5 Such beliefs may be fading, particularly amongst the younger generation, but they remain socially acceptable. Reports of supernatural activity—a good deal of it relating to slavery—are quite regular occurrences.6 There is also a widely held belief that the dead should never be disturbed and that such actions bring repercussions. During the dig, numerous suggestions were made that the excavation team would be ‘haunted’, and while some of these comments were doubtless made in fun, there was a serious undertone to others. It was noticeable that while many people were happy to visit the site, some deliberately avoided it. The most serious manifestation of this situation occurred in June 2008, when a major rockfall hit the school in which the osteological analysis had just commenced. Rockfalls are a regular occurrence on the island, whose precipitous landscape is made up of unstable volcanic strata. However, the coincidence of such a large fall and the disturbance of human remains was widely remarked upon: some certainly blamed the archaeological team for its occurrence. Still, this appears to have been a reflex response and the connection seems to have been quickly forgotten: it has certainly never been remarked upon during our subsequent visits to the island. The lack of any injuries or fatalities probably explains why this has been the case. This is in stark contrast to a rockfall in upper Jamestown that occurred in 1984 and which remains embedded in local consciousness: this destroyed social housing that had recently been built on a former Chinese graveyard, tragically killing a mother and her young child.7

INTERNATIONAL ATTENTION Although the excavation has been publicized through press releases since 2009, the site’s international impact is still developing. To date, the two main vehicles for gaining publicity have been the archaeological monograph (Pearson et al. 2011; in fact published in March 2012) and an exhibition at Liverpool’s International Slavery Museum (opened in April 2014). While both have generated a reasonable level of academic and public interest, it is clear that Rupert’s Valley has not yet assumed any great cultural resonance. This is in direct contrast to the New York African Burial Ground (NYABG), which in many respects is the closest comparator to the Rupert’s Valley site. Certainly this is true in terms of scale, since NYABG has yielded the only comparable number of unfree Africans or their descendants in the New World (419).

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The disturbance and subsequent excavation of the NYABG, in central Manhattan in 1991, provoked an extraordinary public response and continues to be a sensitive issue (Hanson and McGowan 1998).8 The key to this situation has been the advocacy of a politically aware and articulate group of African Americans claiming cultural ownership of the human remains. Elsewhere in the USA, the reaction to the disturbance or excavation of slave graveyards has been of a lesser scale and quite variable. For example, the excavation of the Newburgh Colored Burial Ground in New York State has gone largely unremarked amongst the general public, whereas potential development over a graveyard in Florence, Alabama, has received considerable attention, though nothing of the scale of that for the New York site.9 By contrast, Rupert’s Valley has generated very little controversy. There seem to be several explanations for this. In the first instance St Helena is extremely isolated in geographical terms. It has strong associations with Britain, and falls between Africa and South America, but remains a place apart. There is no natural audience, and in practical terms press releases have been difficult to place, since media organizations do not have a mid-Atlantic desk! The human remains are also liminal in a cultural sense. They represent the victims of the Atlantic crossing, but lie in neither the Old nor the New World. They also died at a stage that was between slavery and freedom, being neither captives in Africa nor sufferers in the Americas. And, because of their nineteenth-century date, they do not strictly belong to the Middle Passage of the legitimate slave trade, but instead have a story that does not fit into the simple, popular narrative. For all of these reasons, they are conceptually not easily adopted, and lack a community or cultural group that can claim a direct interest or line of descent. The internet has facilitated widespread dissemination of the Rupert’s Valley discovery, and at the moment provides the best gauge of public response, though with the caveat that the web is an extremely difficult medium to evaluate. Most websites and blogs have reported the site in an objective way, with few negative comments about disturbance of the dead, though a small number have remarked on the irony of their excavation by ‘the descendants of the perpetrators’.10 Meanwhile, some groups are beginning to come forward to claim cultural ancestry; over the long term this sentiment may gatherpace, leading to Rupert’s Valley becoming a symbolic assemblage of the Middle Passage. One response, from the US-based Middle Passages Ceremonies and Port Markers Project, suggests that this may indeed come about. Its website reads as follows: ‘As in the Manhattan burial ground in New York, our ancestors’ remains tell their stories. We only have to respect what can be learned of their ordeal, the remains reveal brutal evidence of enslavement. We have added this island [St Helena] to the ports where we intend to hold a remembrance ceremony and place a permanent marker in our ancestors’ honor.’11

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CONCLUSION The airport project is now nearing completion, and as a consequence the construction works in Rupert’s Valley are also coming to an end. This in turn opens the way for a decision to be made about the future of the excavated human remains, which are presently still in their original storage in Jamestown. Amongst the Saints questioned in 2012, there was a strong sense that the nature of that storage was undignified and disrespectful, and that the interval between and exhumation and reburial was already too long. At around the same time, similar comments were published in editions of St Helena’s newspaper and the matter was raised in meetings of the island’s legislative council.12 The general consensus amongst the Saints is that they wish to see all of the bodies reinterred—a sentiment that came across strongly in the 2012 questionnaires, and has done so again in another informal survey undertaken on the island during 2014.13 There is no apparent appetite for the skeletons remaining above ground as a curated research collection, though a few people have suggested that the display of one skeleton in the local museum would have value. At the time of writing, St Helena Government is considering a range of options: whether to rebury; to inter within an ossuary (either permanently closed, or with periodic access for research); or to create a curated research collection (either on- or off-island). The possibility of repatriation of the remains to Africa has also been raised, though the practical obstacles to doing so are considerable—even before one considers that the precise origins of each individual cannot be established. A secondary question is whether, in the scenario of reburial, the remains should be returned to the busy and increasingly industrialized Rupert’s Valley, or taken to a location elsewhere, which though undoubtedly quieter would arguably not be where the bodies ‘belong’ and have their context. A consultation process is due to follow shortly, encompassing the Saints themselves, and also a selection of international scholars and West-Central African cultural organizations. Viewed cynically, this process might be seen as an attempt by the St Helena Government to avoid responsibility for the decision—instead hoping for a uniform response that will point it towards a course of action which will not be subsequently criticized. The reality, of course, is that multiple viewpoints will be returned, and it will be fascinating to see how different stakeholder groups respond—and particularly the ways in which the St Helenian response is distinct from that of the international consultees. Hopefully, too, the consultation process will reveal much more about the attitudes of the Saints towards the archaeological project as a whole—above all the question of why they have reacted in particular ways, which in the main this chapter has not addressed.

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Meanwhile, St Helena Government continues to grapple with the problem of balancing development in Rupert’s Valley (which is the sole industrial area as well as the focus of the island’s power generation) with the presence of a burial ground of unique importance and sensitivity. Archaeology offers a technical solution through ‘preservation by record’ (i.e. removing burials to clear space for building) but it cannot answer the moral dilemma. On the island there continues to be interest in the excavations, alongside a growing pride in the role that St Helena played in the abolition of the slave trade. This, in turn, has prompted a more open discussion about the island’s older (and mostly more negative) connections with slavery. There is a strong sentiment in favour of a memorial for the Liberated Africans and there are plans for a permanent exhibition of the finds. Whether this interest persists remains to be seen; as archaeologists it is our responsibility to ensure that it does.

ENDNOTES 1. ‘Brazil: Cemetery of African slaves honored’, Huffington Post, 14 September 2012. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/huff-wires/20120914/lt-brazil-slave-cemetery (Accessed 24 September 2012). 2. Slavery, while fundamental to St Helena’s history, remains on the margins and is eclipsed by the more comfortable and glamorous subject of Napoleon. While this imbalance cannot be quantified, it can be easily appreciated during a short walk through Jamestown. The library’s history section is dominated by studies of Napoleon, while the lobby of the only hotel, the Consulate, is bedecked from floor to ceiling with images of the emperor. Slavery is entirely unrepresented in either place. 3. Report of the Proceedings of the Commission of Enquiry into objections raised to the erection of a new power station at Rupert’s Valley on part or parts of disused burial grounds. Issued by proclamation on St Helena, 29 January 1985. See also ‘Commission of Enquiry set up under the Burial Grounds Ordinance’, St Helena News Review, Vol XV No. 2,355, 8 March 1985. 4. The same situation has occurred in relation to certain other graveyards reserved for ‘outsiders’ on St Helena. Most notable are those for Chinese communities (derived from a group imported as indentured labourers in the early nineteenth century). Two Chinese cemeteries have been built over—both originally positioned well outside the main areas of settlement, and both long since neglected at the time of development. 5. Schreier (2008) reproduces several narratives from the late nineteenth century, as spoken in original St Helenian dialect, including a supernatural account by an elderly ex-slave named Adele, who the narrator describes as ‘the Obeah Woman of Rupert’s Valley’ (St Helena Monthly Critic and Flashlight, 2 February 1892).

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6. One example can be drawn from an email from a senior government official to the author (AP) in August 2008, which stated that the storage of bodies for the osteological analysis ‘will create a sense of uneasiness among pupils and teachers in the adjoining school, especially as they are currently experiencing spiritual activity’ (author’s emphasis). 7. ‘Rockfall Disaster’, St Helena News Review, Vol. XV No. 2,309, 13 April 1984. 8. The cultural and public dimension of the project is outlined at http://www.nps. gov/afbg/index.htm (Accessed 24 September 2012). 9. I am grateful for the information about the Newburgh cemetery from the project’s director, Ken Nystrom. For the Alabama graveyard, see New York Times, 16 May 2012. http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/16/us/alabama-slave-graves-are-a-walmartshidden-hurdle.html (Accessed 12 February 2016). 10. The ability of the internet to convey completely false information has also been apparent. One webpage (now sadly removed) mistook the location of the excavation, claiming that the find had been made on the island of St Helena, South Carolina. The confusion was aided by the bizarre coincidence that the local pastor, the Reverend Andrew Pearson, shared the same name as one of the excavation directors! 11. http://www.middlepassageproject.org/2012/03/19/digging-up-the-story/ (Accessed 8 February 2016). 12. ‘Some dignity would not hurt’, St Helena Independent, Vol. 7 Issue 41, 14 September 2012; ‘What is the best way to respect the exhumed Liberated Africans?’, St Helena Independent, Vol. 7 Issue 42, 21 September 2012. 13. Doctoral research conducted by Heidi Bauer-Clapp, Anthropology Department, University of Massachusetts, Amhurst.

BI B LI O GRAPH Y Hanson, J. and McGowan, G. 1998. Breaking Ground, Breaking Silence: The Story of New York’s African Burial Ground, New York: Henry Holt and Company. Mawson, A. 1982. St Helena Ghost Stories, Unpublished document, Prince Andrew’s School, St Helena. Muir, A. 2009. St Helena Social Policy Plan 2009/10 to 2014/15: Situational Analysis. Unpublished report, Jamestown: St Helena Government. Pearson, A., Jeffs, B., Witkin, A., and Macquarrie, H. 2011. Infernal Traffic. The Excavation of a Liberated African Graveyard in Rupert’s Valley, St Helena, CBA Reseach Report, 169, York: Council for British Archaeology. Schreier, D. 2008. St. Helenian English: Origins, Evolution and Variation, Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Stewart-Taylor, M. 1969. St Helena: Ocean Roadhouse, London: Hale.

6 Habeas Corpus Contested Ownership of Casualties of the Great War Martin Brown

I N T R O D U C TI O N There are still tens of thousands of missing soldiers from the Great War, 1914–18. The nature of the conflict—particularly on the Western Front where the front lines moved very little for long periods, and where men disappeared into the mud of no-man’s-land between the lines of trenches, or were buried on the battlefield, only to have their graves destroyed by artillery fire, or lost as the front line moved—means that all the conflicting nations have significant numbers of missing combatants. Each year, agriculture, development, and archaeological work undertaken in the conflict zone uncover remains of fallen soldiers. These remains are regarded in a different way to other human remains, particularly those found on more traditional archaeological excavations, such as Roman sites, and are subject to different and sometimes contesting claims of ownership. Some of these claims are based in law, others originate in biological or fictive kin affiliations, whether familial, martial, or locational, national, or even archaeological. It may even come from membership of special interest groups that study and/or memorialize the conflict, or from ownership of the ground on which bodies were found. These ties and claims may be conflicting and/or complementary. As a result, an archaeologist who encounters and recovers such remains will find themselves engaged in a complex legal, social, and political landscape in which they are unable to adopt an objective position regarding both the people whom they study and the numerous interests and agents with whom they must engage. Where human remains occur on traditional archaeological excavations in Europe, the remains are unlikely to be the subject of controversy or contestation, although there have been recent moves by neo-pagans to make treatment of human remains an issue in Britain (CoBDO 2010). The situation is

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much less clear as regards the remains of fallen soldiers from the Great War; their discovery raises questions of ownership, both actual and perceived and the key question is: ‘To whom does the body belong?’

FINDING THE FALLEN The Great War, 1914–18, was one of appalling loss. The British Empire alone lost 956,703 uniformed personnel (War Office 1922: 237). The iconic image of the conflict is the trench warfare of the Western Front where stagnation of the front line during winter 1914 and the subsequent attritional battles such as Loos (1915), Somme (1916), and Passchendaele (1917) pitted infantry against industrial power, manifested in artillery and machine guns, leaving large numbers of both dead and wounded. The artillery pounded the landscape repeatedly before and during battles, meaning that battlefield burials and dead men left lying in the no-man’s-land were lost. Many bodies were recovered during post-war reconstruction and the Imperial (renamed Commonwealth in 1960) War Graves Commission (CWGC) made efforts to locate and exhume men from the battlefields in order to afford them proper burial (Bostyn 2007: 224–32). Although significant numbers were recovered and, if not identified, buried beneath headstones bearing the words ‘Known unto God’, many men who had vanished into the battered landscape were never seen again. Some had been blown to pieces by artillery fire, but others were lost in heat of battle and the fortunes of war denied them a formal, or at least a known, grave. The largest CWGC memorial remains that at Thiepval on the Somme battlefield. It commemorates soldiers of the Somme battles and includes the names of some 72,000 men who still have no known grave (CWGC 2012). It demonstrates the scale of casualties and of loss. The memorial and those like it, such as the Menin Gate and the Tyne Cot memorials, manifest the scale of bereavement and provide a physical focus for mourning on the battlefield. They also express the physical absence of fallen soldiers in the cemeteries that dot the landscape of the Western Front. This process is repeated in the community war memorials in the home nations of the combatants, materializing recognition, grief, and sacrifice, both by the fallen and by their bereaved kindred. While much of the former Front runs across agricultural land, many remains have lain undiscovered, but recent increased development for housing, industry, and infrastructure has resulted in the discovery of lost remains, usually collectively referred to as ‘The Missing’. In addition, there has been the rise of archaeological investigation of the former battlefields. While this was initially driven by amateur groups, professional archaeologists are now very much engaged in scientific archaeological interventions, both as academic research (Brown and Osgood 2009)

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and pre-development investigation (Desfossés et al. 2008), and even as a source of material for television documentaries (Robertshaw and Kenyon 2008). While fieldwork may not be explicitly seeking human remains, the discovery of The Missing always remains a strong possibility. The author has been undertaking fieldwork on the war zone in France and Belgium since 1999 and has been involved in the recovery of a number of human remains of British and German soldiers lost during the conflict. In addition, recent work at Fromelles has seen an Anglo-Australian project to identify mass graves from the 1916 Battle of Fromelles, exhume remains, identify as many as possible, and to rebury and commemorate all of those recovered (Lindsay 2011: xxxvii–xxxix; Loe et al. 2014).1

OWNERSHIP AN D CLAIM ‘When I first heard about archaeologists digging people up I thought, “they can bugger off”, but now I know more about it I think you’re doing marvellous work.’ (Bruce Simpson, Chair of the Western Front Association, pers. comm.)

The discovery of human remains draws the archaeologist into a landscape of multiple, overlapping, and sometimes conflicting claims on the soldier, his memory, and memorialization. The principal claimants on the body will have legal claim and include the civil authorities and the CWGC or their equivalents, such as the Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge (VDK 2012) or the Anciens Combattants (Veterans Affairs) (Vosdroits 2012). These organizations will be the recipients of the remains, depending on their nationality. Once confirmed as military, the responsibility for the recovery and treatment of remains will pass to the relevant war graves body. Once nationality is confirmed as from the former British Empire, the relevant nation state may also open a file that will decide any proposed identifications and organize the funeral; these bodies include The Australian War Graves Commission and Veterans’ Affairs Canada. The roles of each of these actors are clearly defined and all are used to working together to recover and rebury remains. At this stage, the first discussions with the relevant national armed forces may also begin. For the remains of British troops, the Joint Casualty and Compassionate Cell (JCCC) will be involved. JCCC deals with British casualties, including those suffered on contemporary overseas operations, as well as historic cases. However, the discovery of human remains is also a police matter and must be reported so that the authorities may be satisfied that the discovery is warrelated and not a criminal/judicial matter. While this may be a straightforward

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affair, local peculiarities may affect the smooth running of an excavation: during the 2008 excavation of the remains of Pte Alan Mather, the Belgian local police told the author that he may not take photographs, which is an integral part of the archaeological process. This proscription was overturned in short order, the following day, during a visit by the Procurer Royal (a senior judicial official) for the region who understood the importance of such recording. However, he also explained that, in an age of social networking, there were concerns about where images might appear. The Procurer performs a role that includes that of the Coroner in England and Wales, dealing with the circumstances of death and initiating any necessary investigation. Once satisfied that the body was a Great War soldier and that the CWGC had been informed and were happy with our involvement, he authorized exhumation. The Procurer Royal also contacted the Belgian Army, which was tasked with the formal supervision of the recovery. They would also undertake the care of the remains and any associated artefacts before their deposition with the relevant national body, in this case the Australian War Graves (AWG) office. The AWG office set their own stipulations on the excavators following the exhumation, including a ban on the dissemination of images showing human remains until a decision on identity had been reached. As an AWG representative told the author, it would be wrong if the first view that a family got of their relative were to be in a newspaper over their cornflakes (Roger Lee, pers. comm.). For the same reason no images of human remains were issued, nor have yet been released, from Fromelles because of the perceived sensitive nature of some images (Loe et al. 2014: frontispiece), despite intense media interest. The sensitivity is that these may be identifiable, if not identified, men. Such niceties do not seem to have concerned the author and publishers of Kruisweg (The Way of the Cross), a collection of poetry in Flemish which accompanies each poem of the cycle with an image of recognizable human remains from amateur archaeological excavations at Boezinghe in Belgium. An endnote identifies the nationality and, where known, the regiment of the individual in question (Dejonckheere 2006: 35). The ethics of such a publication are outside the scope of this chapter, but the amateur excavators and the poet seem to have assumed sufficient ownership of the individuals concerned to appropriate their images. This book does not seem to have attracted comment on British Great War fora (see ‘Wider Communities’), perhaps because it is a collection of modern poetry and in Flemish.

T R I B A L AN C E S T O R WO R S HI P Whoever the individual may have been in life outside the Army and whatever he felt about the conflict in which he died, he remains a person who died in

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uniform. As such he remains a member of one of the major European armies and represents millions who served (and fell) during a conflict that saw entire nations and empires under arms (Chielens and Dendooven 2008). Although the individual may not have regarded himself primarily as a soldier, nor have been anything other than a conscript who was enlisted for the duration of the conflict, he died and thus remains as a soldier in the eyes of many, particularly the military and the state. This will define the manner of his formal reburial, as much as it did his death. As a result his burial becomes part of the group ritual of the military. The military may be characterized as a tribe, or a confederation of tribes (Holmes 2011: 459–63). Whether serving or retired, living or dead, tradition and custom dictate that the uniformed man remains a member of that tribe! This activity and identity within this group of fictive kin is an important factor in maintaining the esprit de corps of the group and supports its military effectiveness (Brown 2011: 130–3). The relationship between fictive kinship and military efficiency is most clearly defined in the idea that soldiers do not fight for nation, head of state, or abstracts such as democracy, but for their mates because, as John Keegan noted, the battle is a series of small-scale situations (Keegan 1985: 47) and that the will to fight can be sustained by significant interpersonal bonds (Keegan 1985: 114–16, 181; Kirke 2009: 32–41; Holmes 2011: 263). The military funeral is one of the rituals of Army life. It serves to bond the group through ritualized, ceremonial activity, reinforcing the feeling that each individual is part of something larger. This is done through collective activity, special clothing, and formal display. Whether the fallen soldier died recently in a modern theatre of conflict or almost a century ago, his place within the ‘tribe’ is asserted and each soldier is made aware that even in death the regiment is a family, which, once joined, will never forget the sacrifice made. The author has spoken to a number of soldiers who have asserted a belief that the funeral matters to them because it embodies a duty of both care and remembrance underlining a covenant between the individual and the wider kindred; none have ever opined that such funerals are an empty gesture (see also Holmes 2011: 264). However, one senior Royal Regiment of Scotland non-commissioned officer who had participated in military funerals told the author: ‘It’s not for him or for you or for the family, it’s for the Nation . . . it’s for the Nation.’ This discussion clearly demonstrates the contested nature of the body, even at his moment of repatriation to the UK. Nevertheless, the knowledge that, in death, appropriate and seemly ritual will be observed and that bodies will not be left uncared for, even after a century, is seen as comforting by those whose profession is inherently dangerous, and this view has been repeatedly expressed to the author by service personnel when discussing his work. For the Army, or its component regiments, the appropriate treatment of remains, culminating in the military funeral, is also a demonstration of this

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covenant between state and Army and its soldiers and it serves to materialize unit identity through historical association with soldiers and their historical actions. This may be regarded as particularly important in the modern British Army where historical county regiments with battle honours from the eighteenth and nineteenth century onwards, such as The Cheshire’s, Staffordshire’s, and Duke of Wellington’s, have recently been amalgamated to create more regionally based regiments, such as the Mercian or Yorkshire Regiments. As a result, the Army, as a corporate body, will claim ownership on a body, but so will the successor unit to the original regiment or corps from which the casualty came. This unit will also become deeply involved in the funeral, while the author has found that the unit will also wish to receive as much information as possible on the circumstances of discovery and recovery of remains. For example, in 2004, The Queen’s Lancashire Regiment provided the chaplain and burial party of bearers and firing party for the funeral of a man from the King’s Own Royal Lancaster Regiment because this was one of their ancestor units (King’s Own 2004). The soldier being buried was found by the author’s team on the 1916 Somme battlefield and, although he remains unidentified, this was unimportant to the soldiers, to whom he was part of their kindred. What mattered was that he was a member of the King’s Own and had died in battle. Accordingly, he was regarded as deserving respect and care from his comrades who, although temporally distant, regarded themselves as part of the same ‘band of brothers’. Such interest is common to the allied nations of the Great War, in particular those of the former British Empire. Following the funeral of Alan Mather who was killed in action on 7 June 1917, found in August 2008, and buried in July 2010, the Australian troops who had provided the guard of honour at the funeral were keen to visit the excavation site and learn as much as they could about processes involved. They were also explicit in saying that it was fascinating to see archaeologists at work because they had been involved in the reinterments at the new Fromelles cemetery but had arrived in Europe after the excavations had finished, so were unable to see the process by which their comrades and military ancestors had been recovered. While such interest may be common and deeply held by some armies, the same is more debatable and contested territory for the German Army. The modern Bundeswehr was formed in 1949 and, as one officer told the author in 2010, they are not permitted to have the same sense of tradition as other European armies because ‘The Führer cut us off from our history.’ Despite this, when Unteroffizier Albert Thielecke and Private Jakob Hones, who were also found at Serre by the author’s team, were buried in the military cemetery at Labry in 2004, German soldiers involved in a work party maintaing the cemetery asked the families if they might form an honour guard for the bodies (Karl Thielecke, pers. comm.). In discussing this case, the officer was clear that any official request

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to take part would have been refused but clearly understood that the bonds of kinship run deeper than politics and was pleased at both the request and the families’ agreement. However, this attitude towards commemoration does seem to be shifting because the author has seen German troops parading at the Menin Gate in Ieper, while recent reports of burials of German soldiers killed in 1918 at Carspach (Alsace) and finally buried in July 2013, include images of Bundeswehr participants (Daily Mail 2013). Whatever the politics behind such participation, the military involvement recognizes a desire amongst at least some of Germany’s soldiers to recognize the sacrifice and experience of those whom they see as their uniformed forebears. However, it should be noted that such attachments through fictive kinship is not confined to the nationality of one’s own Army, or its allies. The feeling expressed by soldiers with whom the author has spoken is that nationality is not important; the soldier deserves proper treatment by virtue of his experience and death. Here, something more intimate than the reinforcement of the will to fight through creation of bonding ritual is at work. The soldiers themselves are expressing their own status as defined by experience, whatever their nationality or historical side: to them, the soldier has achieved an honourable status through sacrifice. George Mosse has discussed how the casualties of the war became a distinct group with an emotional and political presence, usually referred to as ‘the Fallen’ (Mosse 1989). The continued power of this phenomenon is underlined by the engagement of national agencies, and particularly the military, with recovery and reburial. While this deeply held feeling for the appropriate treatment of the Fallen serves the casualty well and ensures ceremonial and ritual at his burial, it can raise issues for the archaeologist. It is common for archaeological projects in the conflict zone to include serving or retired service personnel. This may come from their own interest in military history that develops from their own experiences and from the inculcation with military history as part of the creation of identity referred to above. The presence of service personnel is also essential because fieldwork carries inherent risks from unexploded munitions, so involvement of those familiar with ammunition and skilled in its proper treatment is essential to the safety of the excavators. The discovery of human remains is likely to affect individuals with a military background and is a result of their own experiences, including involvement in the rituals of death and burial. However, it may also reflect a personal experience and mental state. In one case, a serving soldier left the trench where skeletons were being excavated because of the banter between the archaeologists which he felt was inappropriate and lacked appropriate respect to the skeletons/soldiers (Jon Price, pers. comm.). On another occasion, the author was forced to remove a serving soldier from a trench because it was clear he was becoming too emotionally affected by the skeleton who was simultaneously a casualty, a subject for forensic excavation, an

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archaeological subject, and a fallen comrade. This individual is an experienced amateur archaeologist and had worked on human remains previously, including Great War casualties, without emotional issues becoming apparent. However, when questioned later, the soldier admitted that he had developed ‘tunnel vision’ because of recent experiences with British forces in Iraq where he had been involved in the preparation of recent casualties for repatriation to Britain and had conflated Pte Mather with individuals encountered in a very recent context (Scott, pers. comm.). The presence of remains also created tensions in the wider team because other members with service background felt excluded from the excavation of Pte Mather and complained that they had been supplanted by others with less ‘claim’ on the body (Anon., pers. comm.). The people who had been chosen to work on the recovery were all experienced archaeologists who were capable of the exhumation, including one very skilled forensic archaeologist, but because they were seen as effectively outside the tribe, they were seen, to some extent, as interlopers. The counter-argument is that the mass mobilization seen during the Great War means that almost all British soldiers were either volunteers or conscripts and, as a result, uniformed civilians. As such, their background was utterly unlike the complainants who were all professional service personnel who selected this as their preferred career path. However, once again, the ethos of the uniformed tribe was seen as of paramount significance to the veterans and this transcended the individuality of a man caught up in tragic events. For the non-military of the excavation team, the skeleton before us embodied what Wilfred Owen called ‘The Pity of War’ and epitomized the mass slaughter of a conflict that touched millions. This is in no way to discount the feelings expressed by veterans. Those who have been in uniform have particular insights and experiences that most archaeologists do not: insights which can be particularly useful in the context of conflict archaeology. However, the archaeologist must acknowledge the veterans’ sense of self, which may be defined by their membership of the tribe, and by their sense of ownership of remains arising from that identity. Indeed, it could be argued that the archaeologist has, by dint of particular culture, dress, experience, and language, a very similar cultural identity that is equally strong. As a result, the meeting of the two groups has potential to cause significant friction and is something that site managers should recognize. Military interest from serving personnel and veterans regarding conflict archaeology and concern over the propriety of dealings with the dead also extends beyond the excavation. During the author’s time working for the UK’s Ministry of Defence, he had the opportunity to speak about his research with many service personnel and led several battlefield tours for men and women in uniform. It was a commonly voiced opinion that excavation to better understand the conflict was valid and that when human remains were recovered it was important that they were treated with care and reverence and that every

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care should be taken to identify them. In addition, soldiers cited the importance, and even comfort, of the idea that the Fallen were never forgotten and such care might be taken over their own loss and recovery. Veterans encountered at events, such as lectures given for the Western Front Association (WFA), have also expressed similar views. However, as will be discussed below, concerns have been shown by others that the motives for excavation are not always clear or defensible and that the Fallen should be left where they fell. Sometimes, the view that the individual believes in the sanctity of remains and opposes any disturbance, including the feeling that the individual himself would not want to be recovered—more usually rendered as ‘dug up’—by archaeologists. This view formed the basis of a significant conversation with a Falklands War veteran who had seen friends buried on the battlefield and had only seen the work of archaeologists on television. He felt that the basis of work was too often for prurient entertainment through the discovery of skeletons. That the author’s group specifically does not prospect for bodies and will always work to the highest standard when they are recovered afforded some reassurance and led to further comments similar to those heard from other veterans. This sense of ownership by the military is not nationally bounded. The funerals of allied troops, such as those of Alan Mather and the Fromelles soldiers, are not only attended by the formal representatives of the nation from which the individual(s) came. It is common for the representatives of local veterans’ organizations, such as the Anciens Combattants, to attend, forming colour parties and laying wreaths. Once again, these organizations are honouring a fallen soldier, a man who, like themselves, had served and fought. It appears that nationality is not as important as the bond of service and sacrifice. Less ceremony is afforded to the German dead, demonstrating a continuing manifestation of local memory of the two World Wars, and of invasion and occupation. However, individual veterans will recognize that the Germans were soldiers too and, as such, are worthy of respect. At German cemeteries, burials may be much less formal affairs, as has been discussed, but the voluntary and unofficial participation of German service personnel at the Serre burials, as well as official German participation at the Menin Gate Last Post ceremony and at the Carspach burials, shows that the same sense of kinship endures, whatever the different national history. Another claimant on the body is the landowner. Although the discovery of such remains is not uncommon in the former battlefields, there is a feeling of ownership that is coupled with a historical memory of the trauma of the war that saw populations, often including their own forebears uprooted and the landscape they farmed devastated. Michel Delrue owns the land where Alan Mather was found and has previously discovered the remains of German soldiers during agricultural work. His view was that the fallen soldiers, of whatever nation, on his ground are all victims and that they are due respect,

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care, and proper treatment (M. Delrue, pers. comm.). However, the farm is part of a wider landscape and M. Delrue has neighbours. They were also thoroughly aware of the nature of the landscape and, like M. Delrue, have a family connection to the war, each having their own ancestral stories of conflict and reconstruction. This meant that the local population wanted to see the remains and wanted to discuss the discovery with the archaeologists. Although this could create diplomatic issues, such as when people were potentially slowing up work, or when cameras appeared, it did mean that an effective network of people who could see and watch over the site when the archaeologists were not at work was created, preventing nighthawking and other destructive practices. Nighthawking, or illegal metal detecting, is an unfortunate feature of the former battlefields. There is a market for battlefield relics both in and around the towns close to historic sites but also on on-line auction sites. Attached mud adds authenticity and is considered desirable. In addition, economically depressed conditions in some areas of the former Front, such as the former Lens coalfield, only serve to stimulate this illegal activity. Similarly at Serre, the Samain family were not only watchful over the investigations but were happy, as landowners, to donate land for the memorial that now stands on the roadside close to where Jakob Hones, Albert Thielecke, and the member of the King’s Own were discovered.

THE ARCHAEOLOGISTS For the archaeologists themselves there is also a feeling of ownership and responsibility. When the remains of Pte Alan Mather were discovered at Ploegsteert a distinct feeling of ‘our body’ was evident among the team. This manifested itself initially in the willingness of members to take turns as nightwatchmen to ensure the site was not disturbed by illicit treasure hunters and the feeling that whatever was asked would be done, including fourteen-plus hour days on site. At Auchy-les-Mines in 2005, the same sense of duty drove the team to work a forty-hour shift, including floodlit work through the night, to properly recover all remains and the artefacts that might assist the process of identification. While the impetus here comes in part from professional ethics and pride, it is also originates in a heightened sense that these men might be identified, returned to families, and laid to rest. This is something that is a product of the temporal proximity of their deaths and the scientific and historical methods available to determine identities. The deeply emotional experience of such work, discussed elsewhere (Brown 2007: 53–66) also produces a strong feeling that these individuals are, in some moral sense, the property of the team. This was keenly felt as the exhumation of Pte Mather drew to a close. Once the remains were recovered, the representative of the

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Belgian Army gathered the bones into a canvas body bag, bade the digging team good evening, and headed into the deepening darkness, taking the remains into his official care. The reaction of all of the team, who saw this, including the author, was an involuntary reaction of ‘You can’t do that, he’s ours!’ (Richard Osgood, pers. comm.). Although this is an irrational response, it underlines the close relationship that the archaeologists develop with the skeleton. The exact reasons for this have not been fully studied, but informal conversations with individuals involved in this and similar cases suggest a combination of emotional engagements. The circumstances of excavation are clearly a factor: at both Auchy and Ploegsteert archaeologists spent unusually long hours working on the body and then sat guard to ensure that the site remained undisturbed. Overnight emotions were heightened by the darkness, the surrounding conflict landscape, and the proximity of the deceased. In addition, there appears to be a definite awareness that the remains were, not so long ago, a person. Unlike more temporally and culturally distant human remains one may have excavated, this man was living during the lifetime of people who had been personally known to members of the team and he came from a world and culture recognizably similar to our own. Although archaeologists working on more traditionally archaeological human remains may often recognize the humanity of their subjects, there is a distinct difference in the proximity of those people. Given the context of death, there is also a strong moral imperative felt by the team to have done the best work possible to recover all necessary data that might assist identification. At least some of these feelings are probably familiar to and dealt with by those engaged in police-led forensic archaeology, but the majority of those undertaking conflict archaeology are not part of this highly specialist world and do not have the coping mechanisms familiar to archaeologists working in the judicial arena. The strength of reaction to working on fallen soldiers has been well-expressed by Dr Tony Pollard, director of the archaeological evaluation that confirmed the presence of the Fromelles mass graves at Pheasant Wood: ‘You cannot have the moral wherewithal to look for these guys, find them, then see what condition they’re in and how they’ve been buried and then say, that’s adequate, we know where they are. You would have to have the heart of most solid granite and I don’t care whether you’re religious or not—I’m pretty a-religious—but I look into those pits and I think you boys deserve better than this’ (Lindsay 2011: xliv).

Pollard’s words are interesting because they encapsulate that sense of individuality and humanity ascribed to Great War casualties by those involved in their investigation. However, such feelings may have a less positive outcome. When the Fromelles excavation began in 2009, the Oxford Archaeology team was severely criticized by a Belgian amateur archaeologist who had been briefly involved in the team because of his civil engineering skills (The Age 2009). That Johan Vandewalle chose to speak on behalf of the dead, saying

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that they deserved better treatment during excavation is noteworthy. Like Pollard, he said they deserved better, but unlike Pollard, who was discussing their original 1916 burial and its subsequent loss, Vandewalle was staking a claim on the dead of Fromelles. This was based on his archaeological work on the battlefields and his life experiences as a resident of the old front line and owner of a bar at Polygon Wood, the scene of serious fighting in 1914 and 1917. This same local sense of ownership may also underpin the decision of Flemish amateur group De Diggers to release images of skeletons to Marc Dejonckheere to illustrate his collection of poetry. If this is the case, then the notion of ownership through excavation may be underpinned by a sense of entitlement that might be expressed as ‘it’s our country’. It is not known whether the notion that the country in question was devastated by war also plays into this position, but this would make an interesting area for discussion.

H A PP Y FA M IL I E S ? Although the state, the military, and the agents of exhumation may all feel that they have a significant claim on the fallen soldier, the bereaved family are likely also to take a view on the events unfolding following a discovery. In many cases, they are unlikely to be aware of the activities of the archaeologists and other parties until they receive notification that the process of identification is well underway. However, this is not always the case, as was evident in the case of the Fromelles excavations between 2007 and 2009. The Fromelles project came into being principally because of the exhaustive research and lobbying by Lambis Englezos, a teacher from Melbourne, and because his campaign captured the imagination of families of those listed as missing following the battle in July 1916 (Lindsay 2011: x, 206–7). Nevertheless, whatever the individual wishes of the families, the state and the military still retain the ultimate authority over identification, burial, and commemoration; essentially, the man remains under military authority after death. For example, while some families may have wished to return their dead to Australia, this was never an option and a grand new CWGC cemetery was constructed close to the original burial site and inaugurated in July 2010 (Lindsay 2011: xlvi–xlvii). Similarly, the burials of other individuals, whether identified or not, are always organized by the relevant national bodies. While experience shows that, where possible, the families will be consulted (Kim Blomfield, pers. comm.), the basic format of the military funeral for British Commonwealth forces is the standard, as is the burial in the CWGC cemetery. The influence of the CWGC also extends to the manner of commemoration. While the family is encouraged to include an epitaph on the headstone, there are unspoken rules. An epitaph cannot, for example, allude to a recent

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discovery and burial. Alan Mather’s family wanted to make reference to his recovery from the battlefield after so many years lost, but this was refused because it was considered to mark the man out from his comrades as a recent battlefield recovery (John Mather, pers. comm.). Ultimately, the CWGC or their equivalents retain the final physical ownership of the individual because his body lies in their cemetery. However, the contestation of the idea of the fallen soldier—his soul, if you will—continues. Ongoing disputes over the First World War dead are nowhere more clearly expressed than at Fromelles. In recent years, controversy has been growing that the Australian national narrative of the battle is excluding all others, including the many British soldiers killed and lost in the 1916 action (Long Long Trail 2013). Nevertheless, the family may develop their own subversive elements of commemoration: Alan Mather was accompanied to the grave by a number of grave-goods personal to the family. His family also started a tradition of sharing a drink with Alan that various archaeological team members continue on visits to his grave. To some visitors, people drinking alcohol in a military cemetery might seem deeply disrespectful, but in this case the family have defined it as part of the process of memorialization. This is, in part, because Alan Mather had been involved in viticulture prior to his enlistment, but it is also a celebration of life lived and an acknowledgement of life cut short. That they have included other stakeholders from amongst the archaeologists as agents of memorialization not only means that they have ensured the ritual is maintained even though they are in Australia, it also creates bonds that demonstrate mutual respect and friendship engendered by the process and by Alan Mather himself. Despite the role of the state and its agents, the family may be said to have the strongest moral claim to ownership of the man and his memory through ties of blood. Once the fallen soldier has been identified and his family located, these biological kin become significant agents in the story of the casualty. In all cases, involving the identification of men and the engagement with their families experienced by the author, family members have been keen to discuss the processes involved in the work, from discovery onwards. In addition, there have been strong expressions of gratitude that a mystery in the family’s history concerning the fate of an ancestor has been answered. The descendants of Jakob Hones, found during the author’s excavations at Serre in 2003, included his last surviving son, who died shortly after the news of the discovery and identification of his father. His own children suggested that the discovery had given him the closure he needed about a father he never knew and allowed him to depart mortal existence (Brown 2007: 56). The Mather family were also satisfied that a hinge moment in the family’s story—the disappearance of the only son—had been explained. The families told the author that the discoveries had brought members closer, as relatives were brought back into contact and relationships were renewed, almost

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through the agency of the ancestor. However, the circumstances of his death remained traumatic, which meant that the funeral was an emotional affair where grief was manifested, but that it was also a happy, family event, where a relative was properly laid to rest with the attendant opportunity to renew old bonds. Families may also have a distinct sense of propriety aside from the strictures of Army and state. Alan’s nephew was pleased Alan had been buried in a rural cemetery surrounded by landscape not dissimilar to his pre-war home in New South Wales. However, a sense of propriety and entitlement can also be strongly asserted using the family connection as the justification. At Fromelles, families visiting the excavation voiced their disappointment and anger that they were excluded from the excavation. The exclusion extended as far as Lambis Englezos himself, the man whose efforts had located the burial site and engendered the project (SMH 2009b). Meanwhile, in the days following the inauguration of the Fromelles cemetery, many family members travelled up to Ieper in Belgium to attend the Last Post ceremony. On Wednesday 21 July 2010, the author and a number of the Ploegsteert excavation team were at the ceremony. A large number of Fromelles relatives were also present. A British school band played the Belgian and British national anthems at the close of the ceremony but was then heckled by a number of the Australians demanding Advance Australia Fair, the modern anthem, in recognition of their Fallen. Other Australian nationals present were equally upset at the behaviour, accepting that the modern anthem would have been unknown to the deceased, who marched as part of an Empire united by the anthem God Save The King. This nationalist strand to the Fromelles project also led to criticism of the appointment of the British Glasgow University team to undertake the evaluation (Lindsay 2011: xxxviii) and ignored the fact that British troops were also involved in the battle and also suffered a significant proportion of the losses (Lindsay 2011: 95, 144). Where soldiers are buried as Unknown, individuals or groups may adopt the person laid beneath the headstone. The author learned that his unknown soldier of the King’s Own is regularly visited by several individuals and at least one family who have taken it upon themselves to visit him. Their reasoning is that he remains Unknown, therefore he has no relatives to visit and commemorate him, so they have become a surrogate family (Simon Moston, pers. comm.). In addition, the author regularly leads a battlefield tour for a school in Sussex. He knows that several former students have revisited the Somme independently and have made a point of going to see the King’s Own soldier because he is a meaningful casualty to them, being part of their experience of the battlefields and, as such materializing the conflict. That identifying the dead is always possible is a particular issue for excavators and for all those connected or feeling connection to the remains. The author has repeatedly heard the view from the engaged public that

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identification is a critical issue. Nevertheless, for the archaeologists consulted, this is a bonus; the important issue is to gather all available data to present an informed narrative about the life, experience, and death of the individual. The archaeological approach is more akin to the engagement archaeologists are likely to have with the nameless human remains more commonly encountered on traditional archaeological sites. With the exception of the occasional ‘celebrity’ burials, such as Richard III of England, it is rare for archaeologists to have the potential to formally identify burials; however, it is always a possibility for the archaeologist of modern conflict. The potential for identification has also been planted in the public imagination by programmes including ‘Finding the Fallen’ (Robertshaw and Kenyon 2008) and by news reports of such stories as the men from the Yorkshire and Lancaster Regiment, killed in 1914 and reburied in autumn 2014 at the Y Farm cemetery (Yorkshire Regiment 2015). The archaeologists may well be aware that potential for identification can be limited, despite the public perception, but they will, nevertheless, also be concerned that every effort to give both an identification by name and an identity through study of artefacts and the physical form is made.

WID ER COMMUNITIES Criticisms of the Fromelles project continued into the main excavation phase, which was undertaken by Oxford Archaeology, and required official rebuttal (SMH 2009a). Intense interest in the work in Australia, adverse weather, and tight news management by the Commonwealth and Australian War Graves authorities (SMH 2009c) allowed misinformation and rumour to thrive, leading to stories of mismanagement being reported in the Australian press (The Age 2009). This trope of ‘Diggers’ (Australian soldiers) let down by the British officer corps is part of the Australian folk memory of the Great War and actions at Gallipoli and, perhaps justifiably, at Fromelles are regularly cited in support of this idea (Todman 2005: 66–7; Lindsay 2011: 151–62). The interest in Australia, and to a lesser extent in Britain, in the events at Fromelles, as well as interest in the activities of the author’s group No Man’s Land, show that a further community exists who feel an engagement to the Fallen and their recovery. This community includes First World War interest groups including the WFA, an international education charity ‘ . . . with the aim of furthering interest in the period of 1914–18, to perpetuate the memory, courage and comradeship of those of all sides who served their countries in France and Flanders and their own countries during the Great War’ (WFA 2012), and the web-based Great War Forum (GWF 2012). These are groups open to all and their membership is diverse, including family historians,

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battlefield tourists, and recognized experts in military history and archaeology. As such, they provide a useful cross-section of those interested in diverse elements of the Great War. Threads on the archaeology of the War and on television programmes dealing with the subject have resulted in both criticisms of, and plaudits for, archaeologists, including the author. Unlike a murder investigation, the recovery of fallen soldiers is in the public arena and opinions are given free rein. As a result, the author started a thread on the Great War Forum entitled ‘Exhumation, excavation and emotion’ on 22 October 2007 (see archive of responses, GWF 2008). He asked how Forum residents felt about archaeologists working on human remains from the conflict and set the following topics for discussion: • • • • •

Do you mind archaeologists excavating Great War remains? Does study of the remains by specialists concern you? Does the involvement of TV, as sometimes happens, bother you? Does archaeology help identify remains? Should archaeologists have a say in the modus operandi of the authorities in theatre, such as CWGC/Anciens Combattants?

The respondents were, as anticipated, Forum regulars who were frequent commentators on the issue. One, whose avatar is Seadog, commented that during excavation there is ‘ . . . a very large probability of disturbing the human remains from a conflict which is still etched in the family memories of many people, it is this aspect of deliberate excavations which concern me the most and I would contend that there should be very good reasons why such excavations are permitted to be undertaken.’ However, what those reasons should be has never been explained, but it should be stated that both the French and Belgian archaeological authorities are always consulted prior to fieldwork and appropriate permissions are obtained through the submission of research designs and supporting written schemes of investigation prior to any excavation. Another regular (Dycer) stated that so long as consecrated graves were not disturbed then he had ‘no problem’ with either excavation or specialist study of remains. He also said that television involvement was acceptable so long as the motive was for factual, documentary purposes, rather than to dramatize results. Finally, he was content that archaeology could help identify remains and was content for work to proceed so long as it assisted the CWGC and saw remains recovered before they were scavenged for saleable relics. Similarly, Chris Harley offered ‘if it results the lads of whatever nationality getting a decent burial and identification where possible I have got no problems’. While Truthergw stated: ‘I am all in favour of archaeological investigation carried out in an approved manner by trained or experienced workers. I am in favour of rescue archaeology where work is just ahead of the bulldozer on the principle that half a loaf is better than none. All of that presupposes that human remains will be dealt with in a

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respectful manner and re-interred properly as soon as the formalities are completed. I think that work like this can be of great assistance in keeping fresh the memory of the men who lost their lives in the war. Plus, I believe we owe it to them to recover them and give them a proper burial whenever possible.’ (GWF 2012)

Dogan Sahin posted regarding Gallipoli: ‘Any piece of land you dig in Afion contains bodies of those who have fallen, whether be Turk or the invader. I believe it is best to leave those kids alone and just respect the land in its present state.’ Indeed a number of other posters supported this view but felt that the pace of development, notably in Belgium, was such that this situation was unsustainable on sites scheduled for building. The view that rescue, or developer-led, archaeology was acceptable was also offered by a number of other individuals. However, a strand of thought that wherever possible the fallen should be left to lie in peace emerged, led by posters such as Dickie. However, the strongest opposition came from Old Tom: ‘I hesitate to comment, but bearing in mind the very large numbers of men of the various nations that were killed on the western front and have no known grave, wonder if there is much to be gained by trying to identify remains that come to light on the battle fields as a result of construction of one sort or another. The names of those killed are recorded on memorials and are remembered by those who care from time to time.’

This view is at odds with the families of many of the Fallen and is certainly not one supported by the families of the Fromelles casualties. Several posters took issue with this, including Willy, who said: ‘It’s not anyone’s job, let’s all be grateful to those who give their time to recover those souls who have been waiting a long, long time to be buried correctly, god rest their souls.’ He was supported by a significant number of posters, including Barbara: ‘Those men earned a right not to be forgotten, to a consecrated grave and their remains to be treated with respect.’ Significant criticism came from Roel: ‘They deserve a grave where relatives and friends can visit them. A bit late for ’14–18 casualties? The youngest daughter of my great-grandfather is still very much alive.’ He also posted that his great-grandfather’s body had been recovered from noman’s-land at personal risk by one of his comrades. Although this permitted his burial, the grave was subsequently lost in the fighting, so he remains one of the Missing, something that troubled the poster’s grandfather until his dying day. Roel’s opinion was that if it mattered that much to the men involved then archaeologists were doing a valuable service. He also said that he would be very keen for archaeologists to look for his ancestor’s burial place. These posts underline the fact that although those who knew, or at least saw the Fallen, before they went to the Front are becoming fewer, the sense of family connection has not diminished for many.

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Several posters voiced particular disquiet concerning the role of television. Again Dickie commented, stating that: ‘Any programmes should keep the sensationalism out, the speculation to a minimum (and make sure it’s understood it is just that) and concentrate on the facts.’ Some critics went further, Borderman, a veteran, spoke for some saying: ‘My only “gripe” is the barely concealed joy when one is found. It becomes a “Tony Robinson2 and Mosaic” moment. I’m informed (clearly not well enough) that much can be learned about the war from the remains. Sorry but what exactly? That shot and shell chew human flesh and shatter bone? That men die screaming and clawing the earth in terror, pinned to the ground by their ripped bodies and the overwhelming loneliness of their death? Go find them, bring them home but just don’t try to make good TV about it. And no it doesn’t “bring home the reality of war”. Getting shot does. Treading on a mine does. Perhaps I’m being unfair, probably am. But in my mind’s eye I can see a TV programme—a skull slowly being unearthed by a well-worn trowel. The white of the bone revealed and the trowel leading the camera to the hole and fractures of a bullet hole. The excitement! Can’t help thinking it’s pornography.’

Borderman did concede in later discussion that: ‘If a soldier is found it is a good thing if an archaeologist is there to remove the remains. They’re trained and have the skills and knowledge to make the removal properly and to record accurately the artefacts and context the remains were found in. The bones should be studied in an attempt to identify the man but that’s all.’

He also admitted to being fascinated by the story of the bodies recovered from the 1471 Battle of Towton (Fiorato et al. 2000). The Towton volume presents the results of the excavation and forensic work in explicit detail, including forensic discussion and description of the effects of weapons. It is also heavily illustrated by images of weapon trauma. This suggests that lack of deep personal engagement with the subject and more distant time of events and casualties lends a different perspective to responses (see Faulder, below). Less confrontationally, BillG saw television as acceptable so long as sensationalism and speculation were kept to a minimum. For the author, the forensic reality of conflict is an important part of the story, not for entertainment or voyeurism, but because the experience of conflict in general, and the Great War in particular, remain thankfully unfamiliar to the great majority of the population. On the subject of temporal proximity, Forum regular David Faulder, wrote: ‘I think with respect to archaeological work, temporal proximity is a major factor that creates unease . . . How do I feel about a field close to Hadrian’s Wall being “dug”? OK—provided there is professional respect—but then I do not know of Scots, Roman, Celtic, etc. ancestors that lie there (would it change if

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I did?—possibly, but probably not by much) . . . How do I feel about a field close to Vierstraat (nr Ypres) being “dug”? Very mixed—and my “mix” will differ from others (even those who may also have ancestors lying there)—because we are individuals. I think we have to accept that any archaeological digging near WW1 front-lines will include the possibility of remains being found.’

Discoveries of Great War remains even on more traditional archaeological sites shows that conflict-focused research is not the only way in which archaeologists interact with the Fallen, as examples such as the ZAC Antiparc excavations at Arras, where Great War remains overlay the Gallo-Roman deposits, have shown (Saunders 2007: 110–11; Girardet et al. 2003: 88, 103). Meanwhile, Konoda opined that ‘archeologists are trying to cut themselves in on the popular action generally with a TV slant. Recovering and identifying remains is not their job. So near the event it is hard to justify.’ The truth is actually that the research has been taking place for well over a decade, whether by state archaeologists, such as Alain Jacques at Arras, amateurs such as De Diggers of Ieper, or researchers including No Man’s Land (Saunders 2007: 98–175). The media has followed the story for a number of years. Although they may support research through their funding of work, the primary objective of the archaeologists is primary research on the battlefields and prospection for human remains is not a driver for excavation. The idea that recent events are considered being outside the scope of archaeology is also interesting and shows that the popular view of the profession probably sees it as concerned with more distant times, whatever input archaeologists may make to interpretation of events or the recovery of remains. However, as discussed above, the battlefields of the Great War were fought on a land already subject to human occupation and alteration for thousands of years (Wheeler 1958: 45–7; Saunders 2007: 110–11) and, as a result, the complex landscape is likely to include remains from the Great War, as well as the late prehistoric or Gallo-Roman era. Opinions may have changed in the years since the online discussion of this subject was begun and this is well-demonstrated by the words of the Chair of the WFA quoted above. However, one thing remains constant: the Fallen remain important. At no stage has anyone seriously suggested that the discussion is irrelevant, that the dead are dead, so there is no point to worrying about them and their fate. This is probably because the correspondents were self-selecting and, by dint of interest in the conflict, are unlikely to state such a position. In addition, the Forum is moderated, so ‘trolling’ (the statement of positions in order to offend or provoke) is highly uncommon and did not occur on this thread. In different interpretations of the war the Fallen may be victims of bungling generals, of a war that was the result of the imperial posturing, and they may be fallen heroes or ordinary blokes doing their bit. Whoever they are, they matter to the members of the Forum and the WFA because they were the men who served and fought. As a result it is not an option to ignore their materiality and physicality.

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Elsewhere, historian Jeremy Banning staked a claim on remains from 1914 found at Beaucamps-Ligny (Banning 2010). Banning took issue with the French treatment of the remains of British soldiers uncovered during building works. That the French did not call in archaeologists should not be a surprise, as it is not common practice in such cases; it is sufficient that the remains are gathered and passed to the relevant national authority. Banning may feel morally justified in criticizing events and makes a serious point about the treatment of remains and his perception of proper treatment, but it remains the case that the French are following the usual practice in their country. Although comparing the treatment of these skeletons to those being commemorated at the same time at the nearby Fromelles cemetery is valid, it should be recognized that Fromelles remains a unique project. At Beaucourt, the French clearly ‘own’ the dead who lie in their ground. Meanwhile, although Banning may have felt there had been a dereliction of duty towards these men, two of them have been identified and all were reburied with full military honours by their successors in the Honourable Artillery Company in 2013 (Daily Mail 2013a). This followed extensive research by CWGC and Cellmark Forensics, and the same was true of the Y Farm burials in 2014. What the wider interest community will make of the displayed photographs of human remains in the recently reopened In Flanders Fields Museum in Ieper remains to be seen. Although these images are displayed in an enclosed cubicle within the wider gallery, there is no warning that this the visitor will see images of human skeletons. The same is true of another cubicle that includes contemporary images of Great War battlefield casualties. However, the images taken during the war do not have the clarity, nor colour of the images of skeletons, which lends them an immediacy that is close to the display of the bones themselves. These images may well be the same individuals from Boezinghe shown in Kruisweg (Dejonckheere 2006). That this was a truly global conflict has been discussed extensively (Chielens and Dendooven 2008). Since 1918, the great empires of the nineteenth century have been broken up. Since that time, the indigenous peoples of the former colonies have become increasingly vocal in their own assertions of identity and ownership of their own fallen soldiers. In recent years, indigenous groups have become a distinct presence on the former battlefields. Ceremonies at the Menin Gate have included native Canadians (Chielens and Dendooven 2008: 199), and there has been increasing Maori cultural activity around commemoration (e.g. Rotorua 2013). During the identification phase for Alan Mather, one of the final five candidates was Pte Heath of 33rd Bn, 3rd Australian Division. Heath was half Aborigine. Under British military policy of the time men deemed to be fully Aborigines were not allowed to serve, but Heath was an enlisted man, perhaps because his ethnicity was not questioned. However, the possibility that Heath might have been the individual recovered from the ground at St Yvon raised the possibility that the funeral might

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include a further dimension and took discussions of ownership and appropriate behaviour into an entirely different place involving belief systems very different to the majority of the participants in the excavation and identification process.

ECCE HOMO What of the casualty himself? As a collection of bones and associated artefacts he retains no ownership of anything. He is exhumed, moved, discussed, argued over, and appropriated. If one retains a rationalist approach to the bones, the soldier is the subject of everything that is going on, but he is also the surface onto which the claims of so many stakeholders are projected. Nevertheless, it is possible to consider alternative views of the fallen soldier’s claims on his own identity. Although examination of his agency is anecdotal and unscientific, it is necessary. As discussed above, members of the families of Albert Thielecke, Jakob Hones, and Alan Mather have all expressed the view that their fallen soldier was instrumental in bringing elements of the family back together again after many years because the discovery meant relatives were back put back in touch as the news spread. He is also responsible for forging new relationships: without Alan Mather the author would not have good friends in New South Wales who are member of the Mather family. Whether the casualty is asserting his individuality or not, he is the cause of these phenomena and his agency as the catalyst for meeting is essential. The casualty may also have agency ascribed to him that demonstrates his assertion of self, presence, and identity. In 2008, at about 03.30 on the night following Alan Mather’s discovery, a large and powerful electrical storm broke over Ploegsteert and Messines, waking the team and soaking those guarding the remains. Two years later, on the night following his funeral, there were similarly large and impressive storms at about the same time over both Messines, where the project team were staying, and over Lille, where the family was staying. In subsequent conversations, both team and family members quietly said that they felt this was Alan saying goodbye, while Alan’s great niece also said that she had asked another relative in the Northern Territories, what the earth spirits acknowledged by the first nations were doing? Such reactions may be dismissed as fanciful and romantic, but Alan Mather’s ownership of himself was clearly asserted to many of the participants through the agency of the thunderstorm. Whether it was a ghost or atmospherics, the thunderstorm prompted us to remember that the bones were the earthly remains of a human being who had enjoyed his own personality, free will, and experience.

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CONCLUSIONS The Fallen soldier remains a contested figure. He is simultaneously data, a family member, a war hero, a veteran, a member of a kindred or tribe, a military antecedent, an ancestor, and a presence/absence in a family story. He is a subject for academic study, for commemoration, for internet discussion, and for popular entertainment and information through the media. All of these reactions matter to the archaeologist because this data is human and, unlike the human data of centuries past, each of these soldiers has the potential to be identified and to have relatives with whom the archaeologist may well have to interact. These people will exhibit a range of reactions to the news about their ancestor, but they are likely to make contact with the archaeologists as agents of the discovery and identification. What is certain, is that, unlike more traditional archaeology, the archaeologist will find themselves interacting with state agencies, including serving military personnel who not only have a defined role within the process of dealing with the dead, but who are also likely to have definite opinions about the work that is being undertaken. It is also important for the archaeologists to understand that these agencies have a powerful role as organizing bodies and state representatives in both the ritual and form of commemoration and remembrance. Meanwhile, the individual may have personal opinions about the nature, form, and process of burial and memorialization, but the claim of the state agencies on the body is backed by legislation and custom. This power reflects their sanctioned role as establishment bodies with origins during or shortly after the conflict and ensures their primacy in such matters. As a result, the military are assured in their sense of ownership, continuing to regard the Fallen as ‘of their own’. Here, the archaeologist may have to have regard for their own feelings and maintain a diplomatic stance (and silence). The same is true where national sensibilities come into play, as the case of Fromelles clearly shows. With the broader community, the reactions of the wide range of interested parties behoves the archaeologist to communicate effectively and to engage in debate in order to ensure a better understanding of the motivations of archaeological work, the processes involved, and the care taken with human remains. These parties include the local population and special interest groups whose support is essential to the successful prosecution of archaeological projects. These bodies can be powerful advocates for archaeological activity and provide useful contacts and links to experienced military historians and sources of valuable local information. Unlike more typical commercial archaeology, where the specialist is responsible to the client alone, the frame of Great War archaeology throws archaeologists into a more complex series of relationships with external bodies, kindred, and individuals, all of whom feel they are stakeholders, and some of whom have responsibilities defined by law, such as the CWGC and by

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custom and practice in the case of individual Army units and veterans’ bodies. Beyond the authorities are the wider stakeholders, including landowners, local communities, and the special interest groups. Different conceptions of the fallen soldier have developed, creating particular claims on him as part of their history, identity, and raison d’être. The archaeologists engaged in the project where remains are encountered will undergo their own experiences that create a shared sense of engagement and, by extension, ownership. Each of the professional bodies has their own role to play and must relinquish their ownership as the process continues: the archaeologists cede to the CWGC and the military, which cede to the family, despite the continued ownership and care of the body held by the burial authority. Aside from these clear claims, the wider communities will take their own positions on the process and propriety of exhumation and assert their own views on the idea of the fallen soldier. For the archaeologist, this may be uncharted territory and the multiple and sometimes contesting and contradictory voices, opinions, and claims manifest the continued importance of the Great War to elements of modern society (Mosse 1989; Todman 2005) around the world. The importance is to recognize the importance of all the stakeholders, to deal diplomatically and appropriately with all, but to remember that the highest professional standards should remain at the forefront. The quality of results is what matters and all of the stakeholders will ultimately judge the project by those results. Ownership of the body is highly charged but, above all, it must be remembered that these bones and the associated artefacts are the physical remains of people. While there may be multiple motivations for, and reactions to the discovery and recovery of such remains they were and, in a very real sense, are still human beings. They retain an agency, such as reuniting families or bonding dig team members, and have a presence, both physical in the cemetery and through their artefacts in a museum. They inspire and inform discussion, description, and remembrance. The process of excavation brings the individual back into the foreground of consciousness for different groups, whose reactions can and will simultaneously conflict, contrast, and yet share common ground in elements of remembrance. Nevertheless, it is important to return to first principles: the bones, Context number (1001), the subject of discussion, the agent of change, The Fallen, The Missing, the soldier, all of them are manifestations and elements of what is, was, and remains a Person: ecce homo.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I am grateful to the people who have given freely of their time and thoughts to discuss the issues surrounding this chapter, including my uniformed friends and colleagues whose throwaway remarks have prompted some of the discussion here,

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where necessary I have respected your privacy! The members of the GWF are also to be commended for their frankness and candour, even though I was explicit that their views would be presented in academic work. I must also thank numerous colleagues who have worked with me in this subject area, including the members of No Man’s Land, without whom much of the work described would not have happened. Jon Price and Paola Filipucci deserve special thanks as this chapter developed from work undertaken with then on the place and meaning of the Fallen and on the role of heritage within the military. The families of the Fallen have been nothing but charming and I value their friendship and observations. The same is true of representatives of the CWGC and JCCC, whose staff are invaluable and whose support ensures positive results, including identities and memorials. I am exceedingly grateful to the editors of this volume for the opportunity to contribute to both stimulating conference sessions and to this volume. Finally, I should pay tribute to Albert Thielecke, Jakob Hones, Alan Mather, Leopold Rotharmel, and his fallen comrades, a soldier of the King’s Own, and others: we continue to remember them.

ENDNOTES 1. Author note: some conversations described in this paper involved individuals who did not wish to be identified for professional or personal reasons. 2. Tony Robinson was presenter of UK Channel 4’s archaeology series ‘Time Team’ between 1993 and 2013. He is also famous for his portrayal of Baldrick in the UK BBC series Blackadder.

BI B LI O GRAPH Y Primary Sources Banning, J. 2010. http://jeremybanning.co.uk/2010/02/03/finding-of-bodies-atbeaucamps-ligny-and-lack-of-proper-procedure-by-french/ (Accessed 29 October 2012). COBDO. 2010. http://www.cobdo.org.uk/html/reburial_statement.html (Accessed 13 May 2012). CWGC. 2012. http://www.cwgc.org/about-us.aspx (Accessed 26 February 2016). Daily Mail. 2013. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2376475/German-soldiersperfectly-preserved-trench-buried-alive-Allied-shell.html (Accessed 17 August 2013). Daily Mail. 2013a. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2313402/British-soldiersPrivate-Christopher-Douglas-Elphick-enant-John-Harold-Pritchard-buried-France96-years-killed-action-WWI.html (Accessed 17 August 2013). GWF. 2008. http://1914-1918.invisionzone.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=84427 (Accessed 25 October 2012). GWF. 2012. http://1914-1918.invisionzone.com (Accessed 25 October 2012).

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Long Long Trail. 2013. http://www.longlongtrail.co.uk/research/index.php/disquietingnews-from-fromelles/?fb_ref=below-postandfb_source=message (Accessed 17 August 2013; page no longer available). Rotorua. 2013. http://www.nzherald.co.nz/rotorua-daily-post/news/article.cfm?c_ id=1503438&objectid=10960771 (Accessed 3 February 2016). SMH. 2009a. http://news.smh.com.au/breaking-news-national/combet-defends-fromellesexhumations-20090819-ephi.html (Accessed 29 October 2012). SMH. 2009b. http://www.smh.com.au/world/fromelles-site-bans-finders-20090503arfu.html (Accessed 29 October 2012). SMH. 2009c. http://www.smh.com.au/world/kept-away-from-a-sensitive-site-20090816emeo.html (Accessed 29 October 2012). The Age. 2009. http://www.theage.com.au/national/fears-for-bodies-of-the-fallen-fromellesdiggers-20090816-emcw.html (Accessed 28 February 2015). VDK. 2012. https://www.volksbund.de/en/volksbund.html (Accessed 12 February 2016). Vosdroits. 2012. https://www.service-public.fr/particuliers/vosdroits/N30 (Accessed 14 December 2015). WFA. 2012. http://www.westernfrontassociation.com (Accessed 25 October 2012). Yorkshire Regiment 2015. http://www.yorkshireregiment.com/association/antecedentassociations/yorks-andamp-lancs/ (Accessed 28 February 2015).

Secondary Sources Bostyn, F. 2007. Passchendaele 1917, Barnsley: Pen and Sword. Brown, M. 2007. The Fallen, the Front and the finding: archaeology, human remains and the Great War, Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 22(2), 53–67. Brown, M. 2011. Whose heritage? Archaeology, heritage and military, in P. G. Stone (ed.) Cultural Heritage, Ethics, and the Military, 129–38, Woodbridge: Boydell. Brown, M. and Osgood R. 2009. Digging up Plugstreet, Sparkford: Haynes. Chielens, P. and Dendooven, D. 2008. Five Continents in Flanders, Tielt: Lannoo. Dejonckheere M., 2006. Kruisweg, Gent: Poezie Centrum. Defossés, Y., Jacques, A., and Prilaux, G. 2008. L’archaeologie de la Grande Guerre, Rennes: Inrap. Fiorato V., Boylston A., and Knüsel C. 2000. Blood Red Roses, Oxford: Oxbow. Girardet J.-M., Jacques A., and Duclos J.-L. L. 2003. Somewhere on the Western Front, Arras: Imprimerie Centrale de l’Artois. Holmes, R. 2011. Soldiers, London: Harper Press. Keegan, J. 1985. The Face of Battle, London: Penguin. King’s Own 2004. Unpublished Order of Service for the burial of an Unknown Soldier. Kirke, C. 2009. Red Coat, Green Machine, London: Continuum. Lindsay, P. 2011. Our Darkest Day, London: Hardie Grant. Loe, L., Barker, C., Brady, K., Cox, M., and Webb, H. 2014. Remember Me To All, The archaeological recovery and identification of soldiers who fought and died in the Battle of Fromelles 1916. Oxford: Oxford Archaeology Monograph, 23. Mosse, G. 1989. Fallen Soldiers, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Robertshaw, A. and Kenyon, D. 2008. Digging the Trenches, Barnsley; Pen and Sword.

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Saunders N. 2007. Killing Time, Stroud: Alan Sutton. Todman D. 2005. The Great War, Myth and Memory, London: Hambledon and London. War Office 1922. Statistics of the Military Effort, London: HMSO. Wheeler, R. M. 1958. Still Digging, London: Pan.

7 Bones Without Barriers The Social Impact of Digging the Dead Faye Sayer and Duncan Sayer

I N T R O D U C TI O N The excavation of human remains is one of the most contentious issues facing global archaeologies today. However, while there are numerous discussions of the ethics and politics of displaying the dead in museums, and many academic studies addressing the repatriation and reburial of human remains, there has been little consideration of the practice of digging up human remains itself (but see Kirk and Start 1999; Williams and Williams 2007). This chapter will investigate the impact of digging the dead within a specific community in Oakington, Cambridgeshire, during the excavation of an early Anglo-Saxon cemetery in 2010 and 2011. The analysis of impact was enabled by applying a double-stranded methodology of collecting quantitative and qualitative social data within a public archaeology project. This aimed to explore the complexity of local people’s response to the excavation of ancient skeletal material. These results will provide a starting point to discuss the wider argument about screening excavation projects (see also Foreword this volume; Pearson and Jeffs this volume). It is argued that those barriers, rather than displaying ‘sensitivity’ to local people’s concerns, impede the educational and scientific values of excavation to local communities, and fosters alienation and misunderstandings between archaeologists and the public. The professionalization of British archaeology has taken place within Protestant modernity, and we will argue that it is this context which drives the desire to screen off human remains from within the industry, rather than the need to protect the public or the dead from one another.

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Archaeology and modern death culture In England, Wales, and Northern Ireland, it is a condition of the Ministry of Justice licence to remove human remains that modern excavation is screened from public gaze. For many projects, particularly those carried out in an urban or public context, this condition manifests as the erection of barriers to block lines of sight. However, this has not always been standard practice. Archaeological projects have often involved a public engagement element, even before public archaeology was formally recognized. Large excavation projects, such as Whithorn, a Scottish project carried out in the late 1980s, included a viewing platform so members of the visiting public could see the excavation, including burials, from the edge of the trench (Rick Peterson, pers. comm.). (Scotland operates under a different legal framework to England.) Similar arrangements were also employed in English excavations including some involving medieval cemeteries: for example, Winchester Old Minster (excavated in the 1960s), Jarrow and Monkwearmouth (1959–88), and Sutton Hoo (1983–93). Smaller profile projects have also employed public engagement strategies. There is a history of this open approach in Cambridgeshire: for example, when the early Anglo-Saxon cemetery at Edix Hill, Barrington, was excavated in 1989–91, members of the public could openly see and approach the skeletons (Fig. 7.1). This was also true at Oakington when the first twenty-six burials were excavated in 1993 and 1994 (Fig. 7.2, Taylor et al. 1998), and again in 2005, when a further seventeen skeletons attracted the fascination of children from the adjoining playground (Richard Mortimer pers. comm.). However, since 2008 the condition to erect barriers has been embraced within some strands of the archaeological community and a recent article published in Current Archaeology described how: ‘In order to ensure that those buried under Liverpool Street are protected from precisely the casual morbid curiosity visited on St Bethlehem’s patients, the remains are carefully screened to shield them from onlookers.’ Current Archaeology (2011: 190)

This project took place in London adjacent to a busy city street and so screening was deemed appropriate; however, this quote shows a development beyond the Ministry of Justice’s position to protect the public from accidental view human remains. At St Bethlehem’s, the archaeologists wished to protect the dead from the living who were guilty of ‘morbid curiosity’. This is not an isolated attitude and this derogatory use of the phrase regularly appears in archaeological literature, for example: Bahn (1984) or Parker Pearson (1999: 185). The 1986 International Council for Museums Code of Ethics, Larsen and Walker (2005: 113), and Curtis (2003: 25) understand the phrase to refer to viewing human remains as entertainment. In all of these cases, ‘morbid curiosity’ takes on negative connotations evoking shame, which implies that an interest in

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Fig. 7.1 Visitors to Barrington are fascinated by skeletons in 1990/1, courtesy of Tim Malim

Fig. 7.2 Visitors look on as Oakington cemetery is investigated in 1993 (Courtesy of Oakington and Westwick Village Archive)

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death is in some way morally wrong. However, the phrase itself simply describes an interest in death or the dead: something that we are all perhaps guilty of because death is part of the human condition. Such behaviour is not universally regarded as negative, even within European culture, and the viewing of human remains takes on a special spiritual significance when they are enshrined in Europe’s Roman Catholic cathedrals. This means that viewing and guilt are associated only within a particular context—in this case professional archaeologists working within Protestant (as opposed to Catholic) modernity. That this criticism is manifest as an emotion—guilt—is important. It is the unpredictability of emotions which Giddens (1991: 156) argues places them at odds with the segregation and isolation of modernity which has set apart sex, dying, or sickness so that they are experienced in professional institutions or private life (Mellor 1993; Walter 1994, 1999; Sayer 2010b). In this context, professional behaviour and emotions have become antithetical; therefore, emotions felt at the sight of an excavated skeleton are at odds with professional codes of practice. The sociologist Kellehear (2007: 213–33) proposes a way we might understand this situation. He describes the modern manner of death and how in Western modernity we have invented a new mode of dying: the shameful death. This shame extends beyond the grave in deaths that resulted from AIDS, poverty, or death in a nursing home when personal choices are removed. The shame stems from a perception that we, as both individuals and as a society, have in some way let these people down. He identifies studies which show how people dying from dementia are often left unattended because of the stigma of this disease; a situation which creates loneliness, an emotion often felt by people who have undergone institutionalization (Kellehear 2007: 225). This circumstance manifests in other ways too; for example, the media reports heroic deaths, not sad ones. You may recognize the formulae: xxxxx was a real fighter she/he overcame barriers and inspired people before dying with family (Seale 1995). As a society then we associate shame and guilty with death but this shame is the result of segregation. By separating the dead from the living during excavation, by erecting barriers, we institutionalize the dead and extend the modern hidden way of death, the shameful death, into archaeology. So what is the relevance of this wider context? In the Liverpool Street example, it was the act of viewing skeletons that was shameful. The dead were perceived as having had their choice taken away from them, ascribed lunatic identities by passers-by and the media, because St Bethlehem’s had been ‘Bedlam’, the famous asylum for the insane; however, these dead had not been institutionalized (Current Archaeology 2011). Morbid curiosity then describes an invasion of privacy—the ‘stripping bare’ of an individual—that

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is perhaps enhanced though the apparent nakedness of a skeleton (Sayer 2010b: 125). But this sense of guilt derives peculiarly from modernity: privacy, nakedness, sex, madness, and criminality are segregated into institutions or asylums, like ‘Bedlam’, by laws and attitudes which separate public and private behaviours. In this context, how we present ourselves to others is highly significant and so is the way the dead are presented. By imposing our own social morality onto the dead, we are guilty of more than curiosity—we are in fact guilty of forcing our own values and social experience onto past people and ascribing to them situationally dependent emotions that they could not have experienced. In fact, the majority of modern passers-by are not guilty of anything; they are curious about the skeletons and interested in death, life, and archaeology, and it is exactly because archaeologists are part of modernity that it is assumed that death is taboo, where it is simply institutionalized, segregated, or hidden behind barriers (Sayer 2010b). There are plenty of negative examples of interaction with human remains in the literature. In 1993, people in Sheffield were horrified by press coverage describing grave clearance work by a professional clearance company operating behind screens. Contrary to popular perception, they were not horrified about being able to see into the site but about what they could see: the site was cleared using mechanical diggers, shovels, and plastic bags (Sayer 2009, 2010b). In 2008, archaeologists working at Bonn Square, Oxford, were verbally abused, even spat on. Protestors raised cameras over the hoarding to try to get a glimpse of the work. Comments left on the Oxford Mail website at the time indicated not just a frustration about the failure of the original protest, which was aimed at the development not the archaeology, but also a general ignorance about archaeology, its methods, and suspicion about collusion between the County Council and the excavators (Sayer 2010b: 87–8; also see Sayer and Walter this volume). At Oakington, all of these characteristics are also visible but the screens at Sheffield Cathedral made the shovels and diggers seem sinister. Equally, the suspicion about archaeology being an exclusive activity is also evident at both Bonn Square and Oakington, but the barriers at Bonn Square seem to reinforce that exclusivity to the point where it generated conspiracy theory discussed amongst those who felt excluded. These examples are extreme cases, where a particular set of circumstances led to protest; none of which were explicitly about screens but the barriers appear to have catalysed an existing negative situation. Our concern is that by separating the dead from the living, archaeologists are in danger of suggesting that what we do is in some way shameful. We carry out a professional role involving human remains, but today institutions like undertakers and hospitals are open and accessible and are accountable to public inquiry—both

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formal/legal and informal/personal. However, rather than just presenting criticism we wish to present an alternative scenario—in this chapter we offer Oakington as a comparative case study. In the Oakington case, we deliberately excavated a large early Anglo-Saxon cemetery on public land, adjacent to a playground, municipal cemetery, and recreation facility, without screens. In this case, we did not aim to manage public perception or control interpretation but allowed them to explore their own experience, alongside archaeology students, and with access to archaeological information. In this case study, we aim to highlight the differences in the impacts on communities between having barriers and not having barriers on mortuary excavations.

The Value of Archaeology Archaeology has values beyond voyeurism, which are often espoused by professionals (Lipe 1984; Darvill 1995; Carman 2002). These values are both tangible (measurable, physical) and intangible (emotional and psychological), and include social and political tenets, such as the creation of identity and pride of place, as well as more perceptible economic returns like tourism and heritage’s pivotal role in many countries’ gross national product (Hewison 1987). In recent years, these broader values have been highlighted in a number of heritage case studies, from a variety of contexts, including Benders’ (1998) work in Stonehenge and Jones’s work in Hilton of Cadboll in Scotland (Jones 2004). These suggest that archaeological projects directly affect the lives of the living, providing a forum to negotiate feelings not only about the past, but also about the present. For example, Williams and Williams (2007) suggest that the archaeological excavation in Stokenham, Devon, had tangible value not only in providing space for the modern-day churchyard but also intangible value in the mourning and commemoration of death in the present day. It is, in part, through the foundation of the paradigm of public archaeology that the social value of heritage is maintained and created through communication and proactive engagement with a wide group of people outside of the profession (Skeates et al. 2012). McGimsey (1972) identified this need to communicate and educate the wider public during cultural resource management. Yet, it was not until the 1990s and early 2000s that public archaeology became a dominant phrase in professional discussions relating to archaeological outreach and education (Little 2002; Jameson 2004; Merriman 2004). Since its inception various examples have developed, which put these ideas into practice, including the Shoreditch Park Community Excavation in London, UK (Simpson 2011) and the Annapolis Public Archaeology Project

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in Maryland, USA (Potter 1994). These projects involved a variety of activities, including exhibitions, television programmes, web-based resources, objecthandling sessions, storytelling, oral history projects, and publicly accessible excavations. Furthermore, this cooperative approach is championed by both national and international government agencies, including UNESCO, English Heritage, and the Department of Culture, Media and Sport. For example the Valletta Convention requires that projects should ‘ . . . promote public access to important elements of its archaeological heritage’ (1992: 8, iii). As excavation is a fundamental component of part of archaeological heritage, it would be logical to regard access to it as critical to this cooperative approach. Recent ethnographic research into the benefits of public excavation supports the idea that public engagement with the physical remains of the past enables the public to develop meaning and relevance in the present (Gardener 2010; Simpson 2010). It has been proposed this experiential and cognitive pedagogical approach supports learning. Furthermore, by linking this to community service learning it has wider social benefits, including reducing crime rates and enhancing local connectivity leading to the development of a sense of place and pride (English Heritage 2006; Nassaney 2012). For example, the public excavation of the slave quarters of Jacksons Home, Nashville, Tennessee, USA, highlighted how these projects can serve to break down political and social barriers (La Roche 2012). Opening up discussions and engaging the public in critical discourse, these projects can bring ethical debates to the foreground and give the public a place and space to discuss complex and often highly emotive issues. Recently, mortuary archaeologists have sought to provide a public place and space to enable this type of critical engagement with their research: for example, Goldstein’s archaeology deathways project in Tucson AZ, USA (Goldstein and Anyon 2010). This project focused on creating and using public forums, including Twitter, and museum exhibitions to display human remains to those interested. Critically, as Gustafsson and Karlsson’s (2012) research on public access to Swedish rock art sites suggests, it is these dialogues between archaeologists and the public that can assist and inform the future preservation, conservation, and management of archaeology, and has relevance for post-excavation presentation, including that of human remains. Subsequently, through opening up discussions with local people about intangible meanings and alternative interpretations, it is the professionals and not just the public who benefit from these projects (Boyd 2012). These multiple and interweaving strands of value highlight public archaeology’s potential to provide impact beyond Holtorf ’s (2005: 6) emphasis upon heritage ‘entertainment’, suggesting they act not simply as ‘theatres for memories’ (see Holtorf and Williams 2006: 253) but as places in which memories are formed, where ideas are developed and

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genuine critical discourse is achieved (see also Brown this volume). Despite these benefits of engagement with, and access to, archaeological remains in situ, access to human remains is problematic. This is because of legal restrictions but also because of reluctance amongst heritage professionals to challenge perceived cultural norms and enter into a wider and more complex moral and ethical debate. Like the remains themselves, this engagement often remains hidden behind barriers. Still, despite the academic, professional, and even political championing of public archaeology, the majority of archaeology projects in Europe and the rest of the world are not publicly accessible, either to view or to participate in. Rather they are done in commercial or research contexts that are neither specifically nor deliberately open, due to time limits, health and safety requirements, and development constraints, but also in some cases because of moral and ethical issues with viewing the dead. This direct and indirect exclusion maybe a professional oversight, yet perhaps more cynically it also directly relates to a deliberate anti-public stance, with some archaeologists claiming that public involvement would jeopardize professional standards. Despite these restrictions, as previously noted, some archaeologists, often through collaboration with local and county archaeological societies, have attempted to promote and enable public participation and involvement, whether actively or passively, in the process of archaeological excavation. Therefore, at Oakington we sought not only to support this long-standing tradition of public collaboration, but also to redress this current imbalance in publicly accessible excavations. We aimed to encourage the wider application of public archaeology and provide a case study that upholds the values of public archaeology during the excavation of human remains.

BONES WITHOUT BARRIERS AT OAKINGTON

Oakington early Anglo-Saxon cemetery The research for this study took place over two field seasons, 2010 and 2011, of a collaborative excavation comprising the authors, Richard Mortimer (Oxford Archaeology East), the Parish Council, and Oakington and Westwick History Society. The excavation included students, community members, and other volunteers. The cemetery was first identified with the discovery of three burials in 1926. It was rediscovered in 1993 during the construction of a playground and twenty-six burials were subsequently excavated (Taylor et al. 1998). In 2006, a further seventeen burials were excavated to construct a recreation building. In 2010, the parish council agreed to a university excavation project because of

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local interest but also because they wished to update and extend the playground. The research element of this project was established by Duncan Sayer working with Richard Mortimer. They excavated a further twenty-seven individuals. In 2010 Duncan Sayer, concerned about the morality of working behind screens, applied for and obtained legal consent to excavate the cemetery without screens allowing a community element to be included in the project. When consulted by the Ministry of Justice, a local doctor explained that the opportunity for local children to see real human anatomy was very exciting (see Parker Pearson et al. 2013). In 2010 and 2011, the project included a main trench and a series of smaller trenches investigating settlement features. It also included a separate area where the finds were processed and skeletons were washed and dried before being packed up for transport to the laboratory. The outreach and survey elements of this project included a site open day during the village fayre, organized school visits, informal daily visits from the local community, and an end-of-season site tour. In 2010, the project team collected sixty-two responses to a museum-style questionnaire circulated to visitors and received a series of letters from school children expressing their thanks and interest in the project, some of which were published in British Archaeology (British Archaeology 2011: 42–3). In 2011, in order to enhance the public outreach element, Duncan Sayer invited Faye Sayer (née Simpson) to collaborate in this research project with the explicit aim of investigating the public engagement with human remains. Subsequently, in 2011 the questionnaire was complemented by open comment cards (for the open day) and more qualitative techniques designed to evaluate visitors and diggers throughout the project. These techniques involved the unobtrusive observation of conversations, one-on-one interviews, and reflexion on specific activities as used successfully elsewhere by Simpson (2010). The site was situated in a popular gathering place, next to the village playground, municipal cemetery, and a recreational building which was used to hold scout meetings, sports events, and gym classes; therefore the only separation between the excavation of the skeletons and the public was the wire fencing. This was put up as a deterrent to vandalism and nocturnal theft and to allow some control over access to avoid accidental damage. The fence also complied with health and safety concerns, for example, a visitor accidentally tripping or falling, or damage to the archaeological remains by dogs wandering off their leads. The fencing also acted as a focal point, allowing information boards to be displayed, including notices about the remains so that members of the public could make informed decisions about whether to look upon the archaeological dead. The fencing allowed the creation of a single entrance point that was useful in facilitating choice: whether visitors wished to enter the site and closely view skeletons or remain outside. In other words, despite the public context and visibility of the work, no-one could ‘casually’ and accidentally see human remains without prior warning as a passer-by.

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Methodology To date, there has been no formal attempt to understand the impact that excavating human remains has on the viewer or the resultant social and emotional complexities. However, in a study of formal museum displays, Kristeva (1984) noted that reactions to cadavers were of a highly emotionally charged and personal nature. Furthermore, Kristeva’s ‘abjection’ theory suggests that because seeing a ‘dead person’ is outside cultural and social norms, it had become ‘repulsive’, forcing the viewers to deal with their own mortality because it is something deeply traumatic and outside natural and symbolic order (Kristeva 1984; although Sayer 2010a argues that the dead are not traumatic nor threatening). It is because of this complexity that the authors believed that in order to assess the personal, psychological, and underlying social responses to excavating human remains, a questionnaire alone would be insufficient. Subsequently, a double-stranded methodology interweaving quantitative and qualitative modes of data collection and analysis was developed based on social science techniques (Kramer 1979; Kramer and Kramer 2001; Thomas 2004; Edgeworth 2006). These sociological and anthropological research techniques enable the researcher to gauge social norms and behavioural patterns (Malinowski 1984). As a result, this methodological approach has the potential to provide an evaluative framework for understanding the wider human experience of archaeology. In particular, by considering specific engagements from an individual participant biographic perspective, this approach transcends homogenizing perceptions and overarching trends. Instead, it allows for an exploration of the relational complexity of engagements with the archaeological dead. As a result, our methodology builds on Simpson’s work on evaluating the wider social, political, economic, and knowledge values of archaeology to the public (Simpson 2010: 33–5) and employs a cross-disciplinary method that allows the experience of viewing archaeology to be understood within the human contexts of evolving experience and not those of static one-off narratives and structural data (Newman 1995; Edgeworth 2006). Subsequently, the research drew on self-reflexive and ethnological perspectives, as well as quantitative and qualitative datasets. These datasets included quantitative material; for example, the statistical data obtained from closed questionnaires. Equally, the qualitative material was important too; for example, discourse analysis of the transcribed conversations and interviews. Therefore, the results of the observations and informal conversations with members of the public, together with qualitative questionnaires and comments were combined. This enabled specific responses to be detailed and allowed the interrogation of the data to permit understanding and analysis of a range of perceptions and values attached to human remains. Subsequently, this research aimed to provide a

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qualitative understanding of social behaviour based on individual responses, which could be categorized into themes. This is particularly important as people’s thoughts are not static and they will not necessarily respond the same way in the same situation experienced twice. Drawing on these theories, an analytical method was established based on data gathered in participatory and non-participatory observations, conversations, and informal interviews with key members of the project team over the duration of the project’s 2011 field session. These multiple interlinking research methods were based on ethnological modes of enquiry (Newman 1995), with the objective of the research aimed at enabling a comprehensive understanding of the values and impacts of excavating human remains. They included the following categories.

Participatory and non-participant observation During the excavation of human remains, the participants (those proactively involved) and non-participants (those visiting and engaged in the site) were either informally or formally observed. This included visitors, volunteers, students, officials, and the site staff. This involved observation of personal interactions with the site and human remains, including body language being recorded in the form of field notes and photographs and included informal and formal interactions; for example, on visitor days and tours.

Interviews and conversations The interviews were deliberately designed to be informal and conversational, using a semi-structured thematic approach. Subsequently instead of formal questions, the interviews were planned around key themes. This enabled an organic and flexible conversational style, which allowed people to set their own agenda. Furthermore, a relaxed situation and environment for the interviews was established, including public places and spaces, such as the local public house and community centre, to encourage people to be more open and honest with the interviewer (Jones 2004: 8). This helped develop a relationship between the interviewer and the interviewee that influenced the information that is received and its relevance. These interviews were carried out during the project, so that participants could be self-reflective in their answers. This was deemed more appropriate, when interviewing people in an official capacity, than taking a more structured approach, as this was more comfortable for them. The data from these two research methods needed to understand both intangible and tangible influences on people’s experience so a number of themes were identified to allow an understanding of the material.

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Themes: 1. The general societal and psychological implications of viewing human remains for non-specialists. 2. The influence of viewing human remains on perceptions of archaeology or heritage by visitors. 3. The impact of excavating human remains upon the viewer and the excavator. Subsequently, during the project, conversations, interviews and observations of members of the public (P), student staff (SS), students (S), and archaeologists (A) were recorded, either digitally or through handwritten fieldwork notes. The nature of the recording depended on the context of the exchange, and occurred either during or immediately after. The recorded interviews, conversations, and observations were completely transcribed after the fieldwork had been completed enabling individual strands to be categorized by the established themes.

Results 2010 quantitative results From the sixty-two questionnaires we had thirty-four female and twenty-four male respondents (four undisclosed), the majority being aged 25–44 (twentyone), 45–64 (twenty-two), or over 65 (eleven). Three per cent had never gone to a museum before, 35 per cent went as a child, 52 per cent went every year, and 10 per cent every month. Thirty-four per cent had never seen an excavation before and 63 per cent had been to see an excavation, with 3 per cent claiming to visit one every year. These results indicate that the population of Oakington (or at least the people who answered the survey) were more frequently interested in the past or in heritage sites than the national average of 35 per cent of the population who go to museums every year (Ipsos MORI 1999). In this first year, no formal advertising was done within the community; subsequently, twenty-seven people came to investigate, twenty-four heard about the project through word-of-mouth, and three read about us in the parish newsletter. This last element is important as the visitors did not just consist of a regular museum-going public but included people who had not been to a museum in their adult lives. For all of the participants, this was an opportunity to actively explore archaeology within their community by seeing the excavation and discussing the remains with the excavators over the length of the project. When the questionnaire asked about archaeology and human remains, a very positive pattern emerged; 88 per cent of our sample believed archaeology makes an important contribution to society. Indeed, 98 per cent of the group

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recognized that archaeologists could learn from skeletons, with 91 per cent actively saying archaeologists should excavate skeletons as part of a structured research project. Just 2 per cent believed that archaeologists should excavate skeletons only when they were threatened by building work and the remaining 7 per cent did not mind. Yet 90 per cent of the public believed that skeletons should be excavated with public consent and without screens, where 10 per cent agreed about the consent but wanted access behind the screens (see Appendix 1). Although a small sample, these results are compatible with English Heritage’s independent survey and Manchester Museum’s survey of visitors, both of which reported that 91 per cent of the public supported the display of the dead in museums (Manchester Museum 2009; Mills and Tranter 2010; Sayer 2010a: 487). It is worth noting that the data from these studies relates to the display of the dead in museums, where the sensitivities regarding their original exhumation as part of a scientific archaeological excavation were not relevant. These are presented to the public in a sterile and controlled environment; this is worth considering when comparing this data to that of in situ human remains being exhumed in their original context. Comments made at the end of the questionnaires supported the numerical analysis. The comments included a consensus in favour of visibility: ‘I liked the fact there were no screens, it was possible to see what was going on and being able to speak to the team’ and ‘Thank you for sharing the experience.’ The comments suggested that the openness of the team broke down a separation between the public and the archaeologists: ‘Brilliant—thanks for your friendly approach and accessible working style. Good luck with future digs, and we look forward to seeing you again’ and ‘Fascinating work—really glad to learn more about your work. Really pleased to hear about how respectful you are being.’ As indicated in the ethnographic observations frequent reference was also made to ‘our’ and ‘my’ including ‘My family lived here for hundreds of years and my grandfather worked as a farm labourer on the fields where this dig is taking place—he would have been very interested in the dig’ and ‘Very important work you guys are doing and to share it with the public is great, as it’s our history, all of us’, showing the development of personal connections with the remains through the discussion of ownership of the past. Furthermore, the letters received after the excavation from the primary school children who visited offered some scope for further analysis. The comments highlighted principally that they enjoyed looking at the remains: ‘I loved all of it and liked looking at all of the bones’ and ‘I also really enjoyed it when we got to see the two skeletons.’ Furthermore, these hands-on experiences enabled the children to form associations and understand the bodies in relation to themselves: ‘I particularly liked looking at the teeth. They were very dirty’ (British Archaeology 2011). It is worth noting that ‘thank you’ letters are a regular component of primary school classroom activities, particularly after field trips. This data was taken from questionnaires and letters received after

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the project, and as a result it is static, the impressions from a one-day visit. It is also biased in favour of those people who filled in the questionnaires. The results were positive and reflected how children valued the experience. However, the excavators felt, from the experience of talking to visitors and engaging local residents in discussions, that there was a more complex set of social forces at work: this was not only contextual but also deeply personal and had the ability to change over time. As a result, the second season’s research focused on qualitative data collection designed to observe and record this relationship.

2011 qualitative research Relationships between the living and the dead The results from the qualitative study suggest that this project enabled the creation of social relationships to be established between the excavation, excavators and the community. Initially the questions posed by visitors were closed and nonspecific: ‘I hear you have skeletons’ (Public (P)) and ‘where are the skeletons?’ (P). These questions were slowly replaced during the excavation, and skeletons took on individual characteristics that excavators could be specifically questioned about. For example: ‘how did he die?’ or ‘can you tell from the bodies being dug up if they have been killed or died naturally?’ (P) and ‘were the bones joined together?’ (P) and ‘are those veins?’ (P). These questions focused on the physical traits of the skeletons, ones that could be seen or experienced by residents and indicated a degree of knowledge development. During repeat visits, people became more comfortable and confident in making comments themselves: ‘I’m surprised they have survived with the soil, it is not very good for plants you know.’ This growth in confidence of individual repeat-visitors was further highlighted in their behaviour on site. Initially the public stood behind the mesh fencing and waited to be engaged; by the second week they stood at the edge of the trench and asked questions directed at the archaeologists; in the third week they walked onto site to stand by the archaeologists and asked them direct questions (Fig. 7.3); by the final week these individuals started to ask to volunteer and wanted to get physically and intellectually involved in the digging. This response was mirrored by volunteers and students who were initially reluctant to be near or excavate a skeleton: ‘I don’t want to damage anything’ (V) ‘I am scared of damaging something’ (S) to by the end ‘it’s standard’ (S) or ‘it’s normal, just normal’ (S). Exposure to skeletons and the proximity of the site to popular gatheringplaces, the playground, and the recreation building, which held scout meetings and gym classes and formed the focus of weekly activities, normalized the excavation and enabled people to become more comfortable with the dead who had become another part of their routine.

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Fig. 7.3 Visitors venture onto site in 2011 to peer at the skeletons in their graves

A student staff member observed that there was, initially, some scepticism amongst certain members of the village who ‘didn’t like us being there’ (SS) and of the project in general. This, in part, related to a misperception about the role of archaeologists: ‘at first they thought it was all this treasure that we were going to take away, grave robbing’ (SS). However, this is almost certainly also related to relationships with authority; including a general distrust of professionals by individual members of the community. Indeed the authenticity of the project was questioned: ‘is it real?’ (P), and one individual wondered if we ‘put skeleton there on purpose’ (P). This suspicion also extended to the village hierarchy, dividing those on the parish council from those not; for some, the archaeologists, whose involvement was invited by the council, were an extension of it and initially were not to be trusted because excavation was, by default of this circumstance, an exclusive activity. However, because of ongoing daily conversations with students those same sceptics who questioned the ‘grave robbing’ volunteered to excavate and become more actively engaged in the project, even regularly leaving work early and standing for hours to watch the recording and lifting of skeletons. The openness of the project and its staff allowed people to build a respect and trust for the team and its activities: ‘it looks like hard work’ and ‘it’s so fiddly’ (P). Even many members of the community who indicated they were not actively interested in the archaeology asked: ‘how is it going?’ and ‘are you having fun?’ or ‘how is the camping?’ These conversations established new

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relationships between the archaeologists and the community and led to members of the public bringing their finds to site: ‘I found this in my back garden and what do you think it might be?’ (P). By the end of the season, villagers from all backgrounds did not just want to be part of the project, they wanted to be part of the discovery. This engagement broke down barriers and built relationships, changing the perception of the project from an exclusive activity for academics and amateurs to an inclusive power balancer within the community, in which the community felt it was their project. This is also important because the archaeological investigation took place prior to the construction of a new playground, something that the community would otherwise only have been able to undertake after an expensive archaeological evaluation exercise. Therefore, the relationship between archaeologists and the Parish Council was mutually beneficial, a similar circumstance to that at Stokenham (Devon) community project which took place to allow the expansion of contemporary cemetery (Williams and Williams 2007; Simpson and Williams 2008). Voluntary economic support for the archaeology shows that it was perceived to be making a positive contribution to village life; this included the village council financing the machine hire, the donation of a washing machine, and a catering company volunteering free food (on one occasion), which collectively helped improve the living environment or supported the overall costs of the project. Furthermore, each visitor to the village day was charged £1 by the Parish Council to cover costs of the event, and so many people uninterested in archaeology could see the benefits to the village. Some villagers expressed concern at the cost of the excavation: ‘it would be on our taxes, we wouldn’t be happy’ (P), but on learning that this project was not paid for by the council and their money they started asking questions about what was being found and making suggestions for future funding. Once the expense issues were resolved, they even started to see cultural benefits: ‘you’re really putting us on the map’ (P). The project engendered competitiveness: ‘You put a test pit in my friend’s garden, I want one in mine’ (P), and with finds: ‘I was a little peeved . . . she was bragging about seeing the brooches, I haven’t seen them, would you mind’ (P). Furthermore, it brought to the fore villagers’ personal insecurity about their own place in society: ‘I am not a local you know, I have only been here twelve years’ (P). These comments not only indicate the complex village dynamics but also show how involvement in the excavation became represent of personal status, with archaeology becoming a tool in village politics. Learning from the dead In 2011, distinct differences existed between the Oakington project and other (both non-participatory and participatory) excavations with and without burials, including those discussed in Simpson’s (2010) ethnographic research on

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community archaeology projects. These differences related to public knowledge and interest in the project and its archaeology. At other sites with no previous archaeological engagement (i.e. Shoreditch Park and Brayford), members of the public could not identify features independently and failed to show an interest if they could not see archaeology, i.e. a Roman wall (Simpson 2010). In contrast, at Oakington, the public developed a knowledge and interest in the archaeology without the assistance of archaeologists: members of the public pointed out, from memory of previous visits to site, archaeology to friends and family (‘you see that dark patch, there’s a body there’ (P)) and non-visiting public knowledge of the site (‘they are digging up Saxons’ (P)). This difference in knowledge may relate to the longevity of the excavation. Noticeably, the questions altered during the course of the excavation from ‘where’s the skeletons?’ and ‘are they dinosaurs?’ (P) to more detailed questions about age and sex and reference to the ‘Anglo-Saxons’ as opposed to the ‘dark ages’ (P). Interestingly there was very little unprompted memory of the previous excavations in the field: ‘how do you know where to dig?’ (P), and despite a plaque on the playground describing the previous burials: ‘I can’t believe I played in the playground and there were bodies, and it’s weird really what we didn’t know’ (P). The transference of knowledge seems to have been temporary but relates to the ability of a project to communicate more broadly. The community’s involvement and engagement in the excavation enabled knowledge transference, suggesting practical learning made it ‘more understandable than watching Time Team’ (P), and enabled the community to form connections with the site and its finds, placing the past into a modern context. For example, when the school children were shown a skeleton, specifically a skull, ‘they started poking to feel if they had teeth up there’ (SS), and saying ‘just like yours’ (P). People also asked questions about appearance, this was particularly poignant in the case of a father whose son had specific learning difficulties, when finding out the skeletons had physiological traits including extra vertebrae he asked whether this would have affected them mentally like his son. The importance of this visual connectedness between past and present was highlighted in the frequent use of the word ‘our’ including: ‘our ancestors’, ‘our history’, ‘our doorsteps’, and ‘our village’. This was previously highlighted in the 2010 survey and became increasing prevalent in conversations during the later stages of the project. Furthermore, members of the public began to tell the archaeologists and each other their family stories, establishing a personal connection with what was being excavated. These connections gave individuals a sense of ownership and in some cases possessiveness that meant they ‘didn’t want them [the skeletons] taking away’ (S). It was also said that they ‘wanted to see them displayed rather than the earlier reburial’ (P): referring to the reburial of the 1994 remains from the playground.

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Ethics: the way it’s dug The results of the qualitative survey mirrored the quantitative survey. When discussing barriers people asked: ‘what is the point of hiding it?’ (P), ‘what would you have to hide?’ (P), ‘what are you doing that we couldn’t see?’ (P), suggesting, as the 2010 survey did (90 per cent supported excavation without screens), that people did not want barriers to prevent them seeing the excavation of human remains. Some people understood the reasons to have barriers and considered the logistics of excavation method: ‘what have you had to change to leave it open?’ (P). Furthermore, the growing number of visitors during the project, their continued engagement in the excavation, and their questions specifically relating to the skeletons, including their physiological traits ‘is his leg broken?’ (P), suggested, as in the 2010 quantitative survey, that ‘they want to see the bodies’ (SS) and had a genuine rather than a voyeuristic interest in the skeletons. Results indicate that the visibility of skeletons enabled a dialogue about the ethics of excavation and the future of the remains. The project opened debate amongst villagers and changed perceptions. When the first skeletons were excavated people asked: ‘what will happen to them?’ (P) and ‘will they be reburied?’ (P), with some commenting that a repeat of the 1994 reburial, under the playground, ‘would be disrespectful’ (P). Yet, by the end of the project more comments were made by people indicating they did not want them to be reburied at all, rather ‘it would be good to have them back and put on display’ (P). The public’s response to human remains was affected by age and personal experience. One member of staff, involved in multiple outreach activities, reported: ‘it’s like kids are fine, adults are slightly more wary at first but after five minutes they are dying to get in there and see all the bones’ (SS). Initial observations and conservations also suggested that people of sixty-five plus were on the whole interested in seeing the remains, but focused questions about their treatment by excavators: ‘hope it will be reburied in the original resting place’ (P) and ‘where are you taking them after?’ (P). It was amongst this age group that some individuals had moral objections to excavating human remains—‘not right, just wrong, unethical, should be left where buried’ (P). This seems to have related to personal experience, with one woman getting upset because she believed that the archaeologists were disturbing the modern cemetery where she had a relative buried. When observed, adults generally seemed wary of human remains at first, being happier talking about grave-goods. When they did pose questions, they focused on the visible traits and physical attributes of the skeleton. Younger adults were more reluctant to come near the skeletons, unless engaged. Questions from those who did engage focused on the cause of death and grave-goods.

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Children, especially those under ten years, were more inquisitive and less fearful of human remains, being more able to voice specific moral or ethical dilemmas on seeing the remains. One younger child questioned modern burial customs, ‘I don’t want to be buried’, and morality ‘are you going to dig me up. . . . so why are you digging them up’ (4 year-old). Generally though, children were more comfortable with the skeletons, asking questions about age and sex, and relating parts of the bones to their own. The age of the skeleton affected people’s responses to the remains. The high numbers of juvenile and infant burials highlighted this point; there were often pauses in conversation and some people were wary of asking questions, particularly when they had an emotional element or interest: ‘it’s beautiful, is that wrong?’ (P). The nature of how a person died did not seem to bother the majority of people who assumed they died of natural causes, including death by old age. Yet when the death was regarded as less normative by modern standards, it triggered the emotions of some visitors. For example, the burial of a woman who had died during childbirth produced personal responses, as when one woman looked shaken when told about it on the tour. She was reassured following a hug from her partner and she did stay on the tour until the end and even asked questions that engaged with the archaeology. This burial, in particular, raised questions amongst the archaeologists about the role of barriers, as even the archaeologist excavating it commented: ‘it was as near as I ever have been to crying while digging’ (A). The strong emotive responses to this very specific burial promoted the archaeologists to cover the skeleton during excavation (initially to protect from rain) and erect a tent closed to visitors and volunteers. In part, this related to the personal struggles of the archaeologist to deal with burial, but also the awareness of potential personal responses from other staff members. These individual responses to this particular burial highlight the need to consider context when excavating human remains and be aware of the effect of personal experience (although in this case the tent caused controversy amongst the excavation team and was eventually removed). Furthermore, people, appeared more comfortable around adult skeletons in general than when exposed to the remains of juveniles. For adults’ remains, they even asked to hold bones describing the feeling as ‘electrifying’ and ‘that’s cool’, ‘it’s an amazing feeling’ (P). Such a response is not that different to visitors to the Body Worlds exhibition and it is the reality of seeing or touching a human body which turned a modest interest into an absorbing fascination, or even awe (see Walter 2004). Indeed while professionals might be scornful of emotive terminology—‘electrifying, amazing’—this type of behaviour should not be viewed in this way. The experience generates a discourse and enhances the prestige of archaeology, providing people with a genuine awareness of how the profession operates; this is exactly the process which medicine underwent when it opened its doors (Walter 2008) and can only be to the benefit of the archaeological profession.

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DISCUSSION: THE SOCIAL I MPACT OF DIGGIN G THE DEAD Oakington is located in South Cambridgeshire and is currently under Conservative local governance. The parish has a population of 1297, with an ethnic majority of 97.8 per cent Caucasians, higher than the national average of 85.6 per cent (Census 2001) and 13.8 per cent are retired. There is a marginally higher than average Christian population: 74.8 per cent as opposed 72 per cent. It is also worth noting that 57 per cent own their own home and over 30 per cent have engaged in further education (Census 2001). What is noticeable from the qualitative data is how the age and personal experiences of the viewer, and so their life experience, played a role in how the Oakington project was perceived. This also seems to have been influenced by an individual’s background and role within the village hierarchy. The demographics at Oakington include a bigger element than the national average of retired and highly educated people and this may have influenced the initial perception of archaeologists. But it was the presence and openness of the project, which allowed those people to reflect on their own place within village life and the history of their community. People’s varying reactions to different skeletons indicated they viewed them as individuals rather than objects of scientific or museological interest. However, amongst the most important reactions is the change in attitude that took place over the duration of the project. Initially people were closed off or ambivalent, but as they returned to the site and partook in its development and its discoveries, they become more comfortable, which enabled them to form personal connections with the site and its remains. The Oakington study shows and helps us to understand the relationship between people and human remains as complex and multi-staged. In general, the majority of this public did not seem to perceive viewing human remains as shameful or simply as entertainment; rather they were genuinely interested in this debate and wanted to discuss the interpretation and fate of archaeological collections. It is worth noting, that the public reactions to the remains could relate to their date: the distant past. Therefore, public responses to more recent nineteenth or twentieth century burial grounds, where people could have personal connections to the remains may be different. By exploring the physical identity of the remains through questioning and touching them when volunteering to wash them, some individuals reconstruct the identities of the dead for themselves. This longer-term relational benefit was certainly enhanced by a general feeling that these ‘Anglo-Saxons’ were amongst the first villagers to live in Oakington, but this was by no means the basis of this evolving relationship. Moreover, these personal explorations served to construct a personhood of the dead in their own right, reconstructing human beings from the physicality of dried bones (Sayer 2010b: 125). At the beginning of this chapter, we introduced a selection of case studies to help contextualize this discussion, for example: Oxford Bonn Square and

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Sheffield Cathedral (Sayer 2010b). On the surface, these examples are extreme cases and different from Oakington, because negative feelings were already in place at start of the projects. However, there are some interesting parallels and themes that have helped shaped our discussion. Each example focused on the excavation and reburial of human remains, but the recent legal obligation to reburial in England, Wales, and Northern Ireland, highlights the potential for the reburial issue to continually resurface, as it has throughout twentiethcentury Europe (e.g. Holck 2006, 2009; Parker Pearson et al. 2011, 2013). It is important therefore to understand the need to tackle the complex cultural positions within which this debate takes place. To a greater degree the archaeological excavation of skeletons is acceptable because archaeology is rooted in European culture; however, screening of excavations because of a sense of professional, moral, or legal obligation does not allow that culture and relationship to continue to grow and will create suspicion and breed contempt. Without screens at Oakington, many people’s starting position was one of suspicion targeted at the aims of the project, at its authenticity, and about its relationship to authority. It was through open dialogue that this developed into a rewarding and constructive project that benefited the project team and the community as a whole. Without collaborative public projects built into mainstream archaeology, including burial archaeology, we will lose the public mandate and reburial will continually resurface, however strong the objection of the scientific community.

CO NCLUSION Running public projects is not easy and is fraught with challenges: the visitor at Oakington who was visibly shocked at the discovery of the pregnant woman is a pertinent example of this. This study has shown that age, gender, personal circumstance, and experience all influence how individuals interact with skeletal remains, and that this is not always a positive experience. As such, it is important that we question whether the greater community benefit outweighs the risk of harm caused by the ‘upsetting’ or ‘traumatic’ impact of the remains upon a few individuals. Indeed, should we consider emotional responses in polarities? Assigning positive or negative values in this manner suppose that upset and shock cannot be constructive experiences. Confronting strong emotional responses to human mortality can be a developmental experience. In England, the legal position requires that all excavations involving human remains should be screened to prevent public gaze. However, as our permission to excavate without screens shows, the method and approach used is flexible, meaning that screens do not have to be impermeable to the public. As a result of this research, it is our opinion that barriers are a heavyhanded solution that are the result of, and serve to create, a distinctive and

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largely negative relationship between archaeologists and the public. We predict that barriers will continue to cause problems and generate conflict if this choice is favoured. There are some sites, recent cemeteries, crypts, and places where fleshed remains may be found that can genuinely cause revulsion and should be screened off for health reasons (e.g. the small risk of infection from smallpox). However, the majority of archaeology involves dry bones that, contra to Kristeva (1984), do not engender ‘horror’ or but promote contemplation and personal discovery both of an intellectual and emotional kind. As a result, archaeologists must not create project designs for cemetery projects that exclude public engagement based on extreme circumstance. Instead cemetery projects should actively engage the public, promote permeability, and push the boundaries of acceptability, because there must be an alternative ways to screen accidental viewing than using big visual barriers. At Oakington we did not have screens, but we did erect signs that warned people about the human remains. We also solicited discussions with visitors about the situation and erected signs that openly address the ethical and moral implications of screens and reburial. Some individuals may avoid museums because of the potential to see skeletons, but it is choice that is important. Individuals should not be able to come up to a site without warning, but they should be able to exercise their freedom of choice when deciding whether to see archaeological remains. The legal obligation in favour of screening removes this freedom and disengages the general public from wider community and society affairs. Screens may be permeable, but their presence means that public engagement can be ignored by a profession. The requirement to secret sites away from the public may cause apathy amongst excavators, if you do not have to engage the public why do it? Worse, it may create an elitist professional attitude, which fosters or even justifies separation. This situation has the potential to damage the relationship that exists between archaeology, science, and society, reinforcing the perception that commercial and academic archaeology is connected to the establishment and by association, that excavation is an elitist activity reserved for a select few. Instead we maintain that openness is essential and public engagement is good practice for projects that include human remains.

A C K NO W L E D G E M E N TS We would like to thank the members of Oakington community. Special thanks go to the Parish Council and to Julie Grove and to Nick Harrison as well as to our co-director Richard Mortimer. Other archaeologists without whom this project could not have been possible include Meredith Carroll, Rick Sayer, Sam Dickinson, Gemma Tully, Clare Bedford, and Alanine Tierney. Thanks to Tim Malim for permission to reproduce Fig. 7.2.

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A PPENDIX 1 Feedback Form Oakington; family life on the edge of the fen, archaeological project Feedback Form We would like to learn from your experience, please take some time to fill out this form and tick all the relevant boxes. It is an anonymous and this information will be used for academic research and to improve your experience. 1) Which age band do you belong too? □ 5–14 □ 15–24 □ 25–44 □ 45–64 □ 65+ 2) Are you

□ Male

□ Female

3) How would you describe your ethnic origin?_______________________ 4) What is your current occupational status? □ School Student □ University Students □ Employed full time □ Employed part time □ Retired □ Self employed □ Unemployed 5) What level of education have you achieved? □ Primary school □ O levels/ GCE/GCSE □ A Levels □ Undergraduate degree □ Postgraduate degree □ Professional qualification □ None of the above 6) How did you find out about us? □ Local press □ Local parish news letter □ You saw as and came to investigate/live near by □ National press □ School □ word of mouth □ other______________ 7) Have you done any archaeology/history? □ I’m a heritage professional □ I have a qualification in archaeology □ I have a history degree 8) On what level have you experienced archaeology before? □ I’ve seen it on television □ I read archaeology books □ I have been on a dig before □ I am a member of a local society □ I have been field walking before □ None of the above 9) Do you think archaeology is important? □ It has no value □ It has some value □ it makes an important contribution to society 10) Have you ever seen a dig before? □ I have never seen an excavation □ I visit one every year □ I have been to see a site before 11) Have you seen archaeology in a museum □ Never □ as a child □ I go every year □ I go every week

□ I go every month

12) Do you regularly watch □ Real crime drama □ Forensic/police drama □ History shows □ Archaeology shows □ Specific shows about mummies or archaeological bones? □ None of the above

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13)

Do you regularly read □ Real crime books □ Forensic/crime investigation □ History Books □ Historic fiction □ Archaeology related fiction □ None of these

14)

Have you ever seen human skeletons before? □ Never □ I have seen them on TV □ I have seen them in a museum □ I have seen them at school □ I work with them □ I’ve seen X-rays

15)

Do you think that archaeologists can learn from human skeletons? □ No □ Maybe □ Yes □ Yes they are an important part of archaeological research

16)

Do you think archaeologist should dig up human skeletons? □ Never □ Only when they are threatened by building work □ Yes as part of a structured research project with clear aims □ Don’t mind

17)

If archaeologist do dig up bones should it be done □ In secret, behind a screen □ with public knowledge, behind a screen □ With public consent, behind a screen □ with public consent, with access behind the screen □ With public consent and without a screen so that everyone can see what is going on?

18)

Should human bones excavated from site be □ Reburied immediately □ Reburied after a research period □ Stored in a museum/church to allow for future research to be done

19)

Where the information boards on this excavation useful? □ Useful, particularly the warning □ Useful, but not the warning □ Not useful at all

20)

Did you enjoy seeing some archaeology? □ No □ Not sure □ Yes □ Yes very much

Thank you very much for filling this in. Please use this space to write a comment or just some words which describe you experience and then place form in the box.

BI B LI O GRAPH Y Bahn, P. 1984. Do not disturb? Archaeology and the rights of the dead, Journal of Applied Philosophy, 1(2), 213–25. Bender, B. 1998. Stonehenge: Making Space, Oxford: Berg. Boyd, W. 2012. ‘A frame to hang clouds on’: cognitive ownership, landscape, and heritage management, in R. Skeates, C. McDavid, and J. Carman (eds) The Oxford Handbook of Public Archaeology, 172–98, Oxford: Oxford University Press. British Archaeology. 2011. Dear Gemma and Mikey, British Archaeogy, 117, 40–3 http://www.britarch.ac.uk/ba/ba117/feat4.shtml (Accessed 3 February 2016).

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Carman, J. 2002. Archaeology and Heritage: An Introduction, London: Leicestershire University Press. Census. 2001. http://www.ons.gov.uk/ons/guide-method/census/census-2001/index. html (Accessed 29 June 2015). Current Archaeology. 2011. Bedlam burials: unearthing an English institution, Current Archaeology, 257, 13–19. Curtis, N. G. W. 2003. Human remains: the sacred, museums and archaeology, Public Archaeology, 3, 21–32. Darvill, T. 1995. Value systems in archaeology, in M. A. Cooper, A. Firth, J. Carman, and D. Wheatley (eds) Managing Archaeology, 40–50, London: Routledge. Edgeworth, M. 2006. Multiple origins, development, and potential of ethnographies of archaeology, in M. Edgeworth (ed.) Ethnographies of Archaeological Practice: Cultural Encounters, Material Transformations, 1–19, Walnut Creek CA: Altamira Press. English Heritage. 2006. Heritage Counts: The State of England’s Historic Environment 2006, London, English Heritage. Garden, M.-C. E. 2012. Living with landscape heritage, in R. Skeates, C. McDavid, and J. Carman (eds) The Oxford Handbook of Public Archaeology, 199–212, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Giddens, A. 1991. Modernity and Self-Identity, Cambridge: Polity Press. Goldstein, L. and Anyon, R. 2010. Cemeteries, consultation, repatriation, reburial, and sacred spaces today, in M. Heilen and M. Gray (eds) Deathways and Lifeways in the American Southwest, Volume 1, 301–13, Tucscon AZ: Statistical Research, Inc., Technical Report, 10–95. Gustafsson, A. and Karlsson, H. 2012. Changing of the guards: the ethics of public interpretation at cultural heritage sites, in R. Skeates, C. McDavid, and J. Carman (eds) The Oxford Handbook of Public Archaeology, 478–95, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hewison, R. 1987. The Heritage Industry: Britain in a Climate of Decline, London: Methuen. Holck, P. 2006. The Oseberg ship burial, Norway: new thoughts on the skeletons from the grave mound, European Journal of Archaeology, 9(2–3), 185–210. Holck, P. 2009. The skeleton from the Gokstad ship: new evaluation of an old find, Norwegian Archaeolical Review, 42(1), 40–9. Holtorf, C. 2005. From Stonehenge to Las Vegas: Archaeology as Popular Culture, Oxford: Altamira Press. Holtorf, C. and Williams, H. 2006. Landscapes and memories, in D. Hicks and M. C. Beaudry (eds) The Cambridge Companion to Historical Archaeology, 235–54, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ipsos MORI, 1999. Popularity of UK Museums. Available from: http://www.ipsosmori.com/researchpublications/researcharchive/1850/Popularity-Of-UK-Museums. aspx (Accessed 5 December 2015). Jameson, J. 2004. Public archaeology in the United States, in N. Merriman (ed.) Public Archaeology, 21–58, London: Routledge. Jones, S. 2004. Early Medieval Sculpture and the Productions of Meaning, Values and Place: The Case of Hilton of Cadboll, Edinburgh: Historic Scotland. Kirk, L. and Start, H. 1999. Death at the undertakers, in J. Downes and T. Pollard (eds) The Loved Body’s Corruption: Archaeological Contributions to the Study of Human Mortality, Scottish Archaeological Forum, 200–8, Glasgow: Cruithne Press.

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Kellehear, A. 2007. A Social History of Dying, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kramer, C. 1979. Introduction, in C. Kramer (ed.) Ethnoarchaeology: Implications of Ethnography for Archaeology, 1–20, New York: Columbia University Press. Kramer, D. and Kramer, C. 2001. Ethnoarchaeology in Action, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kristeva, J. 1984. Powers of Horror: An Essay in Abjection, New York: Columbia University Press. La Roche, C. J. 2012. The anthropology of archaeology: the benefits of public intervention at African-American archaeological sites, in R. Skeates, C. McDavid, and J. Carman (eds) The Oxford Handbook of Public Archaeology, 629–58, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Larson, C. S. and Walker, P. L. 2005. The ethics of bioarchaeology, in T. Turner (ed.) Biological Anthropology and Ethics: from Repatriation to Genetic Identity, 111–21, New York: State University of New York Press. Lipe, W. 1984. Value and meaning in cultural resources, in H. Cleere (ed.) Approaches to the Archaeological Heritage: a Comparative Study of World Cultural Resource Management Systems, 1–11, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Little, B. L. 2002. Archaeology as a shared vision, in B. J. Little (ed.) Public Benefits of Archaeology, 3–19, Gainesville FL: University Press of Florida. Malinowski, B. 1984. Argonauts of the Western Pacific, Long Grove IL: Waveland. Manchester Museum. 2009. Criticism, Lindow Manchester. Available from: http:// lindowmanchester.wordpress.com/category/criticism (Accessed 2 March 2012). McGimsey, C. R. 1972. Public Archaeology, New York: McGraw Hill. Mellor, P. 1993. Death in high modernity, in D. Clarke (ed.) The Sociology of Death, 11–30, Oxford, Blackwell. Merriman, N. 2004. Introduction: diversity and dissonance in public archaeology, in N. Meriman (ed.) Public Archaeology, 1–18, London: Routledge. Mills, S. and Tranter, V. 2010. Research into Issues Surrounding Human Bones in Museums, London: English Heritage. Nassaney, M. S. 2012. Enhancing public archaeology through community service learning, in R. Skeates, C. McDavid, and J. Carman, J. (eds) The Oxford Handbook of Public Archaeology, 414–42, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Newman, W. L. 1995. Social Research Methods: Qualitative and Quantitative Approach, Boston: Allyn and Bacon. Parker Pearson, M. 1999. The Archaeology of Death and Burial, Sutton: Stroud. Parker Pearson, M., Pitts, M., and Sayer, D. 2013. Changes in policy for excavating humans remains in England and Wales, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 147–58, Woodbridge, Boydell and Brewer. Parker Pearson, M., Schadla-Hall, T., and Moshenska, G. 2011. Resolving the human remains crisis in British Archaeology, Papers of the Institute of Archaeology, 21, http:// www.pia-journal.co.uk/articles/10.5334/pia.369/ (Accessed 12 February 2016). Potter, P. B. 1994. Public Archaeology in Annapolis: A Critical Approach to Maryland’s Ancient City, Washington DC: Smithsonian Institute Press. Sayer, D. 2009. Is there a crisis facing British burial archaeology?, Antiquity, 83, 184–94. Sayer, D. 2010a. Who’s afraid of the dead? Archaeology, modernity and the death taboo, World Archaeology, 42(3), 481–91.

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Sayer, D. 2010b. Ethics and Burial Archaeology, London: Duckworth. Seale, C. 1995. Heroic death, Sociology, 29(4), 597–613. Simpson, F. 2010. The Value of Community Archaeology: A Comparative Assessment Between the US and UK, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports International Series 2105. Simpson, F. 2011. Shoreditch Park excavation: a case study, in G. Moshenska and S. Dhanjal (eds) Community Archaeology: Theory, Methods and Practice, 118–22, Oxford: Oxbow. Simpson, F. and Williams, H. 2008. Evaluating community archaeology in the UK, Public Archaeology, 7(2), 69–90. Skeates, R., McDavid, C., and Carman, J. 2012. Introduction: questioning archaeology’s Place in the world, in R. Skeates, C. McDavid, and J. Carman (eds) The Oxford Handbook of Public Archaeology, 1–12, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Taylor, A., Duhig, C., and Hines, J. 1998. An Anglo-Saxon cemetery at Oakington, Cambridgeshire, Proceedings of the Cambridge Antiquarian Society, 86, 57–90. Thomas, J. 2004. Archaeology and Modernity, London: Routledge. Walter, T. 1994. The Revival of Death, London: Routledge. Walter, T. 1999. On Bereavement: The Culture of Grief, Buckingham: Open University Press. Walter, T. 2004. Body Worlds: clinical detachment and anatomical awe, Sociology of Health and Illness, 26(4), 464–88. Walter, T. 2008. To see for myself: informed consent and the culture of openness, Journal of Medical Ethics, 34(9), 675–8. Williams, H. and Williams, E. 2007. Digging the dead: archaeological practice as mortuary commemoration, Public Archaeology, 6(1), 47–63.

Part 2 Displaying the Dead

8 Museum Practice and the Display of Human Remains Hedley Swain

I N T R O D U C TI O N Visitors to the Lawrence Room, Girton College, Cambridge University, on Thursday afternoons (when the small one room museum is open to the public) will find a dead body on display. The body is that of an Egyptian mummy from the Coptic period with a painted face mask and inscription ‘Hermione Grammatike’. It was this inscription that attracted Girton College to acquire this ancient body. A loose translation suggests this was a woman scholar, and therefore the first recorded woman scholar in history and as such an appropriate ‘mascot’ for one of the early great champions for formal female education. The mummy was purchased from Egyptologist Flinders Petrie who had excavated it in 1910–11 (Imogen Gunn and Dorothy Thompson, pers. comm.). The case of Hermione is both particular and general. Across all of the UK and indeed the Western world, human remains from all ages and all parts of the world can be found in all types of museums of all sizes apparently isolated and insulated from society’s normal relationships with the dead: grief, morbidity, respect, invisibility. Context would appear to be everything in terms of attitudes to the display of the human dead. This paper reviews this concept of context, and offers some commentary on the origins, constraints, and boundaries for the display of human remains. To begin with an Egyptian mummy as an example is also appropriate, as this particular category has an almost ubiquitous and overpowering place in Western museums.

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HISTORIC AL CONTEXT It has been accepted practice to include human remains in displays since the widespread establishment of public museums in the nineteenth century. These are normally associated with archaeological discoveries but can also be found in physical and social anthropological displays, medical and history of medicine displays, and occasionally in other contexts. Museum practice is very much a creation of Western, primarily Enlightenment, values and the inclusion of human remains in displays can be traced in these values (for example, the anatomical drawings of Leonardo da Vinci and the public anatomy demonstrations of the nascent Royal Society in London) and in the Christian European culture from which this derived (for example, the display in churches of saints’ relics: Weiss-Krejci this volume). Christian theology does not identify anything inherently sacred in human remains or anything inherently ‘impure’ that would prevent their display or the living coming into close contact with them. There also seems to be a culture of ‘familiarity’ with the longdead (as opposed to the recently deceased) in Western culture that might derive partly from the durability of skeletons and also a rather casual approach to the disposal of the dead, particularly in early urban contexts where burial grounds would be continually re-worked. I would suggest it is this Christian/Enlightenment world-view which influences so much of modern Western culture that makes the display of the archaeological dead acceptable, including human remains and their attendant artefacts, clothing, and funerary structures. However, linked to the purist Enlightenment and Christian approach is an obvious mass culture association between human remains and death and the superstitions of death that is also powerful in Western culture. Origins for this can be partly found rooted in paganism, but perhaps they are innate to human nature. They are perhaps also linked to the health risks associated with the recently dead (for a wider discussion see, for example, Tarlow 2011, 2013). As Susan Pearce has noted, a more specific historical context can be found in the Western fascination with power of death in those two odd bed-fellows of the Enlightenment: the Romantic and Gothic traditions. Two final cultural sub-sects complicate the picture even further: many early human remain displays were of ‘the other’: remains that derived from people who were not Christian and not European and could therefore be treated as being different, if not ‘sub-human’, in nature. Indeed historically, many nineteenth- and early twentieth-century collections of human remains were put together for the very purpose of demonstrating the sub-human nature of non-Europeans (see, for example, Fforde 2004). The guilt associated with this later use of remains has certainly affected some modern sensibilities. Finally, there is the direct emotional association that comes from personal or mass grieving that gives certain remains—those of our loved ones or, for example, our war dead or national heroes—a very special resonance (see also Brown this

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volume). These multi-layered cultural strands complicate the place of human remains in Western museums, leaving few absolute rules: the display of human remains is a relativist subject (for studies within the UK, see Giesen 2013). The picture becomes even more complex if we take a global perspective. In summary, in the West, if remains are not claimed for special grieving they have been used as objects of Enlightenment curiosity and learning, and ciphers for superstition, particularly if they come from an alien and exotic ‘other’ culture. From very early times in Enlightenment antiquarianism, human remains were being excavated, exchanged, bought and sold, displayed, stored, and researched, and by conducting such activities they were given very different values. Before the mid-nineteenth century, it was not even common practice to recover skeletons from ancient British prehistoric excavations: it was enough to recover the grave-goods. Egyptian mummies, however, were the most prized and the most ubiquitous of remains in collections. For example, Dawson (1934) explored the bewildering ways they insinuated cultured life in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Britain including regular public ‘unwrappings’. No wonder Egyptian mummies have such a special place in our collective psyche. In the West, it remains largely acceptable to display human remains. Modern surveys into the public attitude to display in the UK are always very positive. A small survey of the public who visited archaeological events and museums in Cambridgeshire, UK showed, of 220 responses, 85 per cent were aware that archaeologists frequently kept skeletons after excavation; 70 per cent thought they should be reburied, but of these 71 per cent thought this should only be when all scientific potential had been exhausted; 88 per cent thought it was appropriate to keep human remains for future scientific study; 56 per cent thought the dead persons previous religious beliefs should be a factor in the treatment of remains; 79 per cent expected to see human remains on display in museums; 73 per cent thought this was appropriate; 71 per cent expected to see remains at ‘one-off public events hosted by archaeologists’ and 69 per cent thought this was appropriate (Carroll 2005: 10–12). Similar support was found in a survey of visitors to displays of ancient Egyptian remains in UK museums where 82.5 per cent of respondents supported display although 14.2 per cent supported a ‘more appropriate and respectful environment’ (Kilmister 2003). When the Museum of London staged the London Bodies exhibition in 1998–9, the exhibition was a success with visitors. Figures suggest about 15,600 people came to the Museum specifically to see the exhibition. Since detailed records started in 1992, London Bodies registered the highest proportion of visitors and the highest average daily visitor figures of any of the museum’s temporary exhibitions (NB the figures have since been surpassed by other exhibitions). A recent survey of the public by English Heritage came up with very similar results confirming that in the UK on average

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about 85 per cent of the population will normally give their support to the use and display of remains within suitable contexts. This situation has only recently been challenged as museums have become established in parts of the world with differing cultures, and with the globalization and proliferation of multiple cultural, political, and religious views. Displaying mortuary remains has also been affected by very particular situations in different places: the empowerment of indigenous peoples in Oceania and North America has seen human remains largely disappear from displays (McClelland and Cerezo-Román this volume). Meanwhile, changing ethical standpoints in north Europe has seen a more considered approach to display (see also Nordström this volume; Nilsson Stutz this volume). In contrast, in other parts of the globe, for example China and South America, approaches to displaying human remains from archaeological contexts reflect very particular historical and cultural viewpoints. This is a complex area with overlapping and divergent religious, ethical, political, cultural, historic, scientific, and social factors all coming into play. As such current practice in different parts of the world can sometimes appear (and actually be) superficially similar but have their background in very diverse factors.

CURRENT CONTEXT Most archaeology (and many other) museums hold human remains of some kind, normally skeletons, and archaeologists continue to regularly excavate remains and argue for the immense importance of human remains as evidence for the lives of past peoples (Mays 1998). It has been estimated that the remains of, at least, 61,000 human individuals are held in 132 English museums (Weeks and Bott 2003: 11) and this is certainly an underestimation. It is also normal to see some of these human remains on display. These most commonly include mummies from Egypt or elsewhere, and articulated skeletons as parts of grave assemblages from many later periods. These sometimes include remains with surviving soft tissue of some form. These archaeological remains are occasionally displayed as giving examples of palaeopathology, and sometimes to show specific cultural practices, and sometimes simply as props (see Swain 2007 for a wider discussion; see also Williams this volume). Yet the climate has shifted. The last twenty years have seen an intense period of debate and changing practice in Western museums with regard to the display of human remains. This change has its origin in the political empowerment of indigenous communities in Oceania and North America (mentioned above) and claims for the restitution and reburial of ancestral dead held in museum ethnographic, archaeological, and medical collections (see for example Fine-Dare 2002 for a discussion of USA, Fforde 2004 for a

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detailed discussion, particularly in regard to Australia, and Fforde et al. 2002 for a wider discussion of issues in particular for North America and Australia but also more unusual examples such as the case of the Sámi in Norway). This in turn has led to a more considered debate about the role of all human remains in museums (see for example Swain 2002 for a discussion of display in Britain and Legassick and Rassool 2000 for a discussion of remains in South African museums). In the UK, debates about indigenous remains led in turn to a growing interest amongst ‘alternative’ groups commonly linked to pagan beliefs (Rathouse this volume). In turn, there has been a re-emphasizing of Enlightenment/scientific/educational value of displaying remains by establishment groups backed up by a series of public consultations and surveys which have continually confirmed that the majority of the population are comfortable with and often welcome and expect to see human remains on display. For the UK, the impetus for a reappraisal of the place of human remains in museums came from past colonial associations. In July 2000, the British Prime Minister Tony Blair and his Australian counterpart John Howard made a joint commitment to improve communication between British museums and Aborigine communities and to facilitate better methods for dealing with claims for the return of remains. This agreement, coupled with consternation by some at the Gunther von Hagens’ Body Worlds exhibition, and the Alder Hey scandal concerning organ retention in hospitals, led eventually to the Human Tissue Act and the forming of the British Government Working Group on Human Remains. This group reported in 2003 (DCMS 2003) with a consultation paper following in 2004 (DCMS 2004). From this came the 2005 DCMS drafting group that delivered guidance for museums holding remains (DCMS 2005). Although DCMS 2005 concentrates on ‘contested’ remains and claims for return it does include some text on display and is the only ‘formal’ guidance in England and Wales. DCMS 2005 was joined in 2011 by guidance for Scottish museums which draws heavily on it (Museums and Galleries Scotland 2011; see also Giles and Williams this volume). The political activity and guidance has not had a profound effect on display in the UK, although it has been more influential as a catalyst for repatriation activity. For example, Spring 2006 saw the British Museum agree to return two cremation bundles to Tasmania (British Museum 2006). Repatriations have followed from the Natural History Museum and others since. It seems likely that this is the start of a process that will see human remains dealt with differently and lead in time to a new philosophy to their acquisition, care, and use. Although what is notable is that most pressure for change is coming from within the profession or from external influences, not from museum visitors (see also Exell this volume; Jenkins this volume). There is so far no quantative evidence that members of the public shy away from visiting museums because human remains are on display: if anything, the opposite is true. Similarly, there appears (on the basis of what evidence there is) to be

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strong support for the excavation, study, and display of human remains from archaeological sites in the UK.

THE DISPLAY OF HUMAN REMAINS —SUBJ ECT Human remains can currently be found displayed in a number of contexts. Most common are archaeological displays where remains are used primarily to illustrate grave groups and methods of burial practice. This would include Egyptian and other mummies (context is often missing but is becoming more common with new displays), but also burials from other cultures and periods. In other examples, remains are displayed to illustrate particularly good examples of preservation and forensic evidence that such preservation allows into past living conditions and circumstances of death. Archaeological remains are also occasionally displayed as examples of artefacts. Remains from social anthropological contexts are normally used for the same purpose as archaeological specimens, with ‘artefacts’ being more common, for example shrunken heads. Displays of remains to illustrate physical anthropology (the physical change of human types over time) are now unknown except for when dealing with human origins and here actual specimens are so rare and delicate that casts are more normally used. A distinct sub-set of displays can be found in medical, surgical, and pathology museums often linked to extant teaching and research hospitals but sometimes linked to historic collections. Examples in the UK include the Royal College of Surgeons in London and its equivalent in Edinburgh. Very occasionally remains are displayed as art or in a social historical context. An interesting recent example was at the British Museum exhibition created and curated by the artist Grayson Perry, Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman (2011), that included the display of a section of human ear with an unidentified, but clearly exotic, earring still attached. Is there any true public value to these different displays or do they simply represent a hangover from antiquarian days? At present human remains are largely displayed in museums as if they were any other type of artefact. Normally they are found within glass cases in amongst other objects. Often attempts are made to reconstruct graves as archaeologists found them. A very typical example would be the South Wiltshire Museum in Salisbury that includes a number of ‘reconstructed’ prehistoric graves with skeletons and grave goods. Soft tissue remains sometimes require particular environmental conditions and these can affect display conditions. For many museums, such displays remain acceptable, and even an ideal way to attract visitors. The redisplay of the exhibition section of the Jorvik Viking Centre in York which took place just as the repatriation debate was at its height, placed emphasis on the skeletons from excavations as these were seen as a powerful way of making a

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direct link between visitors and the people of the past. However, in response to the reconsideration of the place of human remains in museum collections already discussed some museums have begun to approach display in a new way. Another popular aspect of the display of human remains in recent years has been the reconstruction of faces using techniques employed for forensic identification. This allows for the reconstruction of the possible appearances of people from their skulls by building up the average thickness of muscle and flesh. So popular has this technique become that most museums in Britain with archaeological displays also have an example of one of these heads (many produced for the BBC television series Meet the Ancestors). Unfortunately, for the very reason that these reconstructions are based on averages and are not given expressions, they all tend to end up looking the same and then rely on the artistic interpretation put on things like hairstyle and eye colour to give them an identity. The popularity of TV programmes such as Bones, CSI, and Waking the Dead have all fuelled an interest in forensic study and normalizing the macabre fascination in the dead and the tales they can tell through scientific analysis. This had a direct influence on displays. For example, the Written in Bone temporary exhibition at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History or the approach taken at the display of human remains in the church setting of St Peters, Barton-upon-Humber (Mays 2013) both appear to draw upon this forensic trope in popular culture(for wider underlying policy, see Church of England and English Heritage 2005). Even before the more recent debates some museums were considering the ethical questions associated with the display of remains as part a more general engagement with audiences, as for example, at the redisplay of the Alexander Keiller Museum, Avebury, Wiltshire (Stone 1994: 200). Human remains are still displayed but careful consideration was made of visitor views before a decision was made. For its Digging For Dreams exhibition the Petrie Museum put human remains from ancient Egypt on display but behind a shroud that visitors only lifted at their own choice (MacDonald 2002: 16). At the Egyptian exhibition at New Walk Museum, Leicester, parts of a mummy are displayed but specifically to challenge the visitor to question the ethical correctness of this approach. In Europe, the Turin Egyptian Museum has redisplayed a pre-Dynastic Egyptian mummy with soft tissue preservation. Here the skeleton itself has been placed in a large case with blanked in sides so it can only be seen from above. This gives both ‘privacy’ to the remains and also makes the decision to view it a conscious one by the visitor. The accompanying displays make the body the centre of a shrine-like display that gives it a special place that invites contemplation and respect. A similar approach has been taken at the Latenium Museum, Switzerland, where skeletons are displayed in a small room within the overall display.

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Occasionally, new technology is allowing for human remains to be displayed in different ways. Some museums use X-ray photographs to show the inside of unwrapped mummies. The British Museum’s Mummy: The Inside Story (2004) focused on a single mummy and a 3D film of its investigation using medical body scanning technology to investigate it without having to unwrap it. Most recently (2012), the Ancient Worlds gallery at Manchester Museum has displayed skeletal remains in the context of explaining forensic archaeological processes. These last examples are exceptions to the still traditional method of displaying Egyptian mummies that can be found almost ubiquitously in Western museums. There remain many specialist Egyptology museums and most ‘encyclopaedic museums’ will still contain Egyptology galleries and these will not be complete without at least one mummy. Many smaller museums will also contain such displays (as at Girton College). A typical example is Perth Museum and Art Gallery, Scotland. Prior to the 1970s, their single mummy was on permanent display, and there is a strong collective memory in Perth of seeing it on display and expecting it to be on display. Although now not on permanent display, it remains a part of its education service tours. The mummy is also used in the occasional exhibition or special event (Hall 2013). The museum has had no complaints about the use of the mummy; indeed, given the choice, most visitors would like to see it on permanent display. Human remains form an important and prominent part of museum archaeological collections in many parts of the world, and often feature in displays. The UK is part of a wider European grouping. A walk round the galleries of the British Museum reveals rooms of Egyptian mummies, some in their sarcophaguses, some outside them, some partly unwrapped. There are also examples of early natural mummification including the pre-dynastic burial known as ‘Sandy’, which has good soft tissue preservation. Other galleries include skeletons from other cultures and ‘Pete Marsh’ (Lindow Man), the late Iron Age ‘bog body’ from Cheshire that also has complete soft tissue preservation. At the Museum of London, prehistoric skeletons can be viewed as well as skulls recovered from the Walbrook stream and River Thames. The Museum of London’s recent experience with the display of human remains acts as a suitable summary of UK practice.

T H E MU S E U M O F LO N D O N E X P E R I EN C E. In 1999 the Museum of London staged the exhibition London Bodies (Werner 1998). The exhibition traced how the appearance of Londoners has changed since prehistoric times, with the central feature a series of skeletons presented

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below Perspex covers, laid out in marble dust on mortuary trolleys. The exhibition showed how archaeological evidence from human burials could supplement historical evidence and tell the story of peoples changing shapes through time. It drew upon the very large collection of human skeletons within the Museum’s archaeological archive. Apart from the complete skeletons, a number of other human bones were featured to illustrate specific medical conditions, including the pelvis bones from a medieval woman and those of her unborn child: both had died during the birth. The Museum gave careful thought to its motivations for the exhibition, how the right balance would be achieved between a suitable respect for the human remains and the maximum public access to the stories they told. In undertaking the exhibition, the Museum was conscious that some might be disturbed or upset by it content, or simply not wish to see it. For this reason, it was carefully shielded from the rest of the Museum with clear panels explaining its content. Unaccompanied children and school parties were not allowed to enter. The Museum prepared a statement on the context of the use of remains for use with external enquiries. The Museum prepared guidelines for the future display of remains. The guiding principle in this states: ‘Human skeletons are an important part of the Museum of London’s archaeological collections and provide important evidence about the past lives of Londoners. If dealt with in a responsible and sensitive way they have the ability to act as a powerful method of interpretation for the Museum.’ One year after London Bodies, Museum of London archaeologists unearthed a late Roman stone sarcophagus containing a lead coffin at Spitalfields close to the City. Clearly a very rich burial, with good levels of survival within the lead coffin, was anticipated, and it was brought unopened back to the Museum and put on display. Media interest was very high and this in turn led to a high level of public awareness of the discovery. The coffin was opened one evening after the Museum had closed and the skeleton was immediately put on public display and remained there for one month. This discovery led to an extra 10,000 visitors coming to the Museum. Some queued for 1.5 hours to see the skeleton and other finds. Again there was no negative response from anyone (Swain 2002). The London Bodies and Spitalfields experience showed clearly that not only are the vast majority of the public comfortable seeing skeletons in museums, on occasions they can be a special draw. The Museum has continued to use skeletons in its permanent galleries. This includes that of a child with rickets in the World City gallery that covers the period 1789–1914 (although this has now been taken off display and the whole gallery replaced), and two complete skeletons and several skulls in London Before London that covers the Greater London area in prehistory (Swain 2003). However, no skeletons were chosen for display in the Museum’s Medieval Gallery, completed in 2005. Its most

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recent intervention with human remains was not at the Museum at all but involved skeletons excavated and held by the Museum being displayed in the Skeletons exhibition (2008) at the Wellcome Collection in London. Again this was a very popular and critically acclaimed show, but in a space that the Museum considered was more suited to a discerning and adult audience. The Wellcome Collection also has on permanent display an Andean mummy from Henry Wellcome’s original collection and a ‘thin section’ of a corpse ‘plastinated’ by Gunther von Hagens. At the very time that museums were questioning the use of human remains, in other spheres cadavers were being given a new dimension by Gunther von Hagens. His touring Body Worlds exhibition which visited sites in Europe and North America has met with controversy but also large and enthusiastic visitor numbers. The exhibition features ‘plastinated’ and dissected human bodies. Von Hagens has also carried out public autopsies and anatomy classes, some of which have been transmitted on British terrestrial television. A second touring exhibition Bodies, The Exhibition has used similar material. Von Hagens’ work and exhibition remain very much a one-off so it is difficult to tell if they will have an enduring influence.

DI S PL A Y GL O B A L L Y Displays of human remains can be found across Europe and the world. At the Kulturen i Lund, Sweden, unassociated skulls from plague cemeteries are displayed in the medieval gallery at the top of other displays along with the names of known victims, although there is no direct link between the names and associated skulls. Also in Sweden, both the Gotland Fornsal Museum and the Drotten Archaeological Museum, Lund, include osteological displays, as does the National Museum of Denmark in Copenhagen; the latter also has partially preserved prehistoric ‘bog bodies’ on display. Visitors to the South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology, Bolzano, Italy, will find the body and equipment of the ‘Ice Man’ known as ‘Ötzi’. (It is interesting that it is often the soft tissue remains that have been given nicknames, although articulated skeletons can receive them too, see Giles and Williams, Nordström, and Williams, this volume.) More widely, the National Museum of Greenland, Nuuk, displays the bodies of a fifteenth-century family preserved in frozen conditions. The Xinjiang Regional Museum, China, displays the famous mummies of Ürümqi. At the Archaeological Museum of San Pedro de Atacama, Chile, Andean mummies are displayed. These are just a few examples of the thousands of human remains that can be seen on public display worldwide. The public flock to see these displays and no-one calls for their removal.

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However, there are no human remains on display at the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington and generally throughout North America the remains of Indigenous Americans are no longer displayed. Similarly, the remains of Aboriginal people are not displayed in Australian museums. For the 1998 permanent exhibition at the Australian Museum, Sydney, the curators failed to persuade Aboriginal communities to display skeletons, casts, or images of Aboriginal human remains. For key parts of the exhibitions story ‘outline shapes’ were displayed (Specht and MacLulich 2000: 47). Recently, Peruvian Indigenous cultural organizations have demanded that Inca mummies on display be removed because they symbolize genocide and should not be used to attract visitors to a museum (Cassman and Odegaard 2004: 272). Similarly, the plans to display 500-year-old, incredibly wellpreserved, mummies of children from the Andes in the Museum of High Altitude Archaeology, Salta province, Argentina, has led to objections from indigenous groups who have called this an ‘insult to their ancestors’ (Goňi 2005: 22). A leader of indigenous groups is reported to have said that the planned display was ‘a violation of our loved ones’ and that ‘they should not put our children on exhibition as if in a circus’. The Director of Argentina’s national museum, Americo Castilla, added to the debate by stating ‘today it is no longer considered ethical to put human remains on display’ (Goňi 2005: 22). Returning the discussion back to Europe, Andean mummies can be seen on display (in very different contexts) at the Wellcome Collection, London and the Carmeo Archaeological Museum, Lisbon. The Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History did hold a major temporary exhibition, Written in Bone: Forensic Files of the 17th-Century Chesapeake (2009–14), that tells the story of the very first European settlers on the American Atlantic Seaboard using their skeletons as recovered from archaeological excavations. The exhibition draws specifically on the interest in forensic science manifest in TV programmes, making the most of pathological evidence displayed in the skeletons. It displayed a number of skeletons of European descent, but none from North American Indians. Policy in Australia means that, wherever possible, Aboriginal remains have been returned to tribes, normally to be reburied, or put in a keeping place in the National Museum where access is given only to indigenous people, not Western scientists. The majority of these remains would not be considered of high archaeological importance, but there are exceptions. Australian Aboriginal people do not accept Western concepts of time and lineage: place is far more important. Therefore, any remains from tribal land, however ancient, are considered ancestors. Occasionally this has led to disputes. The most famous example of this is so-called Lake Mungo Woman. These remains discovered in 1968 are the oldest-known cremation in the world at over 30,000 years old and, as such, of great scientific value as well as being considered of immense spiritual significance to the local and national

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Aboriginal community. Recognizing this shared value, a compromise was arrived at whereby the remains were returned to Aboriginal communities but curated in a keeping place whereby they would not be lost completely to future study (Fforde 2004: 114–15). The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) enacted in the USA in 1990 calls on all museums holding Indigenous human remains (and other material) from federal land to publicly list their holdings and proactively seek to repatriate their holdings to appropriate tribes. It has had a profound effect on US museums both in terms of forcing them to research their collections but also establishing the process of repatriation and building relationships with Indigenous communities. As an example, the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History (SMNH) has repatriated c. 3300 of its 18,000 native Indian human remains under the terms of NAGPRA (Steel 2004: 23). There are mixed views in the USA over the effects of NAGPRA (cf. McClelland and Cerezo-Román this volume). Although some have been dismayed at the loss of collections, many have seen the process as positive in the way it has made the museum and archaeological community build links with Indian communities (see Steel 2004 for a discussion of the traditional pro and con arguments to breaking up collections through repatriation, and Peers 2004 for a discussion of how experience in North America (in this case Canada) has shown that consultation over remains with Indigenous communities can lead to improved and productive relationships for anthropologists). Museum displays in parts of the world only recently contaminated by the Western world-view illustrate culturally distinct peculiarities that further emphasize the very particular Western viewpoint of display that we consider the norm. Although there is a long history of antiquarian collecting and even archaeology in China, museums there have been a Western graft and are currently being built and redeveloped in a way commensurate with that country’s overall economic development. Many museums primarily hold archaeological remains including vast amounts of material from tomb groups. However, display of human remains is rare and confined to cases of exceptional preservation. At present then, skeletons are not displayed in the way that is common in the West. Certainly, where remains are displayed, no particular ‘ethical’ considerations are foregrounded in those exhibitions. An excellent example is the display of the Mawangdui Tomb in Hunan Provincial Museum, Changsha. The museum displays the superb collection of tomb-goods and has also reconstructed, at full scale, the tomb pit with its complex of wooden coffins. The excavation revealed a well-preserved corpse, some 2000 years old, known as the ‘Lady of the marquis of Dai’. To use the words of the museum catalogue: ‘she is carefully kept in a huge rectangular plexi-glass coffin today, with her original smile on her face. Lamplight softly caresses her like sunshine and she seems to be living in the immortal world of

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“all things merging into one, life and death entering the same state” as described by Zhuanzi’ (Hunan Provincial Museum 2006: 27). The lady’s modesty is preserved by a linen cloth but otherwise she resembles a macabre Snow White in her crystal coffin. The Chinese motivations seem to be a fascination at incredible preservation, a desire to balance conservation needs with maximum visibility, and a Confucian pondering of transience. That anyone would not wish to see the remains is not considered, neither are any residual rights of the lady herself. In the Turpan Museum, human remains are displayed in a separate room marked clearly ‘Exhibition of Turpan Ancient Dried Bodies’. The remains are incredibly well-preserved natural mummies and include a pregnant woman with baby still in the womb and a man whose face is contorted with pain. The remains are displayed with a velvet case lining and the groin area is covered with similar fabric for modesty (Solicari 2005). At the Silk Road Cultural Relics Museum, remains are exhibited in a circular antechamber and have their heads facing Mecca, according to Muslim custom. This is despite the fact that the bodies pre-dated the spread of Islam in the area (Solicari 2005).

SUMMARY AND DISCUSSION A very generalized world map of human remains display in the early twentyfirst century could be suggested as follows: • In North America, Africa, Australia, and New Zealand, museum displays are now more-or-less non-existent due to Indigenous empowerment, historical abuses, and the subsequent politicization of remains. • In Europe, displays of human remains remain widespread, primarily in archaeological ‘contexts’ with a growing display and interpretation awareness to ethical considerations. There are still examples of extreme conservatism and occasional innovation. • In China, displays of exceptionally well-preserved human remains serve as examples of scientific wonder. • In South America, there are varied approaches but generally a European approach is tinged with a regional, more intimate, and personalized relationship with the dead. • In most of Africa, India, and South East Asia and Japan, there is no, or very little, display due to particularities of historical, cultural, and religious conditions. At the height of the repatriation debate, it might have been reasonable to believe that a major change in the display of human remains was likely to

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occur across the globe. However, that has not transpired. Remains are not displayed in North America or Australasia and this is where a fundamental shift has taken place. However, displays in other parts of the world remain commonplace. Having said that, the detailed context, labelling, and signage of many displays has changed and new norms have been set. Human remains are no longer treated as mere artefacts; they are now considered a unique category demanding special consideration. Yet it would appear that, in Europe at least, post-Christian Enlightenment values have won-out and our ability to compartmentalize death will continue to allow the educational and ‘contemplative’ value of remains to have a place in museum displays. The public are comfortable with and welcome this approach. The unique nature of this very particular approach that is in fact a result of many overlapping and competing cultural mores offers a fascinating insight into the world we live in.

BI B LI O GRAPH Y British Museum 2006. Request for Repatriation of Human Remains to Tasmania— Minutes of the meetings of Trustees March 2006 http://www.britishmuseum.org/ about_us/management/human_remains/repatriation_to_tasmania.aspx (Accessed 14 December 2015). Carroll, Q. 2005. Who wants to rebury old skeletons?, British Archaeology, 82, 10–12. Cassman, V. and Odegaard, N. 2004. Human remains and the conservator’s role, Studies in Conservation, 49(4), 271–82. Church of England and English Heritage. 2005. Guidance for Best Practice for treatment of Human Remains Excavated from Christian Burial Grounds in England, London: Church of England and English Heritage. Dawson, W. R. 1934. Pettigrew’s demonstrations on mummies: a chapter in the history of Egyptology, Journal of Egyptian Archaeology, 20(3/4), 170–82. Department for Culture, Media and Sport. 2003. The Report of the Working Group on Human Remains, London: DCMS. The ‘Palmer Report’. Department for Culture, Media and Sport. 2004. Care Of Historic Human Remains. A Consultation Report of the Working Group On Human Remains. London: DCMS. Department for Culture, Media and Sport. 2005. Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums, London: DCMS. Fforde, C. 2004. Collecting the Dead, Archaeology and the Reburial Issue, London: Duckworth. Fforde, C., Hubert, J., and Turnbull, P. 2002. The Dead and their Possessions, Repatriation in Principle, Policy and Practice, London: Routledge. Fine-Dare, K. I. 2002. Grave Injustice, The American Indian Repatriation Movement and NAGPRA, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Giesen, M. (ed.) 2013. Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, Woodbridge: Boydell Press.

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Goňi, U. 2005. Frozen in time, protest over child mummies, The Guardian, Wed. 21 September 2005. Hall, M. A. 2013. The Quick and the Deid: a Scottish perspective on caring for human remains at the Perth Museum and Art gallery, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains, Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 75–86, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Hunan Provincial Museum. 2006. A Tour Guide to the Hunan Provincial Museum, Changsha: Hunan Provincial Museum. Kilmister, H. 2003. Visitor perceptions of ancient Egyptian human remains in three United Kingdom museums, Papers of the Institute of Archaeology, 14, 57–69. Available from http://pia-journal.co.uk/articles/abstract/10.5334/pia.202 (Accessed 26 February 2016). Legassick, M. and Rassool, C. 2000. Skeletons in the cupboard, South African museums and the trade in human remains 1907–17, Capetown and Kimberley: South African Museum, Capetown and McGregor Museum. MacDonald, S. 2002. Owning ancient Egypt, The Museum Archaeologist, 27, 9–16. Mays, S. 1998. The Archaeology of Human Bones, London: Routledge. Mays, S. 2013. Curation of human remains at St Peter’s Church, Barton-uponHumber, England, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 109–22, Woodbridge: Boydell. Museums and Galleries Scotland, 2011. Guidelines for the Care of Human Remains in Scottish Museums and Galleries, Edinburgh: Museums Galleries Scotland. Peers, L. 2004. Relative values, Museums Journal, Issue 104/9, September 2004, 18–19. Solicari, S. 2005. Interpreting Chinese heritage: a museological observation of China’s silk road region and some notes on the Stein textile project at the Victoria & Albert Museum, Circle of Inner Asian Art, SOAS Newsletter, 20, July 2005. Specht, J. and MacLulich, C. 2000. Changes and challenges: the Australian Museum and indigenous communities, in P. McManus (ed.) Archaeology Displays and the Public, 39–66, London: Archetype. Steel, P. 2004. Close to the bone, Museums Journal, August 2004, 22–5. Stone, P. G. 1994. The redisplay of the Alexander Keiller Museum, Avebury and the National Curriculum in England, in P. G. Stone and B. L. Molynuex (eds) The Presented Past: Heritage, Museums and Education, 190-205, London: Routledge. Swain, H. 2002. The ethics of displaying human remains from British archaeological sites, Public Archaeology, 2(2), 95–100. Swain, H. 2003. London before London, Minerva, 14(1), 9–12. Swain, H. 2007. An Introduction to Museum Archaeology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tarlow, S. 2011. Ritual, Belief and the Dead in Early Modern Britain and Ireland, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tarlow, S. 2013. Belief and the archaeology of death, in S. Tarlow and L. Nilsson Stutz (eds) The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Death, 617–30, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Weeks, J. and Bott, V. 2003. Scoping Survey of Historic Human Remains in English Museums, Undertaken on Behalf of the Ministerial Working Group on Human Remains. Available from: http://www.honour.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/ ScopingSurveyWGHR-2.pdf (Accessed 14 December 2015). Werner, A. 1998. London Bodies, London: Museum of London.

9 Displaying the Dead The English Heritage Experience Sarah Tatham

INTRODUCTION It is an accepted standard that any new interpretation at a heritage site needs to be stimulating and engaging, while appealing to the widest audience possible (Carver 2008a–c) in the most accessible manner. A number of events in the last decade, such as the repatriation of indigenous human tissue and material culture (see Jenkins this volume), have encouraged debate around artefact ownership and sensitive presentation in respect of minority cultural traditions and values (see Rathouse this volume). As well as an increased awareness in professional bodies, there has been a perceived heightened sensitivity of visitors, and their awareness of propriety and respect of different cultures. For many English Heritage sites open to the public, including ancient monuments, historic buildings, their collections and the stories attached to them have links to sensitive subjects. Some have the power to elicit strong emotions in the modern public. As well as human remains and death memorials, these sites include stories about slavery (e.g. Kenwood House), theories of evolution (Darwin’s home at Down House), religious persecution (e.g. Clifford’s Tower; Mount Grace), prisoner of war experiences (e.g. Portchester Castle), and human destitution and poverty (e.g. the Poor House at Framlingham Castle). In designing displays, considerable emphasis is placed on tone and language to sensitively guide the visitor through an engaging yet thoughtful presentation. As the discipline of interpretation is the visitor-facing product building from many academic fields, it is open to influence. This openness to different ideas, however, can occasionally lapse into a lack of cohesion and self-doubt (see Jenkins 2011). An example of this ambivalence is particularly evident in

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the display of human remains which has shifted from a frequently low-brow form of morbid entertainment (such as the display of Egyptian mummies in Victorian times) to that of occasionally disproportionate respect and shielding (see Jenkins this volume). Where time and funds permit, this is usually managed by the use of interpretation evaluation, both formative (before the interpretation is created) and summative (after the interpretation has been installed). In addition, organizations such as English Heritage have also benefited from internal and externally appointed scientific advisors who can authoritatively aid the navigation of delicate subjects such as the presentation of pre-Christian era human remains (for example at Avebury; see Giles and Williams this volume). English Heritage (now Historic England and the English Heritage Trust) deals primarily with the protection of built heritage and therefore has an advisory role in the recording and conservation of funerary monuments. English Heritage pursued the establishment in 2010 of the Advisory Panel on the Archaeology of Burials and was involved in the creation of a number of papers establishing or promoting good practice for dealing respectfully with sensitive material such as human remains and cemeteries (e.g. Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums, DCMS 2005; English Heritage 2007). English Heritage published a Conservation Bulletin (66) on the theme of ‘Heritage of Death’, which discussed new research and conservation issues relating to human remains and funerary monuments (English Heritage 2011). In 2007, English Heritage’s Chief Scientist, Sebastian Payne, prompted by a formal request by the Council of British Druid Orders to rebury the prehistoric remains kept at the Alexander Keiller Museum at Avebury, led a period of research and consultation about the ethics of displaying and storing human remains (as reported in the Conservation Bulletin 2011 and to wider audiences in British Archaeology 2010). These formed the basis for his official advice to the organization and external bodies. Set against this background, it is important to reflect upon the fact that English Heritage itself holds very few human remains in its national collection. As such, 2007 was a somewhat unusual year in that three new interpretation projects were delivered, each containing human remains and funerary monuments. The three interpretation projects are presented in this chapter as case studies to inform readers of the different approaches favoured in each exhibition, shedding light on the varied current practices and concerns over the display of human remains in response to mortuary material of contrasting date, form, and context. Although the decision to display human remains at the two sites where the exhibition contained them was never challenged internally or externally at the time or since, the choices made over how to display human remains involved dialogues both internally within various English Heritage departments and to a more limited extent and where appropriate, with external stakeholders. This was an attempt to ensure a sensitive

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narrative in the exhibition and avoid potential conflict. Meanwhile, the first case study reveals how mortuary sensitivities do not reside around displays of human remains alone, but extend to mortuary monuments and other material traces (see Giles and Williams this volume). Using these three examples, I consider how they reflect current interpretation practices in dealing with sensitive exhibitions at English Heritage and what influence they will hold on future interpretive works.

DISPLAYING FUNERARY MONUMENTS The De Grey Mausoleum is part of the local parish church of St John the Baptist in Flitton (Bedfordshire), located just 2 miles from the De Grey family home of Wrest Park. It contains seventeen funerary monuments belonging to key members of the De Grey family over three centuries. As well as providing a deeply personal insight into an illustrious family, it offers fascinating evidence for changing attitudes towards death and bereavement over those years. The oldest monument of the mausoleum, vividly adorned with two genuine human skulls of unknown origin, belongs to first erector and founder of the chapel, Henry Grey, Sixth Earl of Kent and his wife Mary who died in 1614 (Fig. 9.1). In his will, he expressed the desire to create a little chapel or burial place attached to the church which the De Greys used for christenings and burials. This started the creation of what was to become one of the greatest collections of family funerary monuments in England. The first Duke of Kent, another Henry Grey, expanded the mausoleum in the early eighteenth century from a small dark family chapel into its current light-filled cruciform arrangement, in ‘celebration of the status of his family and its glorious future’, which he likened to a dormitory in which his family could be privately buried. Very emotive stories have become linked to the funerary monuments, where grief is sometimes expressed in its rawest form. One monument describes the death of a young heir as ‘an unspeakable loss to his noble and ancient family of which he was the brightest ornament and only hope’ (Fig. 9.2). The inscriptions contain not only emotional expressions of sorrow, but also a deeply personal and intimate insights into the family’s characters, where personalities and achievements are celebrated, such as Marchioness Grey’s ‘fifty years of the happiest marriage’ and where family members are described as ‘beloved by all’. Visitor access to the site is free and arranged through a key keeper. The mausoleum is a separate gated addition to the church, but the access is through the church. Until the new presentation, the only information available to visitors was a two-page entry in the 2004 Heritage Unlocked series—which has now been added to the webpage entry—and a battered photocopy of a

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Fig. 9.1 The early seventeenth-century memorial of Henry and Mary Grey, Flitton, Bedfordshire

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Fig. 9.2 Eighteenth-century De Grey tombs, Flitton, Bedfordshire

learned, but old, academic paper relating to the site (the state of which discouraged most visitors from reading it). Visiting funerary monuments in church settings is not unusual, but interpreting this site required a subtle approach. Although the bodies of the De Greys are not buried inside the monuments, their remains lie in vaults just beneath the stone floor, and as such visitors are reminded that it is a place of remembrance and therefore deserving of respect. In this aspect, the approach to the new interpretation reflects very closely the current advice given on how to present human remains to the public, even if here the only human remains on display are purely ornamental components of the monuments. The new interpretation scheme was simple. Budgets would not stretch to anything particularly extravagant and the nature of the site as a fully functioning parish church meant that on-site interpretation had to be discrete, respectful, and succinct. This was achieved by installing an external graphic panel to be viewed just before entering the church, explaining the nature of the monument and its connection with the family at Wrest Park. Inside the mausoleum, a second panel focused on the family genealogy and explained the relationships. Two double-sided paddles (hand-held information panels) explained in more detail eight of the funerary monuments. This was felt to provide a basic introduction to the site and the individuals remembered there, as well as the significance of the collection and its history; rather than a more

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exhaustive catalogue of the entire collection of mortuary monuments visible to the visitor. The project team decided to create a short (ten-minute) audio-tour, which can be downloaded free of charge from the English Heritage website (http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/daysout/properties/de-grey-mausoleum/ audio/). It provides additional information and more context, focusing particularly on the individuals and their relationships. In 2007, downloadable audio tours were very much in their infancy. They made the most of the newly developed hand-held MP3 players or iPods (before the wider use of smart phones) which enabled visitors to download content from the website through home computers, transfer the audio files onto their personal device, and listen to the audio tour on site without need for handsets normally provided by English Heritage at staffed sites. This enabled visitors to greatly enrich their visit and have a multi-media experience in spite of the site being unstaffed, and removed the need for visual and auditory ‘clutter’ inside the mausoleum, therefore being more respectful of the setting. The narrator of the audio tour was chosen for his slow, concise, and reverent delivery. The only sound effects in the audio tour were carefully chosen period music which was used not only to set the stories within a historical context (Jacobean, Georgian, and Victorian periods) but also lent a respectful and melancholic feel to the tour which was felt to complement the atmosphere of the mausoleum. Overall, the interpretation was deemed by the project team to be complementary to the site and the subject matter. Apart from the royal mausoleum and cemetery on the Frogmore estate, there are no known mausoleums in England that are open to the public and which offer interpretation including an audio tour. Audio guides seem to be restricted to large public cemeteries such as Les Invalides in Paris, although cathedrals such as Gloucester are now experimenting with mobile phone interpretation, whereby users call a number from their phone and listen to a short (1–2 minutes) message. It is notable that guided visits and audio tours seem to be the preferred ways of providing intellectual access to funerary remains, whether in a church or cemetery setting since this allows for information to be imparted without physical objects visually compromising the setting, while the voice of the narrator or guide ‘humanizes’ the space.

L U L L I N G S T O N E R O M A N VI LL A Two other English Heritage historic properties were given new exhibitions which involved displaying human remains, providing a contrast to the relatively uncontroversial environment of elite post-medieval mortuary commemoration provided by the De Grey mausoleum. In the second, the human

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remains were secondary to the main interpretive themes and brought a social context to the stories. In the third, they were core subject matter. The first site is the re-presentation of Lullingstone Roman Villa in Kent. Opened in 2008, the exhibition overlooks the fully excavated villa remains. Two human skeletons that were excavated at the villa in the 1950s, a young adult male and a child, have always been included in the galleries. Lullingstone Roman Villa is both a unique and typical site. It is a typical Roman villa with decorative wall-plasters and rich mosaics, providing us with much information about the villa and its occupants. However, it is the quality of the archaeological excavation undertaken in the mid-twentieth century and the quality and approach of the conservation that separate it from many other Roman villas. The site is also particularly significant and distinctive for the understanding of the introduction and development of Christianity in Roman Britain. There is visible evidence for Pagan and Christian worship overlapping at Lullingstone, making it a unique site in the country. It is also one of a handful of excavated Roman sites displayed under cover, and as such is very popular with groups of schoolchildren (particularly primary school pupils in key stage 2), who make up to 40 per cent of total visitor numbers. Lack of significant investment in the property and its presentation led to the site to look tired in heritage terms over the years. This had a demonstrable effect: visitor numbers had reduced by half over a decade. The roof cover was leaking and the interpretation relied very heavily on the audio tour. Since not all visitors take the audio tour on offer and schools never use them (there are not enough handsets and they prefer to use educational material tailored to their learning needs), it meant that the target audience was usually disappointed by the offer on site. Lullingstone had always had at least one human skeleton on show since the site was opened to visitors in the 1970s. Five cases holding skeletal remains found during the excavations were usually displayed and included the less fragmented skeletons of a young male in his mid-20s and a baby. There were also the skeletons of a dog and a goose. The young male, fondly nicknamed ‘George’ by staff, was a favourite among staff and visitors, especially school pupils. No doubt its location by the till for admissions and the gift shop ensured maximum visibility and affinity with staff working there all day. The display was never considered to be satisfactory though. The label captions were small and hard to read, and the logistical reason for the location of the skeleton divorced it from any context. As a result of the proximity of the inadequate display case to the small retail area, it was on occasion mistaken for an ice-cream freezer. When the new interpretation plan was written, a clear thematic approach was favoured and the human and animal skeletal remains became the key elements of their respective displays, where special emphasis was on providing a social context to life and death at the villa during Roman times. The

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popularity of TV programmes such as Meet the Ancestors and Time Team, as well as exhibitions such as the 1998 London Bodies exhibition at the Museum of London (Swain this volume), has proved the great public interest in human remains as a vehicle to understand about past people. One of the five key interpretive messages defined in the interpretation plan (Cousins 2007) was People: who owned Lullingstone and how did they live their lives? The central feature of the People Zone therefore became the skeleton and the coffin recovered from the excavation. The fragile lead coffin received extensive conservation work and the new showcase displays the skeleton within the coffin in a more attractive and appropriate setting (Fig. 9.3). Lighting was improved and new display labels now surround the case and provide essential context to the display. The other skeletons have also found improved display contexts. The baby skeleton, also in an appropriate showcase, is now the key feature of a display on life expectancy. The skeleton of the dog provides context to a graphic depiction demonstrating that domesticated animals were generally smaller in Roman times, as well as bringing an element of humanity to the past inhabitants of the villa who enjoyed the companionships of pets as many people do today (Fig. 9.4). The inclusion of the human remains in the new displays was never put into question when the interpretation plan was drawn up. It had always been felt by site staff and experts that they were a permanent fixture associated with the site

Fig. 9.3 ‘George’ on display at Lullingstone Roman Villa, Kent

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Fig. 9.4 A Roman-period dog burial on display at Lullingstone Roman Villa, Kent

and that their only proper repository was to be on display at Lullingstone itself. The skeletons are simply described as being part of the permanent collection, which includes grave-goods, pottery, personal adornment, and building and household objects. Their presence in the permanent gallery was considered essential to the understanding of the site as a Romano-British villa and measures were taken to provide appropriate displays. It was also deemed important that the new display of the skeletons not only illustrated life in Roman Britain and burial practices of the upper classes, but could also serve to explain the circumstances of the excavations and the discovery of the mausoleum in which they were found, thus amply justifying the skeletons’ presence in the new gallery space and the costs involved in the conservation works that the new displays entailed. Indeed, in curatorial terms, the main concern during the project life was to secure the return of the spectacular wall-paintings and marble busts from the British Museum, and not whether George and the baby deserved their place in the permanent galleries. The new exhibition has been considered a success by English Heritage. Visitor number targets have been exceeded and the comments book has been lavish in its praise. To date, no visitor has objected to the presence of the skeletons in the exhibition.

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S T P E T ER’ S CHURCH, BARTON-UPON-HUMBER The third project concerns St Peter’s Church, Barton-upon-Humber (Lincs.), one of the churches most studied by architectural historians. The church was made redundant in 1972 (although it remains consecrated) and it was taken into guardianship in 1978. Field surveys, architectural recording, excavations, and finds analyses were conducted between 1978 and 2005 and published in Waldron (2007) and Rodwell (2011). The significance of the church was always linked to antiquaries’ and architectural historians’ interest in its Saxon tower and unique Saxon baptistery. The original aim of the archaeological investigations was therefore to record fully the church’s architectural history. It was decided at the outset of the excavations that burial archaeology was an important element of the investigations (Mays 2013). Between 1978 and 1984, the articulated skeletal remains of almost three thousand individuals were excavated from its cemetery and the floor of the church. This constitutes, to date, the largest collection of human remains in the UK. Dating from late tenth to the mid-nineteenth century, the analysis of the skeletal material has provided essential information on the life and death of a stable rural population over 900 years. As such, the collection has become an internationally recognized resource for archaeological research, and it no longer became desirable to rebury the remains as originally planned. Instead, the collection was housed in a specially built ossuary, or bone repository, within the church, providing access and facilities to researchers, and known as a CAHR (church archive of human remains) as described by Mays (2013: 113). For Booth (2008: 21), the senior curator responsible for the collection at English Heritage, this raised fundamental questions about the relationship between people and place and the necessity to balance the needs for research access on an academic collection with respect for the mortal remains of thousands of human beings.

The ossuary In 2007, a major £600,000 conservation, repair, and interpretation project was undertaken, funded jointly with the South Humber Bank Initiative. It involved removing the human remains from storage facilities near York and returning them to the church from which they had been excavated and storing them in the specially built ossuary in the disused organ chamber. The returned human remains where therefore able to both lie in consecrated grounds and still be available for research. Where St Peter’s differed from museums and similar institutions was that the creation of

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the ossuary within the church had the potential to bring out moral and religious sensitivities at the local level. Booth (2008: 21–2) states that with: ‘the return of the bones […] came discussion on the ethical value of excavation and research. The expectation of many people that the bones would be reburied had to be treated carefully. There were also questions concerning access to people’s ancestors [and] the display of human material. […] The success of the ossuary required the informed consent and acceptance of the population of Barton.’

A number of initiatives were put in place to inform the local community about their town’s ancestors and engage positively with the return of the bones, whilst highlighting their scientific value. This included a collections access programme run by the curatorial, education, and outreach teams from English Heritage. As well as school visits (reaching 240 children), an open day was held at the church and a talk given to the Civic Society. The main event attraction providing local interest was the well-attended requiem service held at the church to mark the return of the dead. The Reverend David Rowett, Priest in Charge at Barton, led the service and declared it to be about ‘keeping a promise […] made to each and everyone of these people at their funeral service that they would rest in peace’ (as quoted in Booth 2008: 22).

The exhibition The church had previously housed an exhibition of the early results of the archaeological excavation and analysis dating back to the 1980s. The panels, which were dated in style and content, failed to incorporate the finished results of the analyses. A new exhibition was therefore planned as part of the new programme of works. Once the project had been agreed by English Heritage’s Executive Board, a team was put together to devise an interpretation plan and deliver the project. The project team was composed of a senior properties historian, a senior curator, and a conservator and was led by an interpretation manager who held the overall responsibility of writing the interpretation plan and delivering the project. The project team worked closely with the resident Priest in Charge and the director of the excavations Warwick Rodwell aided by Caroline Atkins. The interpretation plan first focused on the propriety of mounting an exhibition within a church, which though redundant was still consecrated. There was concern that visitors might have the expectation that an exhibition in a church should have an ecclesiastical focus, whereas the one here would be about burial archaeology. It was decided that appropriate interpretation and

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subtle marketing strategies, such as leaflets and local communications, would address the issue by making sure that visitors were aware of the content of the exhibition before entering the site. This was a means not just of providing warning for sensitive minds but also of ensuring that visitors who might be turned off by the idea of visiting a historical church would be enticed in by the innovative exhibition. The main competitor for St Peter’s was deemed to be DIG in York. Like St Peters, this York exhibition is also housed in a church, albeit one of minor historical importance. DIG is operated by York Archaeological Trust (who also run Jorvik). Launched as the ‘world’s first archaeological dig for tourists’, DIG has a family focus, giving visitors the chance to learn about archaeology, to excavate and analyse finds, and to explore the discipline further using physical and computer interactives. The focus is very much on archaeology and what archaeologists do, rather than seeking to inform visitors about York’s archaeology or any real digs in the city. The project team was keen to emulate DIG’s educational approach to archaeological practices, with the added advantage of a collection unique to the site. Buried Lives opened in 2007 and focused on burial archaeology in order to inform acceptance of the ossuary and its scientific value. The main aim of the exhibition was to provide a social and archaeological insight into the lives of those buried at the church and a context to the scientific use of the material excavated. Family groups with children aged 13–18 were the target audience. A secondary target audience was archaeology students who would be interested in burial archaeology and the debates surrounding the archaeological treatment of human remains. The original core audience of architecture enthusiasts was not forgotten, with the exhibition incorporating references to the building in which it was housed and a leaflet highlighting key aspects of the architecture. The exhibition was also designed so that the architectural feel of the church should not be compromised by the panels, exhibits, audiovisuals, and computer interactive (Fig. 9.5). The exhibition aimed to be discreet and tasteful in design and content, and the nave was kept free for events and to preserve the spatial integrity of the church. The exhibition used the architecture of the church to divide the space into five discreet sections called ‘pods’. The spaces between the columns in the aisles were sectioned off with glass panes to form the individual pods, each housing a display around a theme. Most of these contained human remains and/or excavated materials, as well as physical interactives, i.e. hands-on displays. It is a unique exhibition because exhibiting and interpreting human remains in their local context and within a church is fairly uncommon. Only two other consecrated churches in England contain ossuaries that are open to visitors: Holy Trinity Church in Rothwell, and St Leonard’s Church in Hythe. Whilst at the former, the bones are viewable by appointment only, at St Leonard’s the

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Fig. 9.5 Part of the Buried Lives exhibition at St Peter’s, Barton-upon-Humber, Lincolnshire

ossuary is actively marketed as ‘England’s most celebrated and gruesome ossuary’. Neither offer any form of formal interpretation. Dealing with the issue of displaying human remains within an exhibition setting was perceived to be potentially contentious by the project team. After summarizing available literature and information, the interpretation plan states that displaying human remains in Barton, although it might not raise the same problems as displays in ethnographic museums, might still be sensitive in that Barton is a small community that may feel that the remains on display are their ancestors and that they were neither consulted about their excavation nor their display. Although discussed at the planning level, no issue was formally raised about the nature of the material and its display in an exhibition space. Local consultation was discussed but it was not carried out and the local population were not asked to express an opinion as to the nature of the exhibition. This was not determined to be necessary by the project team, rather confidently perhaps, who based their decision on the feedback from the ossuaries in Rothwell and Hythe. Current guidelines (DCMS 2005 and English Heritage 2005) developed with English Heritage encourage the display of human remains on the condition that they make a ‘substantive contribution […] and sufficient explanatory material is offered’ (Mays 2013: 116). In terms of

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the use of the appropriate presentation and tone of voice, it was felt that there were a number of internal systems put in place internally to sign-off each stage of project planning and delivery by senior directors. The project was also carried out in consultation with the Priest in Charge, and channels of communication were open with the community through the many public engagement initiatives mentioned above. A different approach would probably now be undertaken, and formative evaluation work on concepts would certainly be commissioned before any interpretation was created in order to ensure that stories, presentation strategies, and tone of voice were suitably chosen for audiences. The thought process at the time (which pre-dated the domestic repatriation and reburial debate sparked off at Avebury) was that the exhibition was the key to engaging the community with the ossuary rather than the community needing to buy-in into the exhibition. It is interesting to note that the outreach element of the interpretation strategy only concerned itself with the problems of vandalism and intimidation caused by local teenagers. English Heritage’s Outreach and Education department chose a number of initiatives, aiming to re-instate a sense of ownership and respect for the site. It was deemed extremely important to both attract visitors—to make sure that the exhibition should recoup some of its costs—but also to not alienate or shock current core audience or visitors not aware of the true nature of the exhibition. Part of the solution was to place colourful (but tasteful) banners at the entrance of the church. This was combined with targeted media coverage. To counter any claim of insensitivity it was decided to also incorporate discussion of the ethics of excavating, analysing, storing, and displaying human remains within the exhibition itself. Care was taken to explain why English Heritage felt it was an appropriate display and visitors would be encouraged to add their response and feelings to the exhibition so that it became a two-way communication. An array of opinions from the local community is presented on a board near the end of the exhibition. A couple of interactive displays invite visitors to post an opinion through push buttons linked to a counter about a number of statements relating to their belief on burial and excavation. It was, however, never clear how the exhibition would be evaluated nor how visitor responses would be assessed. It is interesting to note that the data is not kept and that the counter is reset to zero every day. The project team embraced sensitive handling of the material and showed ethical consideration. Working in line with established guidance for the treatment of human remains (English Heritage 2005; DCMS 2005), the project team planned the exhibition so that it had a clear educational purpose in any display, and that the display aided public understanding of the site by the inclusion of sufficient explanatory material. Visitors were also warned of the nature of the exhibition at various points before they entered the exhibition.

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Fig. 9.6 Display of a complete skeleton and isolated bones displayed in the Buried Lives exhibition at St Peter’s, Barton-upon-Humber, Lincolnshire

It is fair to presume, however, that the moral gauge the project team adopted was more the result of a familiarity with key guidance documents and professional experience, combined with their own, unformulated sense of respect and sensitivity. This professional confidence in their ability translated in the project team taking it upon themselves to set their own moral gauge in the tone and content of the exhibition. This was never challenged by the executive board of directors during the planning phase, even though they had signed-off on the project. Whilst the decision had been made to exhibit real (and not cast replica) human remains, it was decided to do so parsimoniously, with no more than three reconstructed skeletons put on display. Single bones were, however, isolated from the rest of their assemblage to illustrate evidence of disease visible in bone and metric and non-metric data in special showcases (Fig. 9.6). The team also decided that no immature skeletons should be put on display (although a child’s coffin was), and that no-one whose name was known would be displayed, aware of the power of the named dead to provoke emotional responses among the living (see Anthony this volume; Brown this volume.). The tone of the exhibition was formal (to maintain scientific integrity and respect towards the subject matter), though accessible so that it was engaged with the targeted audience of families with older children. It was discussed whether cloth should cover the bones on display but this suggestion

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was dismissed at an early stage. All the ‘touchable’ (i.e. interactive) elements of the exhibition use replicas. The interpretation plan is explicit in its desire not to use skeletal remains as objects, but rather as individuals that have been chosen in an honorific capacity: ‘we have chosen “to honour” [these individuals], and we are trying to explain, as much as we possibly can, about their lives from a distance of hundreds of years’ (Reid 2006: 20). The exhibition was opened among much local and national press coverage in the spring of 2007 and gave rise to a satisfactory number of positive press reports. Prior to the opening some mild concerns, prompted by the then current Avebury debate, which caused ripples within the organization, were raised, namely that the subject matter might prove too sensitive for the traditional visitor profile. It was eventually decided that visitors were given plenty of information on what to expect on arrival and before they could see the exhibits so that they had a chance to make an informed decision as to the site’s suitability. Additional fears were raised that some visitors might choose to visit the site in order to morbidly gawp at the displays and not be prompted by a desire to learn, spoiling the scholastic efforts of the exhibition. This also proved to have been largely unfounded as the main core of visitors have been local families come to view the exhibition in order to expand their local knowledge. So far, no complaints about the nature or method of delivery of the interpretation have been received by English Heritage or entered in the comments book at the end of the exhibition. Unfortunately, the much hoped-for regeneration of the tourism potential of North Lincolnshire failed to materialize in spite of the regeneration funds being made available. This impacted adversely on the visitor numbers anticipated. The family audiences did come to the site and enjoyed their visit but remained moderate in numbers. The promise of ‘real’ dead people on show was obviously not sufficient to single-handedly improve local tourism.

PUBLIC CONSULTATION AND S ETTING GUIDELINES In 2006, the Council of the British Druid Order formally requested the reburial of the human remains on show at the Alexander Keiller Museum in Avebury. At the centre of the controversy was the skeleton of a child. The remains, excavated in 1925–35, are approximately 6000 years old and were gifted to the nation. The responsibility for their care had been delegated to English Heritage and the museum and its collection is managed by the National Trust. Dr Sebastian Payne (Chief Scientist at English Heritage) and Dr David Thackray (National Trust) advised against acceding to the wishes of the Council of the

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British Druid Order and declared as part of their statement that ‘the public generally support the retention of prehistoric remains in museums, and their inclusion in museum displays to increase understanding’. The report further stated that ‘while we respect the beliefs that have led to this request, we see no good reason to privilege the beliefs of a small number in this way as there is no clear evidence of particular continuity of a kind that would justify such a privilege, whether genetic, cultural or religious’ (Thackray and Payne 2010: 1). The consultation concluded that the prehistoric past was a shared one that belonged to everyone and that the rights of future generations had to be respected. In addition, druids and pagan groups failed to claim greater, let alone exclusive, rights in relation to ancient human remains as their religion was an essentially recent construct. The Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums published by the DCMS in 2005 was applied in arriving at the decision. This guidance recommended that claims for remains that are more than 500 years old were unlikely to be successful except where very close and continuous links could be demonstrated. Once these principles had been articulated in the response as evidence, English Heritage and the National Trust agreed to consult publicly ‘in a way that gave other interested parties an opportunity to comment on the evidence and on what should be done’ (Payne 2010: 12). Between October 2008 and February 2009, 500 individuals and 75 organizations responded to the public consultation. In addition, English Heritage commissioned an opinion poll which was carried out by ICM and asked a representative cross-section of adults in England (a sample of 864) whether they felt it was right to keep excavated human remains in museums for research, and whether it was right to include such remains in museum displays. The results, which were published soon after in a British Archaeology article, were clear. Eighty per cent of organizations and 90 per cent of the individuals who replied to the consultation agreed that human remains presented an important part in our scientific understanding of the past, and that its understanding was important. Ninety per cent of the general public were comfortable with keeping prehistoric human remains on display in museums (interestingly there is significant less support the younger the bones are and when they are of known people). Payne has concluded that these findings, though costly, provide a strong mandate to organizations holding human remains to exhibit them to the public as long as they engage in it in a sensitive manner. In another piece of work, Sebastian Payne and Anna Aldous published an article in The Archaeologist in 2009 analysing the 803 comments left by visitors of London’s Buried Bones exhibition. After identifying that 94 per cent of the comments were positive (5 per cent neutral and 1 per cent negative), the authors concluded that, provided ‘proper sensitivity is shown and that an exhibition has a serious purpose, most people regard the exhibition of human skeletons as acceptable, and welcome for the insights it gives us into our

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shared humanity and mortality. Museum professionals are probably worrying too much about possible public concern.’ (Aldous and Payne 2009: 35). In summary, by 2010, the Avebury debate was concluded and the results gave professionals working in institutions holding human remains in their collections a much-needed boost.

CO NCLUSION In all three case studies explored in this chapter, the project teams put together by English Heritage to work on new interpretation followed the practices that were standard at the time. They were able to rely confidently on their own professional ability and display a moral gauge in tune with the wider public. As a result there has been no drive to amend current working practices in interpretation planning and delivery as a result of these projects. In all the exhibitions and interpretive projects, the decision has very much been to not actively seek the support or approval from the public, but to open up communication channels and to rely of the professional knowledge the curator, historian, and interpreter forming part of the project teams to guide the projects through ethical pitfalls. The unspoken feeling was that to ask for public opinion was to invite controversy by implying that there might be something intrinsically wrong with displaying human remains. The lack of contestation from the public suggests that the project teams are able to match their professional opinion to a public moral yardstick. Refreshingly perhaps, this shows that English Heritage did not suffer in either case study from the ‘crisis of cultural authority’ cited by Jenkins (2011), so prominent apparently in many institutions. Since these projects, however, the discipline of interpretation has developed further in complexity. Whereas previously projects were often planned and delivered in the same financial year, most projects nowadays run over two years which would include a planning year preceding a delivery year. This has enabled evaluation work, both formative and summative, to be carried out more frequently and is now becoming a standard. Through evaluation, stories as well as tone can be tested and their reception assessed, influencing the interpretation schemes. As well as more evaluation being undertaken for a visitor perspective, wider consultation is now common place. This is done internally with directors’ boards and a complex project gateway structure. It is also carried out externally with consultation with relevant stakeholders and experts where applicable (e.g. externally appointed scientific advisers at Down House for the duration of the project). This wider consultation and more focused evaluation ensure that public opinion

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is not the only arbiter of tone and narrative and ensured the quality of the interpretation. Heritage institutions, such as English Heritage, are financed by the public and as a result are usually open to criticism, from both the public and professional peers. This also means that occasionally, museum and heritage professionals may seek to avoid controversy in their exhibitions by selecting their content carefully and refrain from being daring in their interpretation. In doing so, they possibly deny the public’s appetite for fresh subjects and the desire to be challenged, and may fail to be innovative and truly engaging. The three case studies here might have easily fallen foul of a rapid shift in practice. This did not transpire, and the archaeological dead remain a modest, but important, component of displays by English Heritage.

BI B LI O GRAPH Y Aldous, A. and Payne, S. 2009. London’s buried bones: Wellcome reactions, The Archaeologist, 72, 34–5. Booth, K. 2008. The ossuary, St Peter’s Church, Barton: reuniting people and place, Conservation Bulletin: Presenting Historic Places, 58, 21–2. https://content. historicengland.org.uk/images-books/publications/conservation-bulletin-58/con-bull58-pp17-24-web.pdf/ (Accessed 29 June 2015). Carver, E. 2008a. Understanding our visitors: new ways of thinking, Conservation Bulletin: Presenting Historic Places, 58, 3–4. https://content.historicengland.org. uk/images-books/publications/conservation-bulletin-58/con-bull-58-pp1-16-web.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). Carver, E. 2008b. Audience research at English Heritage’s most visited site, Conservation Bulletin: Presenting Historic Places, 58, 4–6. https://content.historicengland.org. uk/images-books/publications/conservation-bulletin-58/con-bull-58-pp1-16-web.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). Carver, E. 2008c. Visitors to historic gardens, Conservation Bulletin: Presenting Historic Places 58, 6–7. https://content.historicengland.org.uk/images-books/publications/conservationbulletin-58/con-bull-58-pp1-16-web.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). Cousins, J. 2007. Lullingstone Roman Villa—Interpretation Plan, Unpublished English Heritage Internal Document. DCMS (Department for Culture, Media and Sport). 2005. Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums, London: Department for Culture, Media and Sport. English Heritage. 2005. Guidance for Best Practice for Treatment of Human Remains Excavated from Christian Burial Grounds in England, London: English Heritage and the Church of England. English Heritage. 2007. Paradise Preserved: The Conservation and Maintenance of Cemeteries, second edn, London: English Heritage. English Heritage. 2011. Conservation Bulletin: The Heritage of Death, 66, Summer 2011. http://historicengland.org.uk/images-books/publications/conservation-bulletin-66/ (Accessed 29 June 2015).

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Jenkins, T. 2011. Contesting Human Remains in Museum Collections, London: Routledge. Mays, S. 2013. Curation of human remains at St Peter’s church, Barton-upon-Humber, England, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains—Caring for the Dead, 109–22, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Payne, S. 2010. A child’s gift to science, British Archaeology, 112, May–June, 12–13. Reid, B. 2006. St Peter’s Church, Barton-upon-Humber—Interpretation Plan, Unpublished English Heritage Internal Document. Rodwell, W. with Atkins, C. 2011. St Peter’s, Barton-upon-Humber, Lincolnshire: Human Remains v.1: History, Archaeology and Architecture, Oxford: Oxbow Books. Thackray, D. and Payne, S. 2010. Avebury Reburial Request Summary Report, London and Swindon: English Heritage and National Trust. Available from: https://content.historicengland.org.uk/content/docs/consultations/avebury-re burial-requestsummary.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). Waldron, T. 2007. St Peter’s, Barton-upon-Humber, Lincolnshire: Human Remains v.2: A Parish Church and Its Community, Oxford: Oxbow Books.

10 The Immortals Prehistoric Individuals as Ideological and Therapeutic Tools in our Time Nina Nordström

INTRODUCTION Archaeologists have begun to look more closely at the history of displaying the dead in museums. One important reason for this is a growing awareness of the fact that, apart from deepening our understanding of certain events in prehistory, the evidence, such as bodies in different states of decay as well as grave-goods, reflects changing attitudes towards death and what it means to be human. One example is Howard Williams’s appeal for the need to look at how early medieval graves are displayed in British museums. He points out that we must be more aware of the seductive and even misleading reconstructions that we can see today, but he also suggested that we should focus more on ‘the bigger picture’: the broader contexts of factors and influences affecting how we display the archaeological dead. This concerns the question: ‘What do the early medieval dead ever do for us?’ He suggests that currently we pay too much attention to the two ‘fringe groups’: those who either stand for the scientific value alone of human remains on the one hand or those who object to the display of the dead on ethical or religious grounds on the other (Williams 2010). Instead, he proposes we focus more on the social roles of the archaeological dead in contemporary society. For several years I have worked on similar issues, mainly with the purpose of understanding why some individuals from the past become famous and ‘immortal’ whereas others are more or less forgotten in their showcases (Nordström 2006a,b, 2007, 2010). I have adopted a biographical approach to human remains in museums in order to afford a full picture of these individuals’ ideological and therapeutic value in contemporary society. What do they, as individuals, as timeless renowned characters, mean to us today? It is

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important to understand their role in our modern world both as evidence for the human past and as famous objects in museums today. Last but not least, it is vital to recognize that the mass media—newspapers, documentaries, and the like—play an important role in how these individuals’ stories are told and retold. In order to reach the core of this dynamic relationship between human remains and their contemporary significance, I have studied bodies from different periods in order to show the similarities and differences between the ideas conveyed in contemporary society through the display of (for example) Stone Age bodies as opposed to Viking Age human remains. Likewise, bodies of different shapes and conditions have different stories to tell (see also Williams this volume). Skeletons, bog bodies, but also non-visible (reburied) individuals differ from one another, not only in their appearance but also their significance, due to a number of circumstances. Another important issue is that these ancient discoveries have a rather long history of display and redisplay, interpretation and reinterpretation, in our modern world. Recently discovered finds do not illuminate the question at issue here because they have yet to acquire ‘life-histories’ within the scholarly and museum context. Yet another characteristic allowing an individual to excel and gain attention compared to other, apparently similar, bodies from the same period and region is when they, for one reason or another, do not fit into the usual explanatory models. In this regard, I argue that those human remains that attract particular attention are those that are distinctive: equivalent to the historical or modern celebrities who do not always submit to our ordinary ideal and values (see also Giles and Williams this volume). I find it perfectly normal that archaeologists primarily discuss different scientific and scholarly methods and theories when they refer to human remains in museums and how they have been treated and interpreted since they were found. At the same time though, our relationship to science is complicated. Archaeology as a field with its defined set of evidence also reflects our steady aspiration to mirror the human being as a timeless constant outside of history. This fact does not, in my opinion, undermine academic scholarship, on the contrary in strengthens it and helps us to understand the popular appeal of the ancient dead in contemporary society. Today, the majority of people in Western societies know about quite a few famous individuals from prehistory even when they do not have much of an interest in archaeology. You simply cannot avoid them because of the attention they have received in different media. One of the best examples is Ötzi— the Iceman—for whom the twentieth anniversary of his discovery was celebrated in 2011. The museum in Bolzen dedicated four floors exclusively to him; an area of 1200 m2 included one floor dedicated to ‘alternative’ interpretations and artistic reactions to his body (http://www.iceman.it). After more than twenty years in the limelight, he still continues to fascinate. Already now in his second and brand-new reconstruction, he is watching the

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public with a thoughtful look. He is on Facebook and he has got pet names (www.facebook.com/OetziTheIceman). His ‘life-story’ as the oldest natural mummy known is probably just as interesting as his real life-story, which itself changes all the time with new discoveries (Fleckinger 2011). Despite the increasingly rich and detailed new information about Ötzi and our shifting interpretations, we can only guess about many details of his life and death, and we will certainly continue to do this. What we do know is that he was wandering around and now tourists literally follow him by trying to wander in his footsteps. People want to see the same views he saw, contemplate as he did, so there are plenty of guided tours (http://www.spiegel.de/reise). Ötzi, as a past celebrity, finds a new home visualized among the rich and famous. The Hollywood actor Brad Pitt has a tattoo of Ötzi on his forearm and the president of the Iceman-Commission commented on it enthusiastically: ‘I am sure the Iceman feels honoured to decorate an American celebrity, like the famous Mr Pitt’ (Bonn-Muller 2007). Is it possible to understand this quite pronounced trend of modern aspirations for intimacy with the long-dead and their lived experience? There is more than one answer to this question, of course, and all contributors discuss this issue from different angles in this volume. In particular, we should also be aware of the differences in attitude towards dead bodies on display around the world (see Swain this volume). One answer to the question might be that the bodies in different states of decay that represent the distant prehistoric past and humans once alive might appear as remote as the pottery or the stone axes on display in the same showcases. This might be their strength: they do not remind us about our own death in a direct and relatable way. The dead of the distant past offer us mortality in a fashion that is staged and manageable, which present-day visitors can apprehend and manage without fright or disgust (see also Sayer and Sayer this volume). While ancient human remains might provoke emotional responses, they might less readily evoke unpleasant feelings or grief compared with remains from more recent centuries. The fact that modern life ways involve different strategies for coping with mortality has been discussed widely in the last fifty years by historians and sociologists, among others Philippe Ariès, Norbert Elias, and Zygmunt Bauman (Ariès 1981; Elias 1985; Bauman 1992). Differences in attitude concern our feelings about the future, whether positive or negative, as well as our view of older traditions. A key dimension here is how we handle mortality and immortality as phenomena in modern societies. Bauman developed profound ideas on this subject and he believed, unlike Elias or Ariès before him, that modern society uses as much magic as non-Western countries in its efforts to negotiate and respond to mortality. In other words, the unavoidability of death is challenged with an infinite amount of deconstruction of the human body in order to negate mortality (Ariès 1981: 579ff; Elias 1986; Bauman 1992: 129ff, 180, 281). These strategies may appear less ritualized and more distanced than earlier

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mourning traditions. The British historian John McManners even expressed his wish that his burial be ‘as painless as possible and with a minimum of fuss’ as a reaction to the romantic tradition (McManners 1981: 120). However, while the modern emphasis on health and disease suffered during life should not be interpreted as cold and scientific, it is rather just another kind of respect (Åkesson 1997; Walter 1998; Åhrén Snickare 2002). Without doubt, our strategies today, in what is called a post-modern society, have shifted again and they now involve a strong familiarity filled with emotions when we handle dead bodies, no matter whether they are prehistoric, historical, or modern individuals. Current exhibitions also reflect this trend, and death as a theme can be illustrated in innumerable ways. The Körperwelten (Body Worlds) exhibition, with real human bodies displayed in different poses, is an extreme example of this tendency but there are many less provocative exhibitions (Körperwelten 1998). One example is the exhibition of Boxed Fabulous Coffins from UK and Ghana which displayed coffins designed to show that death does not need to be depressing (Secretan 1994). Artists also use dead bodies as expressions for feelings, both challenging and objectionable. For example, in the 1980s, the artist Andres Serrano created a series of photographs called The Morgue (Høholt 2000: 64). Recent decades have seen further re-creations of the body and a focus on the act of consoling, like the Thai artist Rasdjarmrearnsook who, in her video installation, sang and comforted dead bodies in a morgue because they had died alone (Rasdjarmrearnsook 1999). Archaeological exhibitions cannot be compared directly with art but there are still connections in this development. One important issue for exploration through my case studies has been to show how and why we give certain bodies so much attention and that the expression for our concern changes over time, although it still is a manifestation of care. Whether we display prehistoric bodies without context in a showcase or ‘rebury’ them in a grave-like surrounding, we treat them with respect and sometimes these treatments reflect similar strategies to those we use for ourselves. The intimacy we can see now does not mean that we have become more or less scientific in our attitudes towards the dead. Instead, the interest in the archaeological dead is but one of many indices of our wish to understand human beings through the past. Some of the exposed bodies are given names; both in research and exhibitions, they are treated with a specific concern (Giles and Williams this volume). This is also reflected in the media language applied to them, where they can be treated in a personal and friendly way. In these instances, the ancient dead have slowly but surely become everything but dead objects; in this sense, the remains of ancient humans have reached a form of immortality that, according to Bauman, is the unreachable status we are striving for in the post-modern society where time is no longer linear but fragmentized and where we experience

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life as a constant rehearsal (Bauman 1992: 239ff). Today, akin to the shortlived media publicity which Andy Warhol once predicted will be shared by everyone, fifteen minutes of fame are claimed by strategies to make us stand out. In this context, our ways of becoming immortal have changed (Bauman 1992: 218ff). Warhol questioned the idea of original art, and ideas about originality and reproduction, replication and the meaning of authenticity, once introduced in to the discussion as the ‘loss of the aura’ by Walter Benjamin, have become key concepts in a world dominated by the media (Benjamin 1980). This also applies to prehistoric bodies; they are authentic but also reproduced. If today we need strategies to avoid oblivion—the different forms of timelessness that Bauman refers to—the authenticity of human remains, combined with their constant presence in both science and the media, may be of more importance in affirming modern senses of identity, place, and ontological security rather than simply as a means of presenting the past. How we understand dead bodies in a museum is related to the changing roles that museums as institutions are playing today. This issue has been already proposed by the Germanist and cultural critic Andreas Huyssen. For him, post-modern museum culture provides a terrain that can offer multiple narratives of meaning; it can re-enchant the public with multifaceted interpretations in a world that has become too simplified (Huyssen 1995: 13ff, 34). The artist Olafur Eliasson, who strove to enhance the viewer’s experience with different installation works concerning physical phenomena in nature, such as light, water, or the weather, expressed his attitude toward the museum in a similar way. He contended that the museum should operate as society’s immune system (Eliasson 2004: 23). If we look at displays of the archaeological dead in this light, we identify a different and extended basis for their function. Who are the best-known, most famous, and immortal dead individuals in present-day Scandinavia? The question is difficult to answer because there have been no surveys of public opinion. However, it is certain that the individuals chosen for discussion here have had long, varied, and prominent ‘lives’ through their discovery, investigation, and public profile within both the museum and the media. My examples are: Bäckaskog Woman, one of Sweden’s oldest and best-preserved skeletons from the Stone Age; Tollund Man and Grauballe Man, two Danish Iron Age bog bodies; and the ‘Oseberg Queen’ with her ‘companion’ found in Norway’s richest ship burial dating from the early Viking Age. They have all, in different ways, developed from archaeological finds into beloved and particular persons, known worldwide and each of them the pride of their nation and integral components of the careers of many archaeologists who have invested years in their study and display. Although they are not easy to define as prehistoric individuals, they can play various roles and operate as key parts of galleries of historical characters where there is a demand for a legend rather than a person of flesh and blood. Their

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recreated social identities can be defined as equivalent to somewhere between pure literary characters and named historical individuals; their history is a mixture of fact and fiction.

TO BE A MAN AND BECOME A WOMAN: AN IDEO LO GICAL TRANSFORMA TION OF DISCOURSE To be well-known and valued as an important mortuary discovery often depends on being found at the right time and also by the right archaeologist. Another significant aspect is to have an exciting history of discovery that can be told and retold. It also can help if the find is remarkable in some regard, either the first discovery of its kind or marked out as different in some other regard. It can be enough to be a woman to be notable, if the norm is being a man (in the popular stereotypes attributed to the period or in terms of the gendered interpretations ascribed to previous discoveries). One individual whose discovery became celebrated for this reason is Bäckaskog Woman who was found in 1939 in the southern part of Sweden. The archaeologist called to the scene stated that the individual, although small and weakly built, was probably a man because of the hunting tools found with him (Hansen 1939). The consequence of this statement later came to play an important part in this individual’s archaeological biography through display and interpretation. The feeble little hunter and fisherman from Bäckaskog, known as one of the oldest and best-preserved individuals in Sweden, just had to be a man according to archaeologists. However, the physical anthropologist who prepared the skeleton for the showcase was doubtful. He expressed carefully, almost apologetically, that considering how weakly built the individual was, he had to be a case of dwarfism, or one was almost forced to believe that it was a woman (Rydbeck 1945: 7). However, most archaeologists were not yet ready to believe that a woman could hunt. The skeleton was assumed to have been sitting up more or less straight, and the sitting position was also reconstructed as nothing but straight; a position that gave the skeleton an unnatural but personal expression unlike all other dead bodies in different naturally shrunken arrangements. For thirty years the lonely little ‘man’ sat in his showcase in the National Historical Museum in Stockholm; together with his hunting equipment, he represented an early human being from Sweden (Stenberger 1964: 42). It was not until 1969, when an American anthropologist compared the Stone Age skeleton with that of a murder victim, a woman who had given birth to eleven children and had the same scars on her pelvis, that it was concluded that this was a ‘Mesolithic lady’ (Gejvall 1970: 289). ‘He’ became a ‘she’ and the headlines

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in all of the articles (scholarly as well as newspapers) referred to the sensational news. ‘She’, the Bäckaskog Woman, had to be justified but also explained: from her upright position, although still ‘smiling’, she seemed to stare at the public with a reproachful expression. When some archaeologists suggested that she may have been murdered and that the hunting equipment was not her own, it met with strong reactions even decades later (Albrethsen and Brinch Pedersen 1976: 24; Strassburg 2000: 115). A man from the Stone Age may have been murdered and still be a man. However, a woman could only be seen as a weak victim. Challenging this prejudice, in scholarly as well as in public perception, she was now a proud mother of many children and a fisherwoman, a role model appropriate for the 1970s Swedish female ideal. She became a perfect tool for discussions about the female situation in all periods of history and the beat poet Gary Snyder even dedicated a poem to her: ‘For a Fifty-Year-Old woman in Stockholm’ (Snyder 1983: 107). In 1996, the skeleton underwent a major conservation procedure. Various examinations were carried out at that time and she was also taken to a hospital where she was X-rayed (interestingly, at on the paediatric department imaging facility). The newspapers followed every step and the headlines were both warm and humorous as they described her as an: ‘old lady, a madam and a mega-babe; a woman who needed a face-lift or a new make-up’ (see newspaper articles in Nordström 2007: 149). The articles were illustrated with photographs taken at close range from different angles. One photograph even showed her skeleton on the dissection table with her, at this time so wellknown, portrait positioned vertically at her side. It was a playful but also subtle game with death, using her skeleton as a means of expression. Back in the showcase and on advice from an anthropologist, she was given a new, more natural, position leaning backwards (Schimanski 1996: 5). Following the redesign of the whole permanent exhibition in 2006, she is sitting up once again but with a more natural bend in her spine, and her gaze is directed downward (Fig. 10.1). In this regard, the skeleton has been surprisingly flexible in spite of her condition! Indeed, the position of her hunting equipment has changed places on her body several times. The reasons for these manipulations have lately been criticized for being nothing but unscientific attempts to emphasize her role as a hunter (Hanlon and Nilsson 2004: 229). Another interesting detail is the effort that has been made to hide the wires and braces that keep the skeleton together and make her sit without leaning. The last embellishment almost gives the impression that she is able to sit and keep her bones together by herself. Manipulations of various kinds have occurred and will no doubt continue. Her head has been reconstructed twice. The last model follows the new trend of showing a very expressive and personal appearance where every single hair and blood vessel can be studied upon her weatherbeaten face (Fig. 10.2). The ambition here has been to give this hunter and mother, as they present her in the exhibition, a politically neutral appearance,

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Fig. 10.1 The reconstruction of the Mesolithic grave from Bäckaskog, National Historical Museum, Stockholm (Photograph by Sören Hallgren)

which means she cannot be too blonde or too dark and the model-maker’s choice of green eyes and ash-blond hair was not really clarified as anything other than an assumption (Nordström 2007: 161). Her status as a mother has been questioned in the last decade; she could have been a woman without children. Besides, what is a mother? She might have given birth to children, but one of the questions posed today is: did she take care of them (Beausang 2005: 120)? The Bäckaskog Woman is a pars pro toto, she stands for a complete set of characteristics and is repeatedly used as an example, not least in the media, of a typical female situation from the Stone Age through to the present day. Her situation as a woman means that she will always be asked for an explanation. She is first and foremost considered with regard to her female gender, even if there are stories to tell about other dimensions to her identity. One can only guess what it would have been like if the situation had been reversed: a report of the discovery with apparent pride and a touch of amazement, telling about Sweden’s oldest skeleton, may be a fisher—or even a hunting—woman! And then, thirty years later, she turns out to be a man. It is unlikely that such a transformation would have caused the same sensation in science as well as the media. To be intriguing, and to

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Fig. 10.2 The facial reconstruction of Bäckaskog Woman, National Historical Museum, Stockholm (Photograph by Nina Nordström)

remain intriguing, to the modern public requires human remains to be the focus of many coincidences. In science these twists of fate mean a lot. She has become, without doubt, an ideological tool in that sense, but the skeleton is also therapeutic. Her clean, white bones are managed as a stage to prepare her in different roles and not perceived as repellent at all. She is permissive for a moderately, but not overly, serious game with death. Like a Vanitas, she is a reminder of death, but not a frightening one.

T W O ‘B O G BO D Y B R O TH ERS’ AS INSPI RING MEETIN GS OF NATURE AND CULTURE , ART AND SCIENCE Compared to skeletons, bog bodies are in themselves a quite absurd and uncanny category of finds and certainly much more intriguing. Often naked and without associated finds, they were long collected as curiosities rather than archaeological finds. Their bodies could not explain much about their societal

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context in prehistory when they were first found, but with modern scientific methods their environments, lives, and manner of death can be told with increasing precision. Bog bodies have a unique ability to evoke emotions: their presence is evocative and immediate in stark contrast to ‘clean skeletons’. The skin and hair of bog bodies renders them akin to anatomical art. Their importance for us today, when displayed, is unquestionable and has lately been clearly expressed in discussions of bog bodies from Britain and Ireland (Giles 2009). Two now-famous bog bodies were found in the early 1950s in Denmark just a few kilometres apart: Tollund Man and Grauballe Man. They have been presented in what is still considered the most fascinating book about bog bodies: The Bog People, by the archaeologist P. V. Glob. Each bog body has been forever intertwined by his poetic language (Glob 1969). Just as with twins, it is impossible to relate to one of them without taking the other into account. While seemingly alike, they differ in many ways and represent humanity and prehistory from different angles. The reasons for this are manifold, an important factor being the order in which they were found, another their appearance: the former seemingly peaceful, the second frozen in what looked like pain and fear. Tollund Man was the first of the two to be uncovered, discovered by peat diggers in 1950. His beautiful and distinguished head is known all over the world. Some finds are wrapped in a confusing and almost mythical history of discovery and the Tollund Man even caused a man’s death, according to Glob. In his popular and engaging book he claimed that the bog demanded a life for a life (Glob 1965: 15). In fact, the man who might have strained himself helping to lift the body died of heart failure the day after, something Glob had actually admitted already in a British newspaper some years before his book, but that would not have suited the imaginative language in his book (Glob 1951). The body was selectively preserved, a treatment never afforded to bog bodies before: local newspapers in Silkeborg followed the process closely. The journalists played an important and active part in watching every step of the preservation strategy and both criticized and pressured the local council to make sure that this human treasure came back from the capital city to Silkeborg. The sensation was complete when the head was returned and placed in a showcase. The local newspaper carried the headline ‘The district’s elder is coming back to his home’ (Silkeborg Social Demokraten 1952). It was a sensation for Silkeborg to have such a famous find that normally would have been placed in the capital as a national treasure, but bog bodies were then an exception which meant a lot for the little town. A museum had to be built and again the local press played an important role by encouraging the construction work.

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Today his fame has grown further still and people come from all over the world to visit the town of Silkeborg for just one reason: to see Tollund Man ‘in person’. He is now on display in a separate room behind the Iron Age department, and a reconstructed body has been added to the head. Residual fragments of the rest of the real body are kept in a safe, in order to allow new scientific examinations of his remains in the future. He has never been on loan to other museums; his importance for Silkeborg Museum and the small town is unquestionable. Even more moving than to see him ‘in the flesh’ is to study him via the many photographs taken over the years. Being reproduced flatters him, no doubt. At close range his face shows a human being just like us, although manipulated, often with his head in an upright position as if he has closed his eyes only for a moment. In one photograph, he is pictured without his cap which makes him even more alive and timeless: a vertiginous experience for the viewer. To watch him in reality gives one a feeling of personal recognition of a long-familiar celebrity. At the same time he seems more distant in person, somehow dry and dead compared to some of the more intrusive photographs which afford a sense of proximity and life. Tollund Man’s body thus plays an essential part in the longstanding and ongoing discussion about how we understand authenticity and reproduction in our modern world. Tollund Man will probably always be famous, but the media play an important role in keeping him in the limelight (Fig. 10.3). Two years after Tollund Man’s discovery, Grauballe Man was found nearby (Fig. 10.4). Professor P. V. Glob was prepared for the appearance of a bog body in every sense and he even opened a large entrance to the conservation department to get an entire peat block inside. Tollund Man’s ‘younger brother’ was to be treated and preserved with all the accessible modern knowledge available (Glob 1965: 31). The main difference between the two bog bodies, apart from their appearance, was that Grauballe Man’s body had been better preserved in the bog. Before the conservation process started, the public were allowed to see him on a ‘lit de parade’ for several days. More than 18,000 Danes paid their respects. He was then brought to the hospital and later back to the museum in a bright new ambulance, the modern and the ancient world were in symbiosis and the international press followed in his footsteps and reported the news in detail (see newspaper articles in Nordström 2007: 203 ff). The conservation took place with assistance from a tannery and specialists in chemistry. During the process, his wounds were plastered and his wrinkled face was stretched to achieve what was then considered to be a more natural and pleasant look. After almost three years he was ready for the showcase and the public. His situation, and certainly Professor Glob’s, took another turn when a woman thought she recognized him as a peat worker from her own childhood. Professor Glob and modern science were humiliated in several newspapers

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Fig. 10.3 Tollund Man closing his eyes for a moment (Photograph: Silkeborg Museum, Silkeborg)

until the bog body was finally dated with what the press called ‘the most modern nuclear test’ (Nordström 2007: 220f). The power in this sort of media dramaturgy can be devastating and should not be underestimated. Without the radiocarbon dating developed just a few years earlier, the future might have been bleak for both the professor and the bog body. Having exhibited the bog body for almost fifty years exposed in a very bright light that no longer was considered suitable for him, the time had come for a new exhibition in 2003. It was an opportunity to examine Grauballe Man again, and just like with Bäckaskog Woman, the media followed every step forth and back from hospital where the examination took place. They did not show much interest in the research and used quite puerile language, with headlines declaring that he was hospitalized or that he was participating in a health survey or even on an excursion. In spite of the fact that eighteen different specialists worked with his body, the media described him as if he was a living person. This trend can be seen in many cases, and shows that reexaminations of prehistoric individuals serve the press more as entertainment than engendering interest in presenting science. After being ‘discharged from hospital’ and ‘allowed to go home’ (see newspaper articles in Nordström 2007:

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Fig. 10.4 Grauballe Man discovered before the conservation (Photograph by Børge Venge, Aarhus Stiftstidene)

239), Grauballe Man was finally placed in a new, long-wished-for exhibition. His surrounding in Moesgaard Museum was divided in two parts. One, which focused on his modern history, from the conservation to the most recent examinations, and a second part for his body. In the first, every part of his body was shown on computer screens and in showcases; the picture sometimes reminds me of dissected laboratory animals. By way of contrast, his own body was given a room of his own below this laboratory display. Dressed with bog oak wall panels, without any information at all about him, his body rested in dim light, seemingly floating on supporting plastic that follows the contours of his body so well that this platform was hardly visible. It was a room for thoughtfulness and contemplation (Figs 10.5–6): a context which is once more evoked in the most recent 2014 re-display of this bog body in the newly completed Moesgaard Museum. This is probably a growing trend, to let the body speak for itself. The coordinator of the Bog Bodies Research Project at the National Museum of Ireland expressed it like this: ‘ . . . they have come to us as ambassadors of their time, speaking to us across the millennia and encouraging us to revise our understanding of Irish Iron Age society’ (Mulhall 2010).

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Fig. 10.5 Grauballe Man on display (Photograph by Børge Venge, Aarhus Stiftstidene)

Fig. 10.6 Grauballe Man ‘reburied’ (Photograph by Nina Nordström)

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The question as to whether the bog bodies were individuals that were punished or sacrificed to the gods has been debated since they first were found. The various interpretations are excellent reflections of the changing spirit of the time. The old opinion was that they were criminals or homosexuals, based on Tacitus Germania and strongly advocated during the Nazi era. It has for a long time now been judged just as politically incorrect as the sacrifice theory has been deemed correct (van der Sanden 1996: 166f). Professor Glob certainly did not want to be connected to Nazi ideas. Later, however, with changing views on human values and certainly on homosexuality, the focus has shifted once more. Now, given the widespread interpretation that they might have been homosexual victims but still loved in their community, one might think that ideas had come full circle (Fischer 1988). That would, on the other hand, be a reduction of archaeology as a research field, and the arguments and discussions still goes on regarding whether they were loved or hated, sacrificed or punished. As a reaction to the latest trend, one archaeologist tried to oppose all kinds of categorizations. In a newspaper article with the headline: ‘When the bog-bodies were gay’, he distanced himself not only from unpleasant ideologies but also from archaeologists caught in the Zeitgeist. The article was illustrated with a comic strip where Himmler states that: ‘He (the bog body) must have been gay due to his limp body parts’ (Lund 1996). The debate that followed in the newspaper illustrated only that the question was still delicate at the end of the twentieth century and that there still are different opinions as to how far archaeological interpretations can go. Tollund Man and Grauballe Man, in addition to geographic location and find date, are also tied together by poetry and art. First came Glob’s poetic description and later, even more importantly, in the Irish Nobel Prize winner Seamus Heaney’s poetry. He has used the bog bodies for more than forty years as poetic symbols for the human endeavour in the modern world, not the least his own as a writer, born into the conflict which has affected Ireland (Heaney 1966, 2006; Finn 1999: 110, 148). All of them are significant for each other in a subtle way. In art and poetry, bog bodies have come to play a new role as fellow human beings rather than representing prehistory (Sanders 2004: 278, 288, 2009: 145ff). This is in a sense reflected in the new exhibition built for Grauballe man. His body, now ‘reburied’ in a room without interfering information or additions is protected from excessive light and his presence invites the public to contemplation. Just like in art it reveals a need for recreation and consoling and his body becomes a therapeutic tool in this matter. These two men from the bog represent more than prehistory. Alike and still so different, their bodies inspire meetings of nature and culture, art and science. Together they represent modernity and eternity. The Grauballe Man has been drawn into our modern world, manipulated just like us and covered by the media. By contrast, Tollund Man opens a door to the past; with his civilized and peaceful appearance he is more of an ideal for ourselves than a

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reminder to us. In contrast to the Grauballe Man and the Tollund Man, the two Dutch bog bodies, called the Weerdinge couple, have inspired an artist to another vision when sculpting a large monument placed in the town centre, using their bodies as a kind of prima materia. The artist presents them as townspeople among other still-living townspeople in order to embody how modernity and irony work as antidotes to nostalgia (Sanders 2009: 149).

T W O W O M E N I N A VI K I N G S HI P— A CON TRADICTORY COMBINATION While individuals from the Stone Age in general, and Iron Age bog bodies in particular, are found without much of a surviving archaeological context, the contrary can be said about the Viking ship graves. The Oseberg find, discovered in 1904, is the richest of them all. What is more, the two individuals buried in the ship were both women. The Viking world assuredly had both men and women, but Viking ships are commonly associated with a man’s world. Men travelled across rough seas and were known for their brutal raids. It was the well-preserved Gokstad ship dated to AD 890 that really showed the world in 1880 its first Viking ship. It was a stable, well-built ship, able to sail in deep water. Inside was a tall man who had been buried together with the typical accessories one could expect a Viking chieftain to have required in life and in the afterlife. When the Oseberg ship dated to AD 820 was excavated twenty-four years later, after hopes and expectations of finding another ship, ‘she’ was immediately compared with the Gokstad ship and labelled with various comparative adjectives. The ‘new’ Oseberg ship became in one sense like a little sister, much more beautiful, but also more fragile and unstable than her big brother. They called the ship ‘the queen’s little dragon’ (Shetelig 1917: 342f). Another important source for the already existing knowledge about Viking funerals was the eyewitness account of the Arabic traveller Ibn Fadlan, describing the burial of a man in his ship together with a slave-girl in the land of the Volga Bulgars, a text that without doubt has provided an enduring template for how the Vikings behaved in general (Hasenfratz 1992). As I pointed out above, it can be enough to be a woman in order to be notable, and hence two women in a ship grave was certainly exceptional. Furthermore, these two individuals were subject to a unique modern history. Even today, the grave is often referred to as a grave of one woman, the Oseberg queen. The other, if at all mentioned, is referred to as a ‘companion’ of some sort. It cannot be stressed enough that the archaeologist Gabriel Gustafson, excavator of the Oseberg ship, faced an almost impossible task when it came to conserving and interpreting all the evidence, including the two women.

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The fact that he chose the terms ‘queen’ and ‘slave’ was understandable at a time when a desire to write the early history of the Norwegian people was strong. Norway had been under continuous foreign occupation since the Middle Ages and, although this would always be difficult to prove from a period without written sources, the discovery of Norwegian royalty was considered ideologically essential for the recently independent nation. Less understandable, and therefore all the more intriguing, was the archaeologist’s choice to decide which skeleton was that of the queen (Gustafson 1906: 131). The contours of an almost complete skeleton were thus consolidated: an older individual whose ailments could be better studied. On the anthropologist’s laboratory bench she also became ‘number 1’ while the remains of the younger woman were labelled ‘number 2’ (Guldberg 1907: 1396). The image of an elderly lady emerges through archaeologist’s interpretations against which stand the precautionary remarks by the anthropological expert: that it is all a matter of hypotheses. However, pale in the royal limelight, and just as in the case with Bäckaskog Woman, the archaeologist’s interpretation dominated the scene. This was asserted to be the grave and body of a queen: Åsa, mother of Halfdan the Black, a woman who is described in the later Icelandic sagas as a ninth-century Norwegian queen, strong and wilful. By way of contrast, the younger individual whose skeleton was less complete is left on the sidelines; her subordinate role seemed clear, and she was regarded as ‘the other’ at all levels. An imbalance thus arose between factual science and the desire to shape a narrative. It is an imbalance that undoubtedly can be seen as the main reason for the dynamic history that characterizes this find. The possible roles of the two individuals were discussed in four large books without any evidential foundation whatsoever, and the scholars were then trapped by their own rhetoric, which was riddled with inconsistencies. In the first volume, the older woman was interpreted as being the queen; the absence of finger bones and of one arm bone was explained as a result of grave robbery aimed at jewellery. In the case of the younger woman, the almost complete absence of bones was not discussed (Brøgger 1917a: 25ff, 1917b: 130). In the next volume, ten years later, one anthropologist tried to scrutinize the evidence again. He managed to reverse their status, turning the younger woman into a queen because she showed signs of having cleaned her teeth with a metal needle. He also stressed that this was no Queen Åsa. The older individual, although more complete, did not have any teeth left, a scientific problem he chose not to discuss (Schreiner 1927: 108). The fate of the two individuals could have been sealed then, but a state-like reburial was planned to return the two individuals to the mound that was to be rebuilt for this purpose. The archaeologist responsible, Professor Brøgger, supported by a section of the general public, argued that the queen should be honoured in the same manner as the Gokstad man had been twenty years

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before—reburied in a coffin in his own grave mound. The anthropologist, Professor Schreiner, was completely against the idea of reburial, just like he had been against the reburial of Gokstad Man; he wanted to keep the bones for future scientific examinations. However, Schreiner and a number of colleagues fought in vain against the general desire to rebury her as a real Viking queen. The newspaper articles described it as a struggle between archaeologists and anthropologists for Queen Åsa. This Åsa was increasingly transported into the present, described as a lady not entirely unlike modern women of the 1940s in post-war Norway. The intimate media language was similar in attitude to the discourse used for the Bäckaskog Woman later on. Victory in the struggle was a foregone conclusion, and in 1948 the two women were placed on a board of oak laid in an aluminium coffin, placed in a stone sarcophagus and reburied in what might be described as a restrained secular ritual. The media was there of course, and reported in detail about the public event which took place in the presence of the crown prince (see newspaper articles in Nordström 2007: 291ff; Fig. 10.7). Their physical absence, however, has not prevented continued speculation about these women. On the contrary, she (seldom ‘they’), has been illuminated from a new perspective in recent decades, when it has been questioned as to

Fig. 10.7 The display of bones in 1948 prior to reburial (Photograph: Kulturhistoriskt Museum, Oslo)

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whether she was really only a queen. Another close study of the finds has identified a simple but strange tube as a staff, and this as well as herbs and cannabis seed and a large stone to which the ship was anchored have over the past decade been taken to suggest another kind of woman: one with supernatural powers, a priestess (völva) or seer, a woman who was best left in the soil (Ingstad 1992: 240ff; Price 2002: 159; Solli 2002: 229). The story might have ended here if it were not for the growing concern about the reburied bones in the two mounds that arose in the 1990s. The Oseberg women and the Gokstad Man, reburied 1928 and 1948, were not resting safely in their modern graves due to humidity. One of the main reasons for starting a re-opening project was a little cardboard box found in 2005 by Per Holck, currently professor at the Anatomical Institute in Oslo. The box was labelled ‘Oseberg’ and contained some human bones. How it was possible that nobody noticed that some bones were missing at the reburial in 1948 is still shrouded in mystery. Nobody knows today who actually arranged the bones on the board of oak before they were placed in the aluminium coffin (Holck 2006: 197, 2009: 45). An ancient DNA analysis from one of the samples in the box indicated that the younger woman had her roots in the area of the Black Sea. The older woman’s bones were too contaminated for any result. Even if it was clear from the beginning that the sample from the younger women needed to be confirmed with more tests, the media reacted immediately and the newspapers and NRK (TV and radio) produced headlines like: ‘The Oseberg queen—who was she?’ or ‘Viking woman had roots near the Black Sea’, and Queen Åsa was mentioned again (Guhnfeldt 2007; http://www. nrk.no/viten/). The sensation was a fact and in 2007 the time had come when the majority of the Norwegian people as well as all scientists did find it necessary to dig them up again. The project group for this very unusual excavation was well aware of the media storm awaiting them as well as the predictable interest from the public and they therefore had to plan everything carefully in advance. One decision in the project group was to keep a low profile and call them ‘the women’ or ‘the skeletons’, instead of queen and slave. Another important task was to know how to handle all viewers that would come to the reopening. The excavation itself was technically easy, but the reburial itself had been carried out without documentation, so the first problem was to find the coffins in the mounds with a metal detector. The project manager, Vivian Wangen, described her concern about doing it right and in an ethically acceptable way, for example to find the coffins before the press arrived. This was not comparable to any ordinary archaeological excavation; this was ‘a show’ (V. Wangen, pers. comm.: Figs 10.8–11). There were numerous spectators and they had to file past the coffin in the stone sarcophagus. The public followed the excavations with the same excitement as the archaeologists and gasped and cheered at intervals. Following the reopening of the Gokstad mound, they crowded so close to the

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Fig. 10.8 Re-excavation in 2007 (Photograph by Mårten Teigen. Kulturhistoriskt Museum, Oslo)

Fig. 10.9 The public spectacle of re-excavation, 2007 (Photograph by Vivan Wangen. Kulturhistoriskt Museum, Oslo)

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excavation pit that some people could have fallen down (V. Wangen, pers. comm.). Before they closed the empty sarcophagi again, they placed a shiny new 20-krona coin in each of them, delivered directly from the national bank (Fig. 10.10). A sudden inspiration among the archaeologists also resulted in a peacock feather in the Gokstad grave as a reminder of one of the more unusual contents in his original interment. The coffins were transported to the museum and opened in the presence of the media. The bones turned out to have been saved just in time before humidity started to penetrate the coffins (Levd liv 2008). On the laboratory bench again after sixty and eighty years respectively, the skeletons can now provide more information about these famous individuals than on previous occasions. Gokstad Man was not, as the earlier anthropologist had thought, suffering from rheumatism, and the cause of his death is not obscure. The mortal wounds on his bones told of the last fight that must have killed him. Furthermore, the extreme dimensions of his skeleton were caused by acromegaly, a condition resulting from excessive growth hormone. This may also have resulted in coarse features: big nose, ears, and lips, as well as robust hands and feet (Holck 2009: 43ff). He must have looked like a giant. Our image of the two Oseberg women was also changed by the new studies. Both of them were older than previously thought, 50 and 80 years old

Fig. 10.10 A symbolic gesture to the empty coffin (Photograph by Mårten Teigen. Kulturhistoriskt Museum, Oslo)

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Fig. 10.11 Opening the lead sarcophagus, 2007 (Photograph by Mårten Teigen. Kulturhistoriskt Museum, Oslo)

respectively. The older woman had a wide range of diseases starting from childhood. A bad knee gave her a limp, and her back had been destroyed by osteoporosis resulting in a stoop. In addition, she suffered from Morgagni syndrome, a hormone disturbance that causes overweight and virilization with increased hair growth and a deep voice. She died from cancer, which must have caused her much pain. More than half of the seeds and plants, including the cannabis, found in the grave are now proved to be staples of folk medicine and might well have been used against the painful diseases she suffered from. It should be noted here that cannabis is recognized as a medicine and has been available on prescription in Sweden since 2012. A new DNA test made on the exhumed bones did not reveal any further results and the question of whether they might be relatives must wait (Holck 2009: 50ff, 66). Furthermore, the tube or the staff that by some has been related to a priestess’s equipment received a new investigation that showed that it is quite likely a musical instrument: a lur (Utnes and Brattegaard 2011). The amount of new information available today due to new scientific methods has resulted in different interpretations, and the prehistoric individual can be seen in a new light. Headlines like: ‘Oseberg woman was disabled. She had a male appearance and beard growth’ and ‘This was a complicated meniscal injury as well as an anterior cruciate ligament injury’ (Guhnfeldt 2009) illustrate how language becomes more sober, lifting the veil from the two woman a bit further. The new focus on their health instead of their role as

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Fig. 10.12 The bones on display (Photograph by Nina Nordström)

queen or slave brings them into our modern world and makes them a little more understandable because we recognize ourselves in their physical weakness. A new focus could also be seen in the temporary exhibition about the reopening in 2007 where the skeletons and the coffins were on display (Fig. 10.12). They were placed on a first-floor gallery just over the entrance of the Viking Ship Museum. It was in itself a complete contrast to the main exhibition where the dark and enchanting ships stand in solitude, almost without any display boards. With an emphasis on the different study and analytical methods the story of the reopening was told in detail on large display boards that covered the walls. The skeletons were arranged anatomically and placed on a drawing of a grey silhouette of a body in a glass display cases. It was in this sense a contradiction to the Grauballe exhibition; it was definitely not a room for contemplation but rather for curiosity. They are now placed beside the Gokstad ship in the permanent exhibition awaiting refurbishment of the whole museum. Museum lecturer Ellen Maire Næss has long experience with visitors and she reported a major change since the ‘the ladies and the man’ have been on display. The enthusiasm and interest from the visitors are obvious, and many new questions are raised due to the presence of the skeletons. In 2013, the Oseberg find once again came under the spotlight as the action movie Ragnarok was released. In this film, the Oseberg ship contains the answer to the mystery of Ragnarök, the end of days in Norse mythology. The Viking Ship

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Museum was one of the locations and later some of the more spectacular movie props were displayed in the museum, something that confused the tourists a great deal (E. M. Næss pers. comm; Fyen 2013). They appeared as real archaeological finds, representing the people belonging to the ships. Finally, the question of who the dead individuals really were will be given renewed impetus in a new research project starting with the Gokstad burial (http://www.khm.uio.no/english/visit-us/viking-ship-museum/exhibitions/ gokstad). Discussions of the Oseberg find and its women, whoever they were, will probably never end. Their two bodies together make the impossible possible. They have given us a picture of an elusive individual, one individual constructed in the course of the research out of one-and-a-half skeletons. The dramaturgy made this taken-for-granted leading lady, sometimes old, sometimes young, daughter, mother, and grandmother, worn-out and sick or with an aristocratic concern for her teeth—a queen for the nation, a powerful cannabis-smoking priestess, or perhaps both. Today, the find remains complex, mythical, and enchanting. But now, exhumed for the second time and back in the limelight, the shadows from two women are equally sharp. With new scientific methods, they now have the same status and they are ‘the ladies’ or ‘women’ or even ‘skeletons’ in the headlines and in scholarship. The ‘drugs’ are ‘medicine’ and the ‘priestess’s’ staff has become a musical instrument. Their presence in the museum affects both scholars and the public, the fact that we can look at them makes them more real and sober. The future for the skeletons as well as the ships is an open question at time of writing (2015). In 2012, the decision was made not to relocate the ships to a new museum in Oslo. A seventeen-year-old and very heated debate that mostly took place in the media, described as a Viking battle, was finally closed (Andreassen 2011). The work with a strategic plan has now started with a focus on substantial rebuilding of the Viking ship museum ((http://www.khm.uio.no/ english/visit-us/viking-ship-museum/).

THE P REHISTORIC INDIVIDUAL AS AN I DEOLOGICAL AND THERAPEU TIC TOO L IN O UR TIM E Some of the individuals from prehistory undeniably provoke strong responses today. They have a unique modern history that has been shaped through our own personal views on human beings in close relation to these individuals’ appearance, age, and sex. The more attention and care we devote to them, the more immortal they become. The reason for the constant interest is manifold, and one of these interests is our desire to find out the truth about ourselves

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through engagement with the ancient dead. Therefore we study them again and again, generating over time unique knowledge about ourselves as humans and what it means to be a human being. Particularly with the application of new scientific methods, especially ancient DNA analysis, both scientist and the public are coming closer to human remains as individuals. The constant stream of news, also in daily papers about their health, the different diseases and allergies, how many cavities in their teeth they were suffering from, transform them into ordinary people. My studies have aimed to elucidate some well-known prehistoric individuals from as many angles as possible and to uncover the different layers of rhetoric in science and media, often intertwined in a subtle way. Over time, some of them have been used to shape our grand narratives about humanity. Ian Hodder has used the concept of ‘entanglement’ when discussing the relationship between humans and things. He argues that the human dependence on things and vice versa, can be explored in the past and the present. He concluded that ‘the focus is not on things and humans themselves but on their joint movement, that leads to unanticipated consequences that act back and create new problems and conditions’ (Hodder 2012: 210). I see our relationship to these bodies as a similar entanglement. We need them as tools for ideological reasoning, and this becomes even clearer when some individuals become entangled into reasoning that we really never will have any answer to. Questions around why a woman can, or cannot, hunt or why she could, or could not, have been killed. Whether a bog body was a homosexual but still loved by society, or if a Viking ‘queen’ could have been a foreigner. They might seem to be just what we want them to be, but they are not marionettes. They change, sometimes suddenly as a result of new science, or slowly so that we have difficulties explaining the change. They ‘live’ in science and the media, in hyperbole and in interpretations ranging from the probable to pure guesses and in our endeavour to understand them we both discover and create them. In this chapter, I have only been able to present a few of all the details that make the ‘immortals’ of our museums so inspiring and elaborate. I want to emphasize that it is through the study of all these details, and not the broadbrush approach, that one can come close to their significance in contemporary society. Their bodies are approached in new ways by each generation but there is often a lack of documentation on earlier exhibitions that mean that thorough historical investigations are required to explore the biographies of bodies in our museums. This applies especially to interviews with all those who had anything to do with the body in question, not only the curators and museum staff once involved but also the archaeologists and osteologists involved in the initial discovery and subsequent investigations. My experience is that there are so many ‘stories’ around the archaeological dead that never see the light of day only because they were held to be of no significance by researchers and the

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public. Yet these stories about how discovered and displayed human remains have been treated and how it is, or was, to work with them are varied, emotive, and offer many insights into the significance of the archaeological dead in contemporary society. They are excellent examples of the fact that pragmatism and science never can be isolated from our emotional fascination. Ancient human bodies certainly indicate the incessant passage of time and the merciless decline of all living things but I do believe that apart from the ways they reflect different ideological thoughts about human beings over time they also hold therapeutic values that should not be underestimated. There has been a trend to hospitalize them as if they were still alive and today also a tendency to ‘rebury’ them in their own exhibition. It is considered right and ethically correct to express a need for care and a personal touch. We even give some of them their faces back, or at least an interpretation of the face. The act reflects wider society today, with an intimacy so intense that it might have a negative effect in the long run; this has been a topic discussed in depth within media studies including intimacy as a trend in entertainment (Skeggs and Wood 2012). How human remains from archaeological excavations will be exhibited in the future is an open question. Perhaps there will be a return to the clean showcase, as in the old days when visitors wanted to see the curiosity in itself and without context. The exposure of the Oseberg and Gokstad skeletons as well as the focus on science in the current, temporary exhibition might be a hint of such a trend. Death is also something we have to handle with different strategies in modern times. Whether we share the idea that it interferes in all our actions and behaviours or only some of them, our strategies are clearly visible in the discipline of archaeology. For mortuary archaeologists, the treatment of dead bodies is ‘a matter of course’ and can therefore also function as a form of therapy. Their death, so distant and ancient in origin, makes it possible to handle them without fright or shame. In our bewildered situation, with a constant knowledge of the unavoidability of death, they are immortal and forever fascinating, always belonging to two different worlds, visible and still enchantingly unreachable. Like exiles, but from another time instead of another country they can, just as Edward Said writes in his memoirs about his own exile, force us to define ourselves and give us the possibility to deepen our perspectives on society and culture (Said 1999: 295).

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS For new information about the Oseberg reburial I sincerely want to thank: Jan Bill, Per Holck, Ellen Marie Næss, and Vivian Wangen. I am equally grateful to Howard Williams, Melanie Giles, and Heinrich Härke, both for giving valuable comments on the text as well as revising it.

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Åhrén Snickare, E. 2002. Döden, kroppen och moderniteten. Oskarshamn. Åkesson, L. 1997. Mellan levande och döda. Föreställningar om kropp och ritual. Stockholm. Albrethsen, S. E. and Brinch Petersen, E. 1976. Excavation of a Mesolithic cemetery at Vedbæk, Denmark, Acta Archaeologica, 47, 1–28. Andreassen, T. 2011. Kan avgjøre vikingaslaget, Aftenposten, 23 March, 8. Ariès, P. 1981. The Hour of Our Death, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bauman, Z. 1992. Mortality and Immortality and Other Life Strategies, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Beausang, E. 2005. Childbirth and Mothering in Archaeology, GOTARC Series B. Gothenburg archaeological thesis, Göteborg: Göteborg University. Benjamin, W. 1980. Gesammelte Schriften Band I, Werkausgabe Band 2, R. Tiedemann and H. Schweppenhäuser (eds), 431–69, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Bonn-Muller, E. 2007. ‘Brötzi’ emerges, Archaeology, 60(5). http://www.archive. archaeology.org/0709/trenches/brotzi.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). Bråten, C. and Arnstein, Ö. 2007. Osebergdronningen—Hvem var hun?, NRK 2 P2, 17 August. Brøgger, A. W. 1917a. Osebergfundets historie I, in A. W. Brøgger, H. Falk, and H. Shetelig (eds) Osebergfundet I, 3–119, Kristiania: Universitetets Oldsaksamling. Brøgger, A. W. 1917b. Haugen. I, in A.W. Brøgger, H. Falk, and H. Shetelig (eds) Osebergfundet I, 123–64, Kristiania: Universitetets Oldsaksamling. Elias, N. 1986. The Loneliness of Dying, Oxford: B. Blackwell. Eliasson, O. 2004. Intervju om: The Weather Project. Weekendavisen, Weekendavisen, 17 Sep, 23. Finn, C. 1999. Worlds from kept bodies. The bog body as literary inspiration, in B. Coles, J. Coles, and M. Schou Jørgensen (eds) Bog Bodies, Sacred Sites and Wetland Archaeology, 79–84, Exeter: WARP. Fischer, C. 1988. På sporet av Tollundmanden, København: Haase. Fleckinger, A. 2011. Ötzi 2.0: Eine Mumie zwischen Wissenschaft, Kult und Mythos, Stuttgart: Theiss. Fyen, S. 2013. Det mest ekstreme har vært de som har trodd at det har vært bilder av ekte vikinger, Dagbladet, 3 October 3. Gejvall, N.-G. 1970. The fisherman from Barum—mother of several children! Palaeoanatomic finds in the skeleton from Bäckaskog, Fornvännen, 65, 281–92. Giles, M. 2009. Iron Age bog bodies of north-western Europe. Representing the dead, Archaeological Dialogues, 16, 75–101. Glob, P. V. 1951. A murder mystery of Iron-Age Denmark, it’s victim peat-preserved for 2000 years, The Illustrated London News, 24 November. Glob, P. V. 1965. Mosefolket. Jernalderns Mennesker bevaret i 2000 år, København: Gyldendals. Glob, P. V. 1969. The Bog People. Iron-Age Man Preserved, London: Faber and Faber. Guhnfeldt, C. 2007. Osebergkvinne med aner fra Svartehavet, Aftenposten, 26 March, 9. Guhnfeldt, C. 2009. Osebergkvinne var invalid. Hadde mannhaftig utseende och skjeggvekst, Aftenposten, 1 January 7.

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Guldberg, G. A. 1907. Om Osebergskipets menneskeknokler fra den yngre järnåldern, Kristiania Videnskapsselskaps Skrifter I no 8 [Norsk Magazin for Lægevidenskapen 1907], Kristiania: Videnskapsselskapet. Gustafson, G. 1906. Norges Oldtid, Kristiania: Universitetets Oldsaksamling. Hanlon, C. and Nilsson, B. 2004. The ever-changing Barum grave, Fornvännen, 99, 225–30. Hansen, F. 1939. Rapport om fyndet från Bäckaskog. ATA Dnr 2384/39, Antikvariskt Topografiskt Arkiv, Stockholm: Unpublished report. Hasenfratz, H.‐P. 1992. Die religiöse Welt der Germanen—Ritual, Magie, Kult Mythus, Freiburg: Herder. Heaney, S. 1966. Death of a Naturalist, London: Faber and Faber. Heaney, S. 2006. District and Circle, London: Faber and Faber. Hodder, I. 2012. Entangled. An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things, Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Holck, P. 2006. The Oseberg ship burial, Norway: new thoughts on the skeletons from the grave mound, European Journal of Archaeology, 9, 185–209. Holck, P. 2009. Skjelettene fra Gokstad og Osebergskipet, Antropologiske skrifter, 8, Oslo: Univeristetet i Oslo. Huyssen, A. 1995. Twilight Memories: Marking Time in a Culture of Amnesia, New York and London: Routledge. Høholt, S. 2000. Kød – Kropp – Menneske. Når kroppens menneskelige fernis krakelerer, in C. Gether and S. Høholt (eds) Mennesket. Et halvt århundrede set gennom kroppen. Utställningskatalog Arken Museum for Moderne Kunst, Denmark. Ingstad, A.-L. 1992. Osebergs-dronningen-vem var hun?, in A. E. Christensen, A. S. Ingstad, and B. Myhre (eds) Osebergsdronningens grav. Vår arkeologiske nationalskatt i nytt lys, 224–57, Oslo: Schibsted. Körperwelten 1998. Körperwelten—Einblicke in den menschlichen Körper. Ausstellung des Insititution für Plastination im Landesmuseum für Technik und Arbeit im Mannheim, Heidelberg: Institut für Plastination. Levd liv. 2008. Levd liv—En utstilling om skjelettene fra Oseberg og Gokstad, Oslo: Kulturhistorisk Museum, Universitetet i Oslo. Lund, A. 1996. Da moseligene var bøsser, Politiken, 1 June, 23. McManners, J. 1981. Death and the French historians, in J. Whaley (ed.) Mirrors of Mortality, 106–30, London: Taylor & Francis. Mullhall, I. 2010. The peat men from Clonycavan and Oldcroghan, British Archaeology, 110, Jan/Feb 2010, 34–41. Nordström, N. 2006a. The Oseberg find and modern archaeology, in A. Andrén and P. Carelli (eds) Odin’s Eye—Between People and Powers in the Pre-Christian North, Skrifter nr 6/Stadshistoriska avdelningen, 239–44, Helsingborg, Dunkers Kulturhus. Nordström, N. 2006b. From queen to sorcerer, in A. Andrén, K. Jennbert, and C. Raudvere (eds) Old Norse Religion in Long-Term Perspectives. Origins, Changes, and Interactions. Vägar till Midgård, 8, 399–404, Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Nordström, N. 2007. De odödliga. Förhistoriska individer i vetenskap och media, Vägar till Midgård, 10, Lund: Nordic Academic Press.

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Nordström, N. 2010. Die Junge, die Alte und das Wikingerschiff, Archäologie in Deutschland, 1, 28–30. Price, N. 2002. The Viking Way. Religion and War in Late Iron Age Scandinavia, Aun 31, Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet. Rydbeck, O. 1945. Skelettgraven i Bäckaskog (sittande hukläge) och dess ålder, Meddelanden från Lunds universitets historiska museum, Lund: C W K Gleerups Forlag. Rasdjarmrearnsook, A. 1999. Lament, Bangkok: Amarin. Sanders, K. 2004. Bodies in process. Bog bodies in contemporary art and poetry, Edda, 4(4), 276–83. Sanders, K. 2009. Bodies in the Bog and the Archaeological Imagination, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Said, E. 1999. Out of Place: A Memoir, New York: Knopf. Schimanski, F. 1996. Ny datering av äldsta kvinnan, Populär Historia 2, Silkeborg Social Demokraten. 1952-06-19. Schreiner, K. E. 1927. Menneskeknoklene fra Osebergskibet og andre Norske Jernalderfund, in A. W. Brøgger and H. Shetelig (eds) Osebergfundet V, 81–279, Kristiania: Universitetets Oldsaksamling. Secretan, T. 1994. Going into Darkness: Fantastic Coffins from Africa, London: Thames and Hudson. Shetelig, H. 1917. Skipet, in A.W. Brøgger, H. Falk, and H. Shetelig (eds) Osebergfundet I, 283–366, Kristiania: Universitetets Oldsaksamling. Skeggs, B. and Wood, H. 2012. Reacting to Reality Television: Performance, Audience and Value, London: Routledge. Snyder, G. 1983. Axe Handles: Poems, New York: North Point Press. Solli, B. 2002. Seid. Myter, sjamanisme og kjønn i vikingenes tid, Oslo. Pax. Stenberger, M. 1964. Det forntida Sverige, Stockholm. Bokförlaget Aldus/Bonniers. Strassburg, J. 2000. Shamanic Shadows. One Hundred Generations of Undead Subversion in Southern Scandinavia, Stockholm Studies in Archaeology, 20, Stockholm: Stockholms Universitet. Utnes, O. J. and Brattegaard, O.-B. 2011. The Oseberg tube. http://abel.hive.no/ trompet/oseberg/The_Oseberg_tube.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). van der Sanden, W. 1996. Through Nature to Eternity. The Bog Bodies of Northwest Europe, Amsterdam: Batavian Lion International. Walter, T. 1998. A sociology of grief?, Mortality, 3, 83–7. Williams, H. 2010. Death becomes us, Minerva, 21(2), 42–5. Internet http://www.archive.archaeology.org/0709/trenches/brotzi.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). http://www.museumsilkeborg.dk/; http://natgeotv.com/uk/ancient-x-files; http:// www.khm.uio.no/english/visit-us/viking-ship-museum/exhibitions/gokstad/; http://www. khm.uio.no/english/ (Accessed 29 June 2015). http://www.nrk.no/vitenskap-og-teknologi/1.3405117 (Accessed 29 June 2015). http://www.spiegel.de/reise/europa/bergtouren-fuer-steinzeit-fans-wandern-wie-oetzi-a783549.html (Accessed 29 June 2015).

11 Covering the Mummies at the Manchester Museum A Discussion of Authority, Authorship, and Agendas in the Human Remains Debate Karen Exell

‘A museum is like an elite judiciary that must safeguard its judgements from the appearance of conflicts of interest while also honoring public opinion.’ (Whitaker 2009: 41)

I N T R O D U C TI O N From 2006 to 2009, Manchester Museum, University of Manchester, UK, was one of the leading institutions promoting the debate surrounding the ethics of preserving and displaying the dead in museums. The discussion in this chapter analyses the activities of Manchester Museum in relation to human remains within the context of a critical assessment of recent developments in museum practice and the continuing cultural significance of the museum. In particular, the discussion will pay particular attention to the omission of any acknowledgement of the individuals responsible for exhibitions and related events, i.e. the authors of its public discourse. Two case studies will be used to illustrate the discussion: the exhibition, Lindow Man: A Bog Body Mystery (2008–9), and the incident of the ‘covering the mummies’ in April 2008 where three of the twelve Egyptian embalmed bodies on display were fully covered, resulting in a public outcry (Jenkins 2011a; Exell 2013a). Both the exhibition and the ‘covering the mummies’ formed part of a series of high-profile activities related to human remains that took place at Manchester Museum at this

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time. At the time, I was in post as Curator of Egyptology, and this discussion also illustrates the changing role of subject-specialist curators in relation to exhibition production and other aspects of a museum’s public communications (see Farrar 2004).

MU SEUMS, AUTHORSHIP, AUTHORITY ‘There are, as far as we know, no a priori reasons for supposing that scientists’ scientific practice is any more rational than that of outsiders.’ (Latour and Woolgar 1986: 29) ‘Another word for “local knowledges” is prejudice.’ (Sokal 2008: 108)

Working on the public consultation process during the period 2008–10 for the new archaeology and ancient Egypt galleries at Manchester Museum, opened as the Ancient Worlds galleries in October 2012, the general lack of understanding of the exhibition and gallery development process amongst museum visitors became evident. From discussions with participants in the various consultation events (Exell and Lord 2008; Exell 2013a,b), it emerged that people in the institution either regarded the decision-making process as being the sole responsibility of the most relevant subject-specialist curator, or somehow the result of a monolithic and neutral institutional mind (Arnold 1998: 191). This is unsurprising as the literature that discusses museum practice is aimed at the profession itself (and even this tends to ignore the day-to-day of museum activity; MacDonald 2002: 7). Moreover, museum exhibitions and events are generally not authored and do not implicitly reveal the people and processes that have created them. As Wilk noted in his introduction to the monograph describing the creation of the British Galleries at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, in the late 1990s, the volume itself was unusual in that it revealed the myriad aspects of such a project (the people involved, the audience evaluation, design processes, and so on). Wilk (2004: 4) notes that the ‘expert-driven nature of museums means admitting uncertainty or hesitation is not the rule, nor is transparency about goals or ambitions’. Completed exhibitions are the result of the actions of many different people, activities, and even objects and materials—with regard to the latter, the space or environmental requirements of certain objects influence and change a finished exhibit (MacDonald 2002: 7; see also Becker’s (1982: 2, 370) discussion of the network of activities that produce art). The exhibition process has always been collective; recent changes to museum practice in relation to the creation of exhibitions lie in the areas within which collective action is tolerated. Until recently, the contributions of the

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wider team lay in technical areas such as mount-making, lighting, and so on; over the last thirty years or so this has expanded into the content development— themes, object choice, and interpretation—with the role of specialist curators no longer always central (Barrett 2011: 148). Accepted practice in many museums now is that they operate as ‘forums’ rather than ‘temples’ (see the classic discussion by Cameron 1971), devolving authority from the museum to its constituents (and internally from subject-specialist curators to other staff) and encouraging multiple interpretations and debate. This development in museum practice is an aspect of the ‘culture wars’ resulting from postmodernist thought with its emphasis on cognitive and cultural relativism and rejection of the rationalist tradition of the Enlightenment (MacDonald 2006: 4; Heumann Gurian 2010: 100). European and American museums are institutions born of the Enlightenment, and this radical change in their role from nodes of cultural authority to facilitators of debate and collaboration (Barrett 2011: 149–55; Jenkins 2011a: 55–69) is seen as preventing the persistence of a dominant colonial or single orthodox version of events. It is, however, not without its challenges and tensions, both in arriving at a consensus between opposing narratives (see, for example, Gieryn 1998; Exell 2013b) and in the ongoing resistance by curatorial staff in many museums to the concept of relativism and the devolution of their expert authority (Farrar 2004; Hinton 2004: 207). Sokal, in his critique of post-modernism and social constructivism in relation to science (most recently summarized in 2008), has queried both the accuracy and benefit of giving equal weight to multiple narrative interpretations, drawing attention to definitions of the word ‘valid’ when applied to opposing interpretations. The example he uses is the controversy over Kennewick Man, a prehistoric skeleton found on the banks of the Columbia River, Kennewick, Washington State in 1996, where archaeologists publicly gave space to the Native American interpretation of their origins, and therefore their claims to a relationship with the 10,000 year old skeletal remains (Sokal 2008: 108–9; see Thomas and Hathorne 2001; Chatters 2002). Sokal (2008: 109) argues that if two theories are mutually incompatible (in this case, the Native American belief in their origins vs that ascertained through archaeological research) then both cannot be true; they may both be valid as social systems of belief, but they are not both valid as justified true belief, or knowledge. Sokal’s scientific positivism is not fashionable in social sciences or the humanities. It is, however, worth bearing in mind his clarity of definition so that the consultative method now employed by many museums does not allow the presentation of belief systems that are socially irresponsible, or largely socially unrecognized, simply as a result of indiscriminately giving equal weight—and therefore implied validity—to all views (see Macdonald 2006: 4). Such an approach is easily abused (for example, see Sokal 2008: 297–321 on post-modernism and the rise of Hindu nationalism).

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Even without the introduction of multiple narratives, interpretations in museums are complex. In an exhibition, not only is a ‘fact’ presented, but its meaning and impact signified by the nature of the presentation, and those ‘facts’ not presented may be rendered irrelevant or obsolete by their omission (MacDonald 1998a: 1; Moser 2010: 22–4). Machin’s study (2008) of the natural history galleries (since redeveloped as the Living Worlds and Nature’s Library galleries) at Manchester Museum concluded that natural history galleries are, in general, better described as ‘fora for story-telling, and indeed myth-making’ than as ‘places of learning and facts, of science and biological truths’ (Machin 2008: 55). Machin’s study argued that the gallery presented species with an androcentric bias through patriarchal stories ‘masked as biological truths’ (Machin 2008: 64). Museums are by default places where a version of the world is constructed; in addition, internal politics and power relations complicate any objective of authority sharing, even if the relationship between a museum and its public has shifted. It is this social aspect of knowledge-production that fascinated Bruno Latour when he studied scientists in their laboratories and followed them into the field (Latour 1999): what complex social negotiations or environmental influences lay behind the discovery of the scientific fact? This approach is essential for understanding not what is real (Sokal’s positivist critique of social constructivism takes this approach), but rather how scientists or indeed any scholars decide to follow certain research paths, and what issues other than pure scientific interest might attend the multiple decisions that are made along the way (Lavine 1991: 138). Any deconstruction of the decision-making process in museums reveals as false the assumption of neutral institutional decision-making in relation to its public discourse. MacDonald’s study of the development of the 1990s Food Gallery at the Science Museum (2002) provides a detailed overview of how a permanent gallery comes together, from the people involved, their methods of working, and the factors, both human and non-human, which affected the outcome of the exhibition. Omitted from the study are the social backgrounds of the staff and the nature of their interpersonal relationships. Such factors dictate how a person behaves or reacts in any given situation, and can change daily or affect a life-long attitude to a subject or a person, or how that person is viewed by others. In discussing the writing of disciplinary histories, Christenson notes, ‘a truly convincing archaeological history must examine pertinent personalities and personal relationships—bias and jealousy, vanity and modesty, friendship and hate’ (Christenson 1989: 164; see also Leach 1984: 3). However, authors are constrained by a fear of compromising their own professional standing, and an awareness of the need for sensitivity in relation to other scholars’ private lives, as well as the practical fact of the privacy laws (Christenson 1989: 164–6). The anthropologist Edmund Leach, writing in an autobiographical essay entitled ‘Glimpses of the Unmentionable in the History of British Social

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Anthropology’ (1984) foregrounds the issue of the enmeshed nature of public and private in scholarship and the effect of an individual’s social class on their acceptance within the discipline. Any disciplinary history, and indeed any history of recent events, must as a result remain incomplete as the participants’ public life is impossible to fully understand without examining their private life—and this is not generally possible or acceptable while the protagonists are alive. Similarly, assessments of museums and their exhibitions not only rarely attribute authorship in any form to exhibitions (MacDonald 1998b: 233, 2002: 109–10); they also do not pry into the ‘purely personal relationships’ (Ceram 1952: preface) that might influence agendas and power-relationships, and therefore the museum’s public output, despite potential ethical concerns when such a powerful form of cultural discourse, a form of text, lacks clear accountability. Without authorial identification, it is not possible to identify the multiple agendas that might influence a museum’s cultural production (Moser 2010: 23–4). Foucault describes certain types of texts as not requiring an author in order to be regarded as authentic—literary texts such as folk tales and epics, and scientific texts from the seventeenth and eighteenth century which were regarded as universal truths (Foucault 1995: 236). With the emergence of the novel from the seventeenth century, literary texts were overtly understood to be fictions, a world created by an individual that might resemble the real world but was not an accurate historical account of the world. In this case, the texts were only acceptable if they carried an author’s name, as well as date and place of production (Foucault 1995: 236–7). In other words, the text’s subjectivity and relativity needed to be acknowledged. Museum exhibits are generally regarded as inhabiting the former category, as universal truths, whereas they should actually be located in the latter: although (frequently) based on longestablished scientific principles or historical narrative, they are curated by individuals with personal interests and agendas working within specific social and cultural environments. An identified author (or authors) can put in place channels of accountability, responsibility, and enquiry: ‘the true Platonic nightmare would indeed be an anonymous discourse, a discourse genuinely orphaned, irresponsible and without any ethical trackback whatsoever’ (Burke 1995: 290). Such is a museum exhibition: the product of an anonymous individual or network of individuals presented as an institutional and often universal truth (Ames 2005; Arnold 1998: 192; MacDonald 1998a: 2, 2002: 109–10; Pinni 2004: 220). The lack of overt authorship—and the fact that authorship in museums is in any case often dispersed and ‘slippery’ (MacDonald 2002: 95)—of museum exhibitions (and related interventions) creates an environment in which individuals can use the context of the museum to make authoritative cultural, social, or political statements without the need to justify the argument, and with no requirement to acknowledge their position, whilst shielded by the institution from direct personal exposure and potential criticism (Ames 2005;

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Barrett 2011: 143). In addition, as noted above, the climate of devolution of authority in museums from the specialist staff to the community can allow the practice of community consultation to be used as a vehicle for presenting minority and even personal viewpoints in the authoritative space of the museum, thus legitimizing and validating them (in Sokal’s cognitive sense).

LINDOW MAN: AN EXERCISE IN COGNITIVE RELATIVISM? Jenkins’s (2011a) analysis of the human remains debate uses a weak social constructivist approach to deconstruct the emergence of the issue of human remains in museums. She concludes that this issue was used by some museum professionals as a vehicle to signal the repositioning of the museum away from authoritative knowledge through giving community members a say in how museums care and display for human remains (see also Jenkins 2011b), despite clear evidence that museum visitors are in favour of seeing human remains on display (Kilminster 2003; Jenkins 2011a: 31–2, 2011b; Exell 2013a). At Manchester Museum, the first exhibition to engage directly with the human remains debate was Lindow Man: A Bog Body Mystery, which ran from April 2008 to April 2009 (Burch 2008; Rees-Leahy 2008; Sitch 2009, 2010; Jenkins 2011a: 121–6). The exhibition presented a multi-vocal response to a naturally preserved Iron Age body (Fig. 11.1), discovered on Lindow Moss, Cheshire, and on loan from the British Museum. The voices presented in the exhibition were those of individuals with an association with the body, such as one of the peat workers who discovered the body and an archaeologist who studied it. The exhibition overtly associated consultative curatorial practice and the agenda of devolution of authority with the human remains issue and sat firmly within the post-modern tradition of cognitive relativism, of legitimizing subjective interests and perception alongside or over scientific fact. It is interesting to contrast the published accounts of the consultation process, one written by an external researcher, Tiffany Jenkins (2011a: 121–6) and two by Bryan Sitch (2009, 2010), the Curator of Archaeology at Manchester Museum. According to Sitch, the key elements of the exhibition were the collaborative approach to the exhibition, both within the Museum where the exhibition content was team- rather than curator-led, and externally through consultation events (Sitch 2009: 53, 2010); the attempt at a sensitive display of human remains due to the ‘increasing sensitivity towards human remains within society more generally’ (Sitch 2009: 52); and the avoidance of allowing any one interest to be authoritative (Sitch 2009: 53). Where Sitch states that the consultation, which took place in February 2007, was essential to the development of the exhibition form and content (Sitch 2009: 53), Jenkins argues that at

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Fig. 11.1 The body of Lindow Man, © The Trustees of the British Museum

the February consultation, which she attended, there was no real public concern regarding the display of the body, and that the finished exhibition bears little relation to the discussion (Jenkins 2011a: 123–4). In fact, Jenkins argues that the emphasis in the exhibition was so much on the displacement of curatorial authority, and, significantly, the inclusion of the Pagan voice, that the issue of the body of Lindow Man almost disappeared (2011a: 126). Sitch actually makes a similar observation when he says—and note here his reference to the anonymous institution of the museum as the actor and author—‘The issue of the sensitivity of human remains that the Museum set out to tackle became a debate about interpretation, expertise and authority’ (Sitch 2010). Less accurate is Sitch’s statement, ‘The Museum was careful to avoid suggesting that any one interpretation was to be seen as authoritative’ (Sitch 2009: 53)—in the exhibition the section narrated by the Pagan, Emma Restall Orr, was located next to the body, a hierarchy of placement hard to miss, and acknowledged by Restall Orr herself: ‘Making it all the more powerful, it was my own voice that the designer had chosen to place in the same corridor as his [Lindow Man’s] glass case, my words, my photograph, my perspective. I was to overlook him throughout his stay in Manchester.’ (Restall Orr 2008)

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The implicit hierarchy was compounded by the location of the archaeologists’ views and contemporary material culture in the furthest bay of the exhibition, which, due to the maze-like design, many people never visited, and the choice of audio interviews requiring headphones for much contextual and interpretative material, which meant it was effectively hidden with limited accessibility and, as a result, had far less immediate impact. Restall Orr had worked with Manchester Museum’s Deputy Director, Piotr Bienkowski, on the human remains issue prior to the Lindow Man exhibition (Jenkins 2011a: 93–7). For example, in 2006 Manchester Museum and Honouring the Ancient Dead (Restall Orr’s organization created to campaign for the rights of the dead; see below) co-hosted a conference on British human remains at Manchester Museum (Respect for Ancient British Human Remains: Philosophy and Practice, 17 November 2006; see also Restall-Orr and Bienkowski 2006). In 2008 Restall Orr worked with Bienkowski on a successful campaign to remove from display at Manchester Museum the Iron Age head known as Worsley Man (Pain 2003). The involvement of Manchester Museum in the human remains debate can be traced back to Tristram Besterman, Director of Manchester Museum from 1994 to 2005, who arranged for the repatriation of aboriginal remains in 2003 (Besterman 2004; Brooks and Rumsey 2007: 266). He went on to serve on the UK’s Department of Culture, Media and Sports Human Remains Advisory Service (now disbanded) and, following his departure from the Museum, continued to contribute his expertise in this area, for example, writing the UCL Human Remains Policy (2007). Besterman’s interest derives from the broader, more established debate relating to the repatriation of human remains of indigenous peoples (for an overview of the literature and issues see Fforde et al. 2002; Cassman et al. 2007). From late 2005, when Bienkowski, a Near Eastern archaeologist by training, was Acting Director for six months before the current Director, Nick Merriman, took up the post, Bienkowski, redirected the Museum’s involvement towards British human remains, which had become the focus of campaigns by British Pagan groups at, for example, Stonehenge and Avebury (Wallis and Blain 2006). Bienkowski left Manchester Museum in late 2009, at a time of extensive negative public criticism of the Museum’s policy and actions in relation to human remains (see e.g. Mays 2008; Partridge 2008; on public criticism of the inclusion of the Pagan voice, see e.g. Harris 2010). Restall Orr was the founder, head, and treasurer of the Druid Network, established in 2002 (with which she is no longer associated) and the founder of Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD). HAD was set up in May 2004 in response to negotiations following the public enquiry into proposed road developments at Stonehenge, Wiltshire. It is hard to establish the extent of support for HAD and its activities, even within the Pagan community. HAD is not a membership organization; its website (http://www.honour.org.uk/) reveals that it has a Council of ten individuals, including Restall Orr, and an

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Advisory Board of fourteen (four are also on the Council). At the time of writing, Bienkowski was listed as a HAD advisor, still with his University of Manchester affiliation. At the Association of Polytheistic Traditions conference in May 2007 where Restall Orr attempted to cultivate support for her interest in the rights of the ancient dead, there was very little consensus over the issue amongst the Pagans in attendance and apparent bewilderment as to why it mattered so much (Jenkins 2011a: 89–92; for an alternative account, see Restall Orr 2007). During his time at Manchester Museum, first as Acting Director, then Deputy Director, Bienkowski implemented his vision and priorities within the institutional framework of Manchester Museum, a vision which included the agenda of devolution of museum authority articulated through the human remains debate. As a result, other museum staff became actively involved in the human remains debate, such as the archaeology curator, Sitch, already mentioned in relation to the Lindow Man exhibition, and Malcolm Chapman, Head of Collections Development. Sitch’s background is in Romano-British archaeology. Chapman is a collections management specialist, who came from the British Museum in 2000 to take up the position of Registrar at Manchester Museum, becoming Head of Collections Development in 2004. Sitch worked closely on the Lindow Man exhibition, and acted as spokesperson for the exhibition, and Chapman, with Bienkowski, developed the strongly criticized Manchester Museum Human Remains Policy (2006), although, as is generally the case with these policies, no individual author is stated. Examples of criticism levelled at this policy including Mays (2008) and the Museums Journal (2008). Chapman was a member of the Human Remains Subject Specialist Network (which came into existence sometime after 2005: http:// www.humanremains.specialistnetwork.org.uk/), and presented and published on the subject of human remains with Bienkowski (Bienkowski and Chapman 2009; Alberti et al. 2009). This focus on British human remains was then extended to the Egyptian embalmed bodies—the ‘mummies’—at the time of the exhibition of the Lindow Man bog body.

‘ COVERING THE M UMMIES ’ In April 2008, Manchester Museum covered three of the Egyptian mummies on display (Jenkins 2011a: 127–33, 2011b; Exell 2013a, 2015). As Curator of the Egyptology collection, I had joined the discussion regarding the proposed covering in late 2007, when the decisions focused on how rather than why the mummies should be covered, though the reason given internally was that the simultaneous display of unwrapped embalmed bodies and the Lindow Man bog body was considered insensitive and unethical, contrasting an unnatural

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Fig. 11.2 The body of the embalmed body of Asru in April 2008, following the decision to cover some of the embalmed Egyptian bodies at Manchester Museum, University of Manchester

with a natural state. Staff including conservation and design specialists agreed that unbleached linen sheets would be used to entirely cover the three unwrapped or partially unwrapped embalmed bodies, and conservators covered bodies in April 2008. I posted a short description and image of one of the covered bodies on the Egyptmanchester blog that I then ran (Fig. 11.2). There were 170 responses to the posting in a short space of time, at the time of writing still available online (https://egyptmanchester.wordpress.com/2008/ 05/06/covering-the-mummies/; summarized here: https://egyptmanchester. wordpress.com/2008/07/29/covering-the-mummies-summary-of-discussion-andmuseum-response/; see Exell 2013a for a discussion of the context for these reactions). The majority of the postings were extremely critical of the decision given the popularity of Manchester Museum’s Egyptology galleries, and of ancient Egypt in general and Egyptian embalmed bodies in particular. This response was not entirely unexpected given the widely recognized popularity of Egyptian mummies with the British public, as has been revealed through a number of different museum audience research projects at UK museums, including the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology and Manchester Museum (Lupton 2003; Rice and MacDonald 2003; Day 2006; Exell 2013a). Amongst the various criticisms on the blog were a number of calls for those who had made the decision to identify themselves. Individual respondents

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demanded an author in order to trace the ethical responsibility for what was regarded as an ethically troublesome action (cf. Burke 1995: 289) and were not satisfied with statements of anonymous institutional responsibility: ‘The decision to cover the mummies in the Manchester museum seems to have pre-empted the consultation which is supposed to be taking place. Can we at least know (i) whose decision it was to cover the mummies, (ii) the reasoning behind it and (iii) why it was decided not to wait for the outcome of the consultation process.’ John Ditchfield, posting on the Egyptmanchester blog, 20 May 2008: https://egyptmanchester.wordpress.com/2008/05/06/covering-the-mummies/ ‘Who are they? “Official statement from the Manchester Museum” and “All decisions relating to human remain at the Museum are made by the Human Remains Panel, and not by individual curators.” Would the officials please have the courtesy of naming themselves and similarly the composition of the Human Remains Panel be stated on the Museum website? Those making these decisions and statements should surely be seen to be responsible for them.’ Beth Hawkin, posting on the Egyptmanchester blog, 30 May 2008: https://egyptmanchester.wordpress.com/2008/05/06/covering-themummies/

The story was picked up by national and international press and soon Manchester Museum found itself fire-fighting to justify its actions. The public reaction from the Museum as institution took two forms: a posting on the blog on 21 May 2008 (referred to by Beth Hawkin, above) by Malcolm Chapman attempting to explain the reasoning behind the decision in the context of the human remains policy, and an official statement by the ‘Museum’ (authored by the Director, Nick Merriman, though speaking as anonymous institutional authority; authorship is indeed ‘slippery’) published on 22 May 2008.1 The statement claims, amongst other things, that the covering of the embalmed bodies had been a temporary intervention as a form of public consultation in response to a ‘significant number’ of negative comments made in relation to the display of the bodies, to be reviewed by the Museum’s Human Remains Panel, the cross-departmental committee chaired by Bienkowski to assess research and exhibition requests that related to human remains in the Museum’s collection. However, the incident was associated in public perception with Pagan demands, and in particular those of Restall Orr’s organization HAD (see Harris 2010): ‘I don’t believe that the covering was really in response to a few complaints. The real reason is the close link between certain staff at the museum and HAD (Honouring the Ancient Dead – a group representing SOME pagans within Britain who believe that showing human remains or even keeping them in archaeological repositories is abhorrent to them).’ Sarah—posting on the Egyptmanchester blog, 21 May 2008: https://egyptmanchester.wordpress.com/2008/ 05/06/covering-the-mummies/

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Any results from this human remains consultation remained unanalysed and a few weeks after the public statement, on the instructions of Merriman, the Director, one of the covered Egyptian bodies was fully uncovered, one was partially uncovered, and one was removed from display to be returned to its home institution, Stonyhurst College in Lancashire, UK, ending the long-term loan to the Museum. In addition, the Human Remains Panel was soon disbanded.

CONCLUDING THO UGHTS: I NDIVIDUAL AGENDAS AND INSTITUTIONAL AUTHORITY Since leaving Manchester Museum in late 2009, Bienkowski has maintained a focus on the devolution of authority in museums (see, for example, North West Federation of Museums 20112) but is no longer as publicly involved in the human remains debate. As a result of a restructuring in 2010, Chapman left the Museum and is now Head of Collections Management at the Hunterian Museum in Glasgow. The Hunterian returned some Maori heads to New Zealand in 2009, prior to Chapman’s appointment, but otherwise is not overtly associated with the human remains debate—it has a straightforward human remains policy (Hunterian Museum 2004) available here: http://www.gla.ac.uk/ media/media_207245_en.pdf. Sitch remains at Manchester Museum, where the recently opened Ancient Worlds galleries (opened in 2012) include limited ancient human remains as just one of a number of subjects of interpretation. The period 2006–9 saw intense activity around the debate on human remains and museum displays at Manchester Museum. This activity can be broadly contextualized within two recent developments in curatorial practice: the debate surrounding the display of human remains in museums (cf. Brooks and Rumsey 2007; Jenkins 2011a), and a trend towards refocusing Egyptian archaeological displays on social history rather than the more traditional binary life/death displays; for example, in the Ancient Worlds galleries at Manchester Museum a small number of Egyptian embalmed bodies are now displayed as part of wider social narratives (Price 2013; Weeks 2013). Within these debates, the case studies discussed here have allowed an exploration of the dynamics of institutional authority within the institution and its relationship to individuals and communities outside the museum, revealing a complex interplay of agendas. The deployment of institutional authorship by means of Manchester Museum’s Human Remains policy and the public statement in response to the outcry over the covering of the ‘mummies’ gave weight to a particular human remains agenda and allowed personal and individual interests to remain concealed when the agenda was publicly challenged. This

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institutional authorship and authority also made possible the high-profile dissemination of the minority HAD view, given impact as a result of the Museum’s cultural authority—regardless of recent developments in museum practice, museums are still publicly perceived as places of cultural legitimization, hence the desire of minority groups to be represented within them. At the same time, the use of consultation as a method of devolving responsibility for decision-making from the Museum to the wider community sanctioned the inclusion of the Pagan voice in the Museum’s activities. But the method was not fairly implemented—Sitch (2010) notes in response to the Lindow Man exhibition: ‘Despite its public consultation, critics said the Museum had left behind mainstream consumers of public archaeology.’ A similar situation arose following the consultation events organized as part of the content development of the new Ancient Worlds galleries at Manchester Museum in Spring 2008, where the members of specialist Egyptology societies found that their—often majority—views were dismissed in favour of individuals with ‘less traditional’ views on the past (various society members, pers. comm.; see also Exell and Lord 2008). A majority view does not necessarily equate to being correct and therefore holding sway (see Marstine 2011); the broader unethical action in the context of this discussion is the implementation of personal agendas at the expense of public opinion in a museum, a publicly accountable institution, and in this case one that argues a position of consultative practice. The inclusion of the Pagan voice was not a result of an uncritical engagement with alternate narratives, a concern of Sokal’s, but a result of the specific individual and personal interest and agendas that existed in the Museum at the time, and the social and cultural climate that allowed them to flourish, something Latour would no doubt have understood. There are many ways to deconstruct and reflect upon the nature of the involvement of Manchester Museum with the human remains debate during the late 2000s, and the success of the HAD minority view. The form of the actions—the ‘multi-vocal’ Lindow Man exhibition, the decision to cover the embalmed Egyptian human remains presented retroactively as a form of consultation—can be contextualized within the post-modern exhibitionary discourse; only sketched here are the interpersonal relationships, hierarchies of power, and networks of professional influence that underpinned these actions, and as such the assessment must remain necessarily incomplete.

ENDNOTES 1. Official statement from the Manchester Museum about the temporary covering up of the unwrapped mummies in the ancient Egypt gallery. 22 May 2008

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The Manchester Museum is not against the display of human remains; rather it wishes to develop sensitive and respectful methods of displaying them. A decision has been taken to conduct an experiment, resulting in the temporary shrouding of three unwrapped mummies. The mummies have not been covered in advance of any results from public consultations, but form part of the consultation process to gauge public opinion, provoke debate and encourage feedback. This feedback will be used to shape the re-display of the Museum’s ancient Egypt gallery over the next four years. It is now generally recognized that the display of mummies, and indeed of any human remains, is a sensitive matter. In recognition of this, the Department for Culture, Media and Sport, in its 2005 document Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums, states: Displays should always be accompanied by sufficient explanatory material. Those planning displays should consider how best to prepare visitors to view them respectfully, or to warn those who may not wish to see them at all. As a general principle, human remains should be displayed in such a way as to avoid people coming across them unawares. This might be in a specially partitioned or alcoved part of a gallery.

The Manchester Museum’s ancient Egyptian human remains, with the exception of Asru, are at present, not displayed in a separate section. To see these bodies is an exceptional privilege. The ancient Egyptians believed that, once the tombs were closed, the bodies were gone forever to the Afterlife. During the 18th and 19th centuries AD, travellers and collectors bought and exported the bodies from Egypt. This practice no longer occurs. These mummies were not deposited in their graves in this state, but were unwrapped in the 19th or early 20th centuries for reasons, variously, of public curiosity and genuine research. In light of the above, the Museum is consulting with the public about the most appropriate way to display its ancient Egyptian human remains, as it redevelops its galleries over the next four years. Alongside the many positive comments about the display of mummies, a significant number of comments are regularly received from visitors who are concerned or disturbed about their display, questioning the public and educational benefit of displaying unwrapped mummies, particularly a dead child. The Museum currently has 11 mummies and two skeletons on display, and it is only the three unwrapped ones which have temporarily been shrouded. The skeletons of the ‘Two Brothers’ have not been shrouded due to the technical demands of changing this case. The body of Lindow Man is displayed in the condition in which he was found, whereas, the mummies were not deposited unwrapped in the ground. The Lindow Man exhibition is the result of a long process of consultation and discussion with a wide range of different interest groups. The Museum is conducting a similar consultation with the mummies, through a variety of meetings and collated feedback on different approaches. This experiment and consultation will be reviewed through the Museum’s Human Remains Panel. The Museum’s Policy on Human Remains (freely available from http://www. museum.manchester.ac.uk/aboutus/reportspolicies/) simply attempts to provide a framework for the ethical curation and display of human remains. The temporary covering of the unwrapped mummies is one way of addressing this. http://tinyurl.com/cfq4zzt;

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2. Bienkowski was the chair of the North West Federation of Museums at the time of publication of Rethinking the Museum. He also gave a seminar at the University of Manchester in February 2011 presenting the ideas contained in the document: see https://culturalpractice.wordpress.com/author/kristinhussey/

B I BL I OG R A P H Y Alberti, S., Chapman, M., Bienkowski, P., and Drew, R. 2009. Should we display the dead?, Museum and Society, 7(3), 133–49. Ames, M. M. 2005. Museology interrupted, Museum International, 57, 44–51. Arnold, K. 1998. Birth and breeding: politics on display at the Wellcome Institute for the History of Medicine, in S. Macdonald (ed.) The Politics of Display: Museums, Science, Culture, 183–96, London and New York: Routledge. Barrett, J. 2011. Museums and the Public Sphere, Malden MA and Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Becker, H. 1982. Art Worlds, Oakland: University of California Press. Besterman, T. 2004. Returning the Ancestors, online article. Available from: http:// www.museum.manchester.ac.uk/collection/humanremains/fileuploadmax10mb,120 894,en.pdf (Accessed 2 December 2015). Bienkowski, P. and Chapman, M. 2009. Authority and decision-making over British human remains: issues and challenges, in M. E. Lewis and M. Clegg (eds) Proceedings of the Ninth Annual Conference of the British Association for Biological Anthropology and Osteoarchaeology, 99–105, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports International Series, 1918. Brooks, M. M. and Rumsey, C. 2007. The body in the museum, in V. Cassman, N. Odegard, and J. Powell (eds) Human Remains: Guide for Museums and Academic Institutions, 261–89, Lanham MD: AltaMira Press. Burch, S. 2008. Review of Lindow Man: A bog body mystery, Museums Journal, 108(7), 46–9. Burke, S. 1995. The ethics of signature, in S. Burke (ed.) Authorship: From Plato to the Post-Modern: A Reader, 285–91, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Cameron, D. F. 1971. The museum, a temple or the forum, Curator: Museum Journal, 14, 11–24. Cassman, V., Odegard, N., and Powell, J. (eds) 2007. Human Remains: Guide for Museums and Academic Institutions, Lanham MD: AltaMira Press. Ceram, C. W. 1952. Gods, Graves and Scholars: The Story of Archaeology, tenth edn, London: Gollancz in association with Sidgwick and Jackson. Chatters, J. C. 2002. Ancient Encounters: Kennewick Man and the First Americans. London: Simon and Schuster Ltd. Christenson, A. L. 1989. The past is still alive: the immediacy problem and writing the history of archaeology, in A. L. Christenson (ed.) Tracing Archaeology’s Past: The Historiography of Archaeology, 163–8, Carbondale IL: Southern Illinois University Press.

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Day, J. 2006. The Mummy’s Curse: Mummymania in the English-Speaking World, London: Routledge. Exell, K. 2013a. Domination and desire: the paradox of Egyptian human remains in Museums, in P. Harvey (ed.) Objects and Materials: A Routledge Reader, 144–55, London and New York: Routledge. Exell, K. 2013b. Engaging with Egypt: community consultation and the redevelopment of the Ancient Egypt galleries at the Manchester Museum, in V. Golding and W. Modest (eds) Museums and Communities: Curators, Collections and Collaboration, 130–42, Oxford: Berg. Exell, K. 2015. Innovation and reaction: a discussion of the proposed re-display of the Egyptian Galleries at the Manchester Museum (UK) in the context of consultative curatorial practice, in P. Kousoulis and N. Lazaridis (eds) Proceedings of the Tenth International Congress of Egyptologists, University of the Aegean, Rhodes 22–29 May 2008, Leuven: Peeters Publishers. Exell, K. and Lord, C. 2008. Egypt and Archaeology Gallery Redevelopment at the Manchester Museum. Consultation Report. Unpublished. Available from: https:// egyptmanchester.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/archaeology-and-egyptology-galleryredevelopment-consultation-report-december-2008.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). Farrar, S. 2004. The culling of the ‘Dinosaurs’, Times Higher Education, 20 August 2004, online article. Available from: https://www.timeshighereducation.com/new s/the-culling-of-the-dinosaurs/190749.article (Accessed 2 December 2015). Fforde, C., Hubert, J., and Tumbell, P. (eds) 2002. The Dead and their Possessions: Repatriation in Policy, Principle and Practice, London: Routledge. Foucault, M. 1995. What is an author?, in S. Burke (ed.) Authorship: From Plato to the Post-Modern: A Reader, 233–46, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Gieryn, T. F. 1998. Balancing acts: science, Enola Gay and history wars at the Smithsonian, in S. Macdonald (ed.) The Politics of Display: Museums, Science, Culture, 197–228, London and New York: Routledge. Harris, S. 2010. Hide your mummies! Museum displays of human remains are covered up for fear of offending pagans. Daily Mail, 1 November 2010, online article. Available from: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1323443/Museum-displays-humanremains-covered-fear-offending-pagans.html (Accessed 30 March 2012). Heumann Gurian, E. 2010. Curator: From soloist to impresario, in F. Cameron and L. Kelly (eds) Hot Topics, Public Culture, Museums, 95–111, Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Hinton, M. 2004. Evaluation—before and after opening, in C. Wilk and N. Humphrey (eds) Creating the British Galleries at the V & A: A Study in Museology, 207–17, London: Victoria and Albert Museum. Hunterian Museum, University of Glasgow. 2004. Policy on Historical Human Remains in Museum Collections, online article. Available from: http://www.gla.ac.uk/ media/media_207245_en.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). Jenkins, T. 2011a. Contesting Human Remains in Museum Collections: The Crisis of Cultural Authority, London and New York: Routledge. Jenkins, T. 2011b. The curse of the vanishing mummies, Independent.co.uk, Wednesday 16 February, online article. Available from: http://www.independent.co.uk/ news/uk/home-news/the-curse-of-the-vanishing-mummies-2216110.html (Accessed 30 March 2012).

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Kilminster, H. 2003. Visitor perceptions of Ancient Egyptian human remains in three United Kingdom Museums, PIA: Papers from the Institute of Archaeology, 14, 57–69. Available from: http://pia-journal.co.uk/articles/abstract/10.5334/pia.202/ (Accessed 9 February 2016). Latour, B. 1999. Pandora’s Hope: An Essay on the Reality of Science Studies, Harvard: Harvard University Press. Latour, B. and Woolgar, S. 1986. Laboratory Life: The Construction of Scientific Facts. Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press. Lavine, S. D. 1991. Audiences, ownership and authority: designing relations between museums and communities, in I. Karp, C. Mullen Kreamer, and S. D. Lavine (eds) Museums and Communities: The Politics of Public Culture, 137–57, Washington and London: Smithsonian Institution Press. Leach, E. R. 1984. Glimpses of the unmentionable in the history of British social anthropology, Annual Review of Anthropolgy, 13, 1–24. Lupton, C. 2003. ‘Mummymania’ for the masses—is Egyptology cursed by the mummy’s curse?, in M. Rice and S. MacDonald (eds) Consuming Ancient Egypt, 23–46, London: University College Press. MacDonald, S. 1998a. Exhibitions of power and powers of exhibitions, in S. Macdonald (ed.) The Politics of Display: Museums, Science, Culture, 1–24, London and New York: Routledge. MacDonald, S. 1998b. Afterword, in S. Macdonald (ed.) The Politics of Display: Museums, Science, Culture, 229–35, London and New York: Routledge. MacDonald, S. 2002. Behind the Scenes of the Science Museum, Oxford: Berg. MacDonald, S. (ed.) 2006. Companion to Museum Studies, Oxford: Blackwell. Machin, R. 2008. Gender representation in the Natural History Gallery at the Manchester Museum, Museum and Society, 6(1), 54–67. Manchester Museum. 2006. Policy on human remains. Available from: http://www. museum.manchester.ac.uk/collection/humanremains/fileuploadmax10mb,120796, en.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). Marstine, J. 2011. The contingent nature of the new museum ethics, in J. Marstine (ed.) A Routledge Companion to Museum Ethics: redefining ethics for the twenty-first century museum, 3–25, London and New York: Routledge. Mays, S. 2008. Remains of the dead, British Archaeology, 99, March–April, online article. Available from: http://www.archaeologyuk.org/ba/ba99/letters.shtml (Accessed 7 February 2016). Moser, S. 2010. The devil is in the detail: museum displays and the creation of knowledge, Museum Anthropology, 33(1), 22–32. Museums Journal. 2008. English Heritage questions Manchester Museum’s human remains policy, Museums Journal, 108(1), 8. North West Federation of Museums. 2011. Rethinking the museum, online document. Available from: http://www.nwfed.org.uk/thinkpieces/rethinking-the-museum (Accessed 29 March 2012). Pain, S. 2003. The head from Worsley Moss, New Scientist, 2414, 27 September 2003. Partridge, B. 2008. Uncover the mummies, BBC Science and Technology, May, online article. http://www.bbc.co.uk/manchester/content/articles/2008/05/22/220508_ mummies_egypt_feature.shtml (Accessed 27 March 2012—no longer available online).

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Pinni, G. 2004. Visiting the British Galleries—a personal view, in C. Wilk and N. Humphrey (eds) Creating the British Galleries at the V& A: A Study in Museology, 219–24, London: Victoria and Albert Museum. Price, C. 2013. Displaying Egypt and Sudan at the Manchester Museum, Egyptian Archaeology, 42 (Spring), 34–5. Rees-Leahy, H. 2008. Under the skin, Museum Practice, 43, 36–40. Restall Orr, E. 2007. Association of Polytheistic Traditions Conference, online article. Available from: http://www.honour.org.uk/association-of-polytheistic-traditionsconference-2007 (Accessed 2 December 2015). Restall Orr, E. 2008. Lindow Man in Manchester: On Display, online article. Available from: http://www.honour.org.uk/lindow-man-in-manchester-on-display/ (Accessed 2 December 2015). Restall Orr, E. and Bienkowski, P. 2006. Respectful treatment and reburial: a practical guide, Paper presented to the Respect for Ancient British Human Remains: Philosophy and Practice conference, 17 November 2006, Manchester Museum. Available from: http://www.museum.manchester.ac.uk/medialibrary/documents/respect/ respect_practical_guide.pdf (Accessed 12 December 2015). Rice, M. and MacDonald, S. (eds) 2003. Consuming Ancient Egypt. London: University College Press. Sitch, B. 2009. Courting controversy—the Lindow Man exhibition at the Manchester Museum, University Museums and Collections Journal, 2, 51–4. Sitch, B. 2010. University Museums Group Member Projects Case Study: Lindow Man temporary exhibition, online article. Available from: http://www.umg.org.uk/2010/ 08/27/case-study-lindow-man-temporary-exhibition/ (Accessed 28 March 2012— no longer available online). Sokal, A. 2008. Beyond the Hoax: Science, Philosophy and Culture, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Thomas, D. H. and Hathorne, J. 2001. Skull Wars: Kennewick Man, Archaeology and the Battle for Native American Identity, New York: Basic Books. UCL 2007. Policy, Principles and Procedures for the Care and Treatment of Human Remains at UCL. Available from: http://www.ucl.ac.uk/museums/our-work/ strategy-policy/humanremainsfeb10.pdf (Accessed 29 June 2015). Wallis, R. J. and Blain, J. 2006. The sanctity of burial: pagan views, ancient and modern, paper presented to the Respect for Ancient British Human Remains: Philosophy and Practice conference, 17 November 2006, Manchester Museum. Available from: http://www.museum.manchester.ac.uk/aboutus/ourpractice/re spect/fileuploadmax10mb,136200,en.pdf (Accessed 2 December 2015). Weeks, J. 2013. Ancient Worlds, Manchester Museum: Review, Museums Journal, February 2013, 113(02), 43–5. Whitaker, A. 2009. Museum Legs: Fatigue and Hope in the Face of Art, Tucson AZ: Hol Art Books. Wilk, C. 2004. Introduction, in C. Wilk and N. Humphrey (eds) Creating the British Galleries at the V&A: A Study in Museology, 1–4, London: Victoria and Albert Museum.

12 Making an Exhibition of Ourselves Using the Dead to Fight the Battles of the Living Tiffany Jenkins

I N T R O D U C TI O N In October 2011, graphic images of a blood-stained and dead Muammar Gaddafi were sent around the internet. For some time after his death, his dead body was displayed at a house in Misrat, where masses of people queued to see it. His corpse provided a focus for the Libyan people, as proof that he really was dead and could finally be dominated. When Osama bin Laden was killed by the American military in May that same year, unlike Gaddafi, the body was absent, but the absence was significant. Shortly after he was killed a decision was taken not to show pictures of the dead body and it was buried at sea. The American military appear to have been concerned it would become a physical site for his supporters to congregate, and the photographs used by different sides in a propaganda war. Both cases reflect an aim to control the dead body and associated meanings with the person; that is not unusual: after the Nuremberg trials, the Allied authorities cremated Hermann Göring—who committed suicide prior to his scheduled hanging—so that his grave would not become a place of worship for Nazi sympathizers. These examples should remind us that dead bodies have longer lives than is at first obvious. They are central to rituals of mourning, but beyond this, throughout history, they have also played a role in political battles and provided a—sometimes contested—focus for reconciliation and remembrance. They have political and social capital and are objects with symbolic potential. In The Political Lives of Dead Bodies the anthropologist Katherine Verdery explores the way the dead body has been used in this

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way and why it is particularly effective. Firstly, she observes, human remains are effective symbolic objects because their meaning is ambiguous; that is whilst their associated meanings are contingent on a number of factors, including the individual and the cultural context, they are not fixed and are open to interpretation and manipulation: ‘Remains are concrete, yet protean; they do not have a single meaning but are open to many different readings’ (Verdery 1999: 28). Secondly, she continues, human remains are a physical object, unlike concepts or ideas, and can thus locate the ideas and values with which they become associated. Thirdly, Verdery discusses the idea that human remains connote a sacred meaning. They are not just any old symbols, she explains, they can be associated with life, death, and human beings. They can evoke ‘the awe, uncertainty, and fear associated with “cosmic” concerns, such as the meaning of life and death’ (Verdery 1999: 31). Verdery argues that these reasons help explain why human remains lend themselves particularly well to politics in times of major upheaval. There is a rich archive of historical material that illustrates the symbolic positioning of skeletons and bodies, with a roll-call that includes a diverse group of people. Hallam et al. (1999) note the symbolic use of human remains across history and discuss how their display has been put to use in protest. Conversely, they also demonstrate that how bodies and bodyparts can be used to reinforce political and institutional authority. The cadaver of Vladimir Ilich Lenin was embalmed after his death, in 1924, and lay in state in its mausoleum as a place for pilgrimage. This was an act opposed by Lenin’s closest advisors who recognized it as a move linked with political developments. Preserving and presenting Lenin’s corpse was part of an attempt to consolidate Soviet power and Stalinism (Chamberlain and Parker Pearson 2001: 35–7). There are theorists who suggest that these objects are potential actors in social networks (e.g. Latour 2005). Some venture that human remains have agency in that they act on and influence social situations (Harper 2012). But whilst the particular pasts of certain individuals certainly influences how they are treated, I will use a particular case to discuss how the living—not the dead—played a role in the construction of the contestation over human remains in museum collections, more so than the particular bodies in question. Human remains are used as a focal point to further the different concerns and interests of the different activists involved; in this particular case as part of a broader contestation over the role of the museum which was renegotiated through the issue of how to treat human remains. Using the example of an exhibition of Lindow Man at Manchester Museum, I discuss how the interests of different protagonists involved were central to how Lindow Man was discussed and displayed.

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CONTESTATION OVER HUMAN REMAINS Since the late 1990s, human remains in British museum collections have been the focus of numerous controversies, with different groups of activists—what sociologists refer to as claimsmakers (see, for example, Best 1995)—demanding that bones and bodies be repatriated to the indigenous groups with whom they are considered to be affiliated. In the late 1990s, the debate over the ownership of human remains became prominent in the museum sector in Britain. It received coverage in the national media. There were, as a consequence, changes in museum practice and legislation was passed to permit museums to deaccession human remains. A Pagan group, Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD), subsequently formed and claimed ownership over ancient British remains, campaigning for respectful treatment, as well as for reburial. Other Pagan individuals also became involved in the debate. My research to date has concentrated on analysing the social construction of this problem. This approach explores why and how a condition or behaviour becomes constructed as a problem through social activities (Best 1995). The contribution which social constructionists have made to this issue is to argue that competing interest groups and social, political, and bureaucratic forces have influenced how a problem is regarded. My research on the construction of the problem of human remains in museum collections identified a number of influences in Britain, where the strongest campaigning activity has been waged, not by social movements external to the institution, as is frequently characterized, but by actors inside it. Senior curators, directors, and policy makers within the sector have been instrumental in raising various manifestations of the treatment of human remains as a problem. I argue that this is primarily a response to a crisis of cultural authority, and that this activity is part of an attempt to re-legitimize the museum institution (Jenkins 2010). I build on these observations in this chapter, with a particular case study.

L I N DO W M A N Bog bodies, preserved ancient human bodies found in sphagnum bogs, have attracted extensive scholarly and public attention (e.g. Turner and Scaife 1995). Due to the conditions of the bog many have preserved skin, body parts, internal organs, skin, and even hair, which means that they resemble the human person more closely than ancient skeletons. Arguably, they hold symbolic potential because they still resemble a human being. As well as extensive research, they have been the inspiration for popular writing, art

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work, and poetry, such as that of Seamus Heaney (e.g. 1975; see Kirk this volume). The archaeologist Nina Nordström (2007 and this volume) describes how certain bodies from the past become the subject of academic and public interest. There are various contributing factors, she suggests, that arise from the particular bodies, including: what state they are in; how they are discovered; and what can be deduced from their condition about their past; as well as the cultural climate in which they discussed. Despite the influence of the present on how we view these bodies, Nordström makes the point that the consistent ambition is to find out ‘the truth’ (Nordström 2007: 386) about the people they were: who they were and how they lived. How and to what extent ‘the truth’ is pursued and can be reached is complex and complicated, but for now I wish to suggest that this aim, highlighted by Nordström, is crucial and one that should be borne in mind throughout this chapter. For, in this particular case, I posit that this ambition was relegated. Discovered in a peat bog at Lindow Moss in the mid-1980s, Lindow Man is one of Britain’s best-known and studied bog bodies. Research indicates that he dates from the late first century AD (or early Romano-British period), was about 25 years of age when he died, and around 1.68 m tall. Scholarship on Lindow Man has tended to concentrate on who he was, how he lived, and how he may have died (e.g. Stead et al. 1986; Turner and Scaife 1995). These are important questions to explore in order to understand Lindow Man and the society in which he lived. Such knowledge about past people, based as it is on minimal and accidental sources: texts, materials, and the body parts of people that have been discovered after they are long dead, coupled with our ability to ask the right questions and interpret this material, is always open ended and can be improved upon. Questions posed are often influenced by present preoccupations and thus can open new lines of inquiry previous generations did not consider, or challenge past assumptions. Lindow Man is usually on display in the British Museum, but he was loaned for a temporary period to Manchester Museum. It was not the first time; earlier exhibitions of Lindow Man at Manchester in 1987 and 1991 examined his life and the period in which he lived, and presented the results of the latest forensic work, with the one in 1987 becoming one of the most popular in the history of the museum (Alberti et al. 2009). The most recent exhibition: Lindow Man: A Bog Body Mystery (19 April 2008–19 April 2009), to some degree departed from the previous attempt to understand and present what has been researched about the bog body. Whilst it drew upon research carried out over the last twenty-five years, and had a programme of academic talks at the forefront of the publicity about the show and in the conceptualization and programming of it, senior managers stated that they aimed to explore the different meanings that Lindow Man holds for people today. As Bryan Sitch, the curator and Head of Humanities, at the Museum, wrote:

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‘When it accepted the offer of the British Museum to lend the body of Lindow Man for a year, the Manchester Museum was anxious to take account not only of changing academic interpretations of the discovery but also of increasing sensitivity towards human remains within society more generally.’ (Sitch 2009: 52)

Whilst the academic research was without doubt of interest, the stated intention was to also address the apparent rising sensitivities that surround human remains. The museum set out to try and respond to the controversy that had taken place over the use and ownership of human remains and, in particular, to involve community opinions on these questions. A consultation was held on the approach and design of the exhibition, to which a number of Pagans, archaeologists, curators, and local figures were invited, and which I attended, as part of a larger study (Jenkins 2010). The then-deputy director, Piotr Bienowski, opened the first meeting, stating: ‘At Manchester Museum we are increasingly consulting as a museum with all stakeholders. We no longer stand as a single authoritative voice: those days are gone. There is an exciting wide range of voices here: museum staff, university staff, archaeologists, councillor Paul Murphy, the community advisory panel, pagans, and Honouring the Ancient Dead: I hope I haven’t missed anyone out. The plan is to produce a unique exhibition. We don’t want to produce just one view, we want to bring out different ways of presenting different views of Lindow Man. We want your views, not just those of the traditional establishment voices.’

There was a deliberate and publicly articulated attempt to move away from the traditional ‘establishment’ approach to Lindow Man, to involve different views about him, and to do things differently in terms of museum practice. It is an approach that was less rooted in Lindow Man; after all the exhibition was not, primarily, designed around new ideas or research into his life, but instead aimed to move away from a traditional role for the museum, designed to be more inclusive of different and non-traditional audiences.

A VE H I C L E F O R CO N T E M P O R A R Y PREOC CUPATIONS At the first meeting for the consultation, participants were asked by Bryan Sitch and Piotr Bienowski, who co-ordinated the event, how they felt about exhibiting Lindow Man; specifically whether he should be reburied and what would constitute respectful treatment. Despite anticipation that there would be disquiet about his display, no-one argued for the reburial of Lindow Man. Nor did participants have firm ideas about how to organize the exhibition. And there were diverging views on what would constitute respectful

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treatment. Different points of view and interests were manifested in the discussion about how to position the body and with what contextual information. These appeared to be more influenced by the concerns of the different individuals that anything particular about Lindow Man. In the sub-group that I observed, the major themes put forth by the participants were ideas related to contemporary social and political issues of that time. The Labour councillor said he wanted to raise the issue of multiculturalism through the exhibition. He also said he was worried about how to get the working classes into the museum. He speculated that if the museum could show that his constituency was genetically related to Lindow Man, by DNA research, this would make the show relevant to them and then maybe they would visit the museum: one of his underlying concerns was connecting to the electorate and particular groups. The promotion of multiculturalism and identity issues was felt to be important by one of the curators involved. As the following exchange that took place—within the whole group during the event—indicates: Councillor: ‘It’s good to hear about paganism. It should be central in the exhibition. It shows that multiculturalism is possible through this exhibition.’ Sitch: ‘Yes it’s important to discuss diversity. Pupils should show an understanding of different views. If they can understand Lindow Man maybe they can understand what it is to be a Muslim.’

The contemporary concern about diversity was projected on to Lindow Man (and Paganism) as a potential theme of the exhibition. But there was no particular reason identified why an exhibition of a bog body from the Iron Age would relate to topical questions about Muslim identity, or multiculturalism. Sitch subsequently endorsed the promotion of diversity as a central theme, suggesting that Lindow Man could be an ‘ambassador for diversity’: for if the audience could understand Lindow Man, they might be able to ‘appreciate that other people are different too’, he explained to the group. The show, he said, in his written report, might help promotion constructive discussion about the environment and terrorism: ‘There is also the question of his relationship with the landscape and the importance of green issues in present day society. Potentially there are wider issues involving ethnic diversity, regional identity and even terrorism.’ (Sitch 2007: 9)

Here, an exhibition of Lindow Man was posted as a way of talking about diversity, identity, green issues, and terrorism. Despite the rhetorical nod towards ‘his way of life’, there was little reflection on what this might be. Indeed, scholarship about Lindow Man was not a prominent subject for the general discussion during this particular event. It should be noted that there was significant and substantial scholarship on Lindow Man available online as part of the exhibition and it was not absent from the exhibition, but my point is that it was not at the forefront of the discussion at the consultation.

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A couple of archaeologists ventured the exhibition could foster an interest in the past, in order to address contemporary confusion and uncertainty about identity. A number of Pagans and archaeologists thought the exhibition could stimulate discussions about death, and confront, what they posited, was the death taboo of the present period. One druid suggested that the display of the body could promote community. Three archaeologists argued the display of Lindow Man could draw attention to the problem of the environment, by flagging up the nature of the peat bog in which he was found and how it is threatened by building on the site. No-one, in the particular group I sat in on, argued that putting Lindow Man on display was a problem, although there was a discussion about how to do it respectfully, with diverging views presented as to how this might be achieved. Very few were interested in the particular body or its history and the majority, when talking about Lindow Man, discussed their own concerns through him. Despite the rhetoric of concern expressed about how human remains should be treated in museums, and the specific consultation on Lindow Man ostensibly in response to this concern, he was not an object of concern. Instead the body was a focus for participants’ interests, which are influenced by present day interests, in particular that of identity, multiculturalism, and environmentalism. The conclusion of the Report published by the Museum was that the diversity of opinion and interpretation about Lindow Man should be centrally promoted in the exhibition. This approach was counterpoised to previous ways of exhibiting the bog body which, it was suggested, falsely implied a degree of certainty about the theories of how he lived. Previous exhibitions, it was suggested, exaggerated the knowledge of what is merely speculation about his life and nor did it reflect different interpretations. Their show would tackle this: ‘The exhibition should explore alternative points of view, including archaeological interpretation and more spiritual perspectives. It should be a questioning exhibit, particularly if there are few hard and fast facts or if the facts are disputed. It should not tell people but admit that there are some things we do not know. It could question the sensationalist glamorous interpretation of Lindow Man. There should be stories and contradictory stories.’ (Sitch 2007: 3)

This approach, which questions the possibility of knowing about the life and death of Lindow Man, was made explicit in the show, by promoting multiple opinions, taking a pluralist approach.

THE MYSTERY—WHERE W AS LINDOW MAN ? The Lindow Man: A Bog Body Mystery (2008–9) exhibition was organized around eight different interpretations of Lindow Man: recorded personal

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testimony from someone who the museum described as a forensic scientist; a landscape archaeologist; two museum curators; a former peat worker; someone from the Lindow community; and an activist from the Pagan advocacy group, HAD. Each of the testimonies was supported by written and audio extracts from interviews, and personal items belonging to each of the contributors appeared alongside their narratives. Alongside the display of a small selection of Iron Age artefacts from the British Museum, there was laboratory equipment, spades used to dig up peat, memorabilia about the unsuccessful Lindow Man repatriation campaign of the 1980s, a wand used in a Pagan ceremony, and a child’s toy. One of the voices from the local community was that of Susan Chadwick, a former pupil of Lindow Primary School. In the summer of 1984 she went into hospital for an operation and was rewarded by being given one of the musthave toys of the 1980s—a Care Bear—which was on show. This was the child’s toy. Susan explained that the object reminds her of the discovery of Lindow Man and when she sang in her school choir a song urging the bog body to stay in Manchester. The incorporation of this particular personal reflection could have worked well, as an accompaniment to information about Lindow Man. But, in my view, there was a too stark a contrast between the copious material about other people—the eight voices—and what they thought and felt and experienced; and the, in comparison, minimal material, information, and relevant objects relating to Lindow Man. Where was Lindow Man in all of this text, audio material, and personal memorabilia? Despite the show ostensibly being about him, he was in the second aisle of the exhibition, towards one side, in a glass case. The body was deliberately divorced from any interpretation, because the Museum was careful to avoid suggesting that any one interpretation was to be seen as authoritative, and also in anticipation of sensitivity about showing him. The effect of this strategy, I believe unintended, was to relegate him, and any information about Lindow Man, to a supporting role, comparable to the opinions and objects selected by the other voices that they considered to be relevant or to hold some meaning. Despite the discourse of responding to concerns about Lindow Man, the suggestions that he should be treated like a person and with respect, there was little reflection on this particular body as a person who lived thousands of years ago, compared to writing and previous exhibitions on Lindow Man, about who he might have been and how he may have lived. It was there, but it was not foregrounded. As a viewer who had come to see Lindow Man, the paradoxical experience was that the bog body was not the main focus of the exhibition. One central theme promoted throughout the exhibition was that human remains should be treated differently to how they were before and that this should be done with more respect, as if they were still a person, not a specimen. Different protagonists in this debate argued that previously

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archaeologists have treated Lindow Man as an object. This museum, they said, would instead treat him like a person. And around the same time frame, with the same discourse of respect justifying the practice, the museum also covered up a selection of the Egyptian mummies. Yet despite the discourse of respecting Lindow Man, and despite the rhetorical desire to treat human remains sensitively in this instance, there was limited discussion about Lindow Man compared with other people’s feelings and experiences of him. The exhibition appeared more interested in illustrating that there are different interpretations and approaches to the bog body than in informing visitors about Lindow Man. This is fine in that it was the intention. Moreover, experimentation in museum displays should be encouraged: after all we do not want the same exhibition every ten years. Instead, it ended up being more about a group people and their concerns, and more about museum practice, than him. This is ironic given the extensive discourse of the need to respect human remains and Lindow Man.

HOW DID WE GET HERE? It is important to ask what attitudes had changed and what communities were involved and why. There certainly was high-profile debate over the use of human remains outwith and within the museum sector. Vocal communities had expressed concerns about how human remains were treated—namely overseas indigenous groups—which triggered a parliamentary appointed working group report (DCMS 2003). There were high profile and emotional controversies at Alder Hey hospital over the retention of children’s body parts. There was also a furore over the popular exhibitions of plastinated body parts by Gunther von Hagens. This issue—exhibiting human remains and the treatment of them—was very topical and potentially sensitive. However, there was no evidence that the general public wanted a change in how ancient bodies were exhibited, nor any suggestion that a significant part of the general public were more sensitive about display. Indeed, subsequent research demonstrates that the public expect to see human remains on display (English Heritage 2010; Swain this volume). In fact, so popular can they be that the display of human remains is at times employed to raise visitor numbers (Swain 1998). What this suggests is that the pressure for this change in approach did not come from a large or representative body of people. In contrast, there was a feeling pressure for change might come; this was an anticipation among museum professionals that the display of human remains could be a problem, which was reinforced by vocal minority groups campaigning and lobbying museum bodies on this question.

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PAGAN CLAIMSMAKERS Claims from Pagan individuals were initially voiced in the late 1990s by druid Paul Davies. This was around the time when the campaign for repatriation to indigenous groups was high on the media and political agenda. The success of the latter promoted the former. Pagan claimsmakers were acting in response to the legitimacy bestowed on overseas indigenous groups. As Davies stated in the magazine The Druids’ Voice, the journal for the Council of British Druid Orders, in relation to the reburial issue: ‘Aboriginal Americans and Australians have achieved this goal with their respective governments. Now it is our turn’ (Davies 1997: 13). As mentioned in Chapter 11, Emma Restall Orr, a druid, in 2004 formed the advocacy group HAD, to voice concern about the treatment of pre-Christian remains and to campaign for reburial, ritual, and respect, following campaigns for access to Stonehenge. In this case, the prevailing cultural climate in which human remains became objects of contestation cultivated the conditions for different Pagan groups to make claims on human remains, which allowed them to lend weight to their other concerns. Influencing their claims about human remains was a desire to be recognized and acknowledged as a legitimate group—like overseas indigenous groups—and to be included in a discussion that has included others. By this stage, human remains were objects with currency. In other words, they were established as a problem that different groups could then invoke to strengthen other demands. Many of their remarks identify the central problem as that of the exclusion of Pagans by heritage organizations, in contrast to their treatment of others. For example, HAD criticized a code of practice by the UK Department of Culture, Media, and Sport (DCMS) because it was written without consultation with, or the inclusion of, Pagan concerns. HAD argues that Pagan beliefs need to be recognized and included in the formation of policy: ‘The Pagan community’s sensitivities towards British human remains must now be heard if bodies are to avoid charges of religious discrimination. While indigenous peoples’ attitudes towards ancestry and heritage are now accepted (if seldom comprehended) by those dealing with human remains, British Pagan beliefs continue to be questioned or dismissed. This lack of acceptance is evident in the guidance, where there is no language sensitive to Pagan spiritual and religious concerns. Consultation is needed in order to address and amend this problem’ (HAD n.d.)

The main concern would appear to be a desire to achieve affirmation of the legitimacy of Paganism from cultural organizations. The moral privilege rhetorically bestowed on selected and included groups encouraged others to demand equivalent treatment, which is in keeping with observations from theorists on the politics of recognition. Making claims on human remains was one way of achieving this (e.g. Fukuyama 1995).

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T H E RES PO N S E OF TH E S E C T O R What is interesting is that the Pagan activists had a moderate influence on the practice of the museum sector. Whilst they did not achieve the return of human remains, or the recognition of the problem to the same extent as overseas indigenous groups, it is worthy of note how seriously their demands have been taken, especially considering the weaknesses of their campaigns in comparison to the more coherent and comparatively more representative campaigning of overseas indigenous activists. The Pagan individuals campaigning for something to be done about human remains are diffuse and changeable. They also differ from one another. Paul Davies embarked on a campaign to rebury ‘Charlie’, a skeleton found near the Neolithic site of Windmill Hill in Avebury, and seven other sets of human remains aged between 4000 and 5700 years old, all from the Keiller Museum. However, this campaign was not supported by HAD who have campaigned for reburial, respect, and ritual, sometimes focusing on the point of ‘respect’, a term which consistently lacks clarity, and reburial at other times. Further, these demands for reburial and respect are used interchangeably in HAD’s campaigning activity, as the following extract, taken from an article by Restall Orr in British Archaeology, illustrates: ‘When Pagans speak of reburial, they are not demanding marked graves lauded over with occultism or magic. They seek simply the absolute assurance of respect. In my opinion, reburial of every bone shard is not necessary: ritual is. At Stonehenge, should human remains or burial/sacrificial artefacts be found, priests will be called. Appropriate prayers and ritual will be made to honour the dead, their stories and gifts to the gods. Once finds are catalogued, reburial will be considered by all relevant parties.’ (Restall Orr 2004: 39)

Restall Orr states that when Pagans ask for reburial, this does not mean reburial. Instead, they ‘seek assurances of respect’—which are not defined— and the requirement of ritual. Restall Orr refers to human remains and sacrificial artefacts as a focus, which is confusing: is it human remains or is it burial of sacrificial artefacts, and what is it about any of these things that requires respect or ritual? Nor have Pagan activists gained substantial support within Pagan circles, although there was debate. Whilst HAD has a number of supporters, these change. HAD cannot be said to be a large or representative campaign group, but their activism had a relatively large impact on the heritage sector. Noticeably, however, Pagans For Archaeology, another campaign group that took a very different position and which advocates for the research and display of human remains did not receive the same involvement or recognition as HAD or other individuals. On the social networking site Facebook, the group is a

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popular site (15,420 likes on 30 October 2014) called ‘Pagans for Archaeology’, which argues against reburial and for research. It states: ‘We’re Pagans who love archaeology and believe that it has contributed hugely to our knowledge of our ancestors and the religions of the past . . . We are opposed to the reburial of ancient human remains, and want them to be preserved so that the memory of the ancestors can be perpetuated and rescued from oblivion, and the remains can be studied scientifically for the benefit of everyone.’

Paganism is alive with debate about the future of human remains and many have protested the claims for burial, but this opinion is not recognized by the museum sector. Indeed, the diversity of opinion and, in particular, the views from those who support research and display, is rarely acknowledged by the sector. One of the most important observations about the contestation over human remains is that key activists have been anthropologists, archaeologists, and members of the museum profession (Jenkins 2010). For Manchester Museum, this was an exhibition where they could demonstrate that the organization was moving away from its traditional role, involving new voices, and disrupting old certainties. The construction of this exhibition was one way to perform this shift. Activists at this museum cultivated and embraced particular activists who would help further this aim. Beyond this exhibition Restall Orr of HAD and Piotr Bienkowski, the deputy director of Manchester University Museum, forged an alliance to campaign around the problem of all human remains in museum collections (e.g. Restall Orr and Bienowski 2006). In a number of other institutions, the Pagan claims have been considered sympathetically as part of a wider consultation agenda without a particular interest in the group’s beliefs. One of these was Leicester City Museums, which was broadly supportive of HAD. Its approach is part of a wider consultative approach that takes into account broader concerns from faith groups and issues of multiculturalism. When HAD approached the museum, the group was invited to be part of consultation processes on the content and practice of the institution. This consultation process also included non-faiths (Levitt and Hadland 2006). The response of the rest of the museum sector to HAD’s claims was far more critical. Other members of the sector were more resistant, in print and in personal views, but had limited effect (e.g. Smith and May 2007). In private interviews with myself, many felt that HAD should not be involved, or that the claimsmakers were not credible. In one of the interviews I conducted, as part of my broader research, a curator from a regional museum explained: ‘I’ve had to examine my views. I mean I wasn’t at all sure when I first heard about this, but really why not, you know? I am not sure I have a good reason for you. . . . We are, you know we are very sympathetic when it comes to certain groups—the Maoris and Aboriginals. We are working with refugees and a Nigerian community . . . really we should be consistent. Who is to say they are not valid?’

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The negative response to HAD was felt uneasily, as if many were unable to argue against the inclusion of Pagan views, or that convincingly in favour of research and display. This would appear to be, in part, due to an uncertainty about the role of the museum and heritage, and the thinking that it is an instrument of recognition. Museum professionals who do not recognize Paganism as legitimate find it difficult to draw a line that excludes them and includes others. Professionals appear to avoid making the decision about who should be included and why, because they are not sure themselves, even when they are not enthusiastic and as a result consult with them. With such uncertainty, processes are enacted by institutions which can unintentionally endorse and legitimize such claims. The response in the form of a consultation by English Heritage and the National Trust is the case in point. This was a formal response to the claims by Paul Davies on the ancient human remains in Avebury Museum (Thackray and Payne 2010). Whether intended or not, this response indicated a willingness or obligation, to respond to the demands of a few people rather than a concern expressed by a large section of their membership—which would have been more understandable. The process involved a consultation, placing a moratorium on new research involving destructive sampling, and taking a significant amount of time and money to consult with different stakeholders. It was a process that was lauded by the Museums Association (MA) which commented: ‘The thoroughness of how they are going about this is very impressive. We hope that other museums that find themselves in a similar situation will be able to follow this example.’ They added: ‘We hope that Avebury museum will use this opportunity to review the continued retention and display of human remains in their care’ (MA 2009). But the pressure from this one individual with a few friends, which was not supported—even by HAD—was not strong or representative enough to warrant such a time-consuming and expensive exercise that probably flattered Davies and weakened the organizations involved. It was a process which may have been intended to end a claim, but contributed to legitimizing the process of making such claims with little weight to them (see also Sayer 2010). Repeating a time-consuming, expensive consultation, in response to the claim for reburial of an ancient skeleton made by only a few people, is a strategy that is difficult to justify. It would have been more sensible to mount the case for researching and displaying these ancient skeletons and, perhaps, even winning people to the case. The involvement of HAD in museum activities and the formal consultation responding to Paul Davies suggests that the difficulty in finding a rationale for exclusion allows the campaigning activity of a few individuals to have an impact. The heritage sector finds it difficult to stop this continued challenge from a few individuals who have disproportionate effect, not because of their effective advocacy work but because the context that they are seeking to

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influence is open and unstable. The shift in the mission of heritage organizations to a more inclusive model and the unstable nature of the role of museums and heritage and who it is for, applies pressure on professionals to include groups asking for recognition even when they are not confident of their legitimacy. Furthermore, it leaves them unable to articulate why research and display is important. This means that groups such as HAD, or individuals like Paul Davies, can influence practice, especially when they use human remains—which has come to be a recognized issue in the sector—even when they have little support and little credibility. The involvement of Pagan groups arguing for reburial or respect can be explained, less because of their effective campaigning or because they were representative of widespread opinion: they were not. It can be explained instead by the response of the museum and heritage sector, which can be divided into those who were enthusiastic about listening to the Pagan groups critiquing the research and display of human remains—something they were uncomfortable with—thus giving them a platform, and promoting their cause. In this case, we have to look at broader trends in museums, heritage organizations, and society to understand why. Traditionally, museums play a role in affirming ideas about the pursuit and organization of knowledge. Heritage organizations have set the parameters for valuing certain aspects of particular pasts. But in the last forty years, these traditional justifications have undergone criticisms and scrutiny which have questioned and undermined the original purpose (Jenkins 2016). Subsequent shifts in the remit of cultural organizations, and high-profile controversies, have contributed to encouraging these claims from Pagans. Over the past two decades the museum and heritage organizations have moved away from an empirical purpose in the service of research, towards a therapeutic model that seeks to play a role in the recognition of identity, community regeneration, and to raise self-esteem (Mirza 2005). For example, the MA has a Code of Ethics, which argues that museums should consult and involve communities, stating that institutions should: ‘Consult and involve groups from communities they serve and their representatives to promote a sense of shared ownership in the work of the museum.’ The code also argues institutions should ‘recognize that individuals or communities may have a stronger claim to certain items than the museum’ (MA 2008). These particular groups have simply signed up to that role.

CONCLUSION Sociologists have demonstrated that effective resistance may minimize the impact of claimsmaking (Lee 2003). In this case, the reverse holds: the lack of effective resistance to the claimsmakers led to them to have a disproportionate

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effect. Although some members of the museum sector do not consider Pagan claimsmakers legitimate and do not think they should have a say in the future treatment of human remains, other parts of the profession are unable to articulate this or argue it strongly. Thus, despite the poor and limited claimsmaking abilities of the Pagan group, its voice was heard and it affected museum practices. A few individuals can have an effect, not so much because their claims are compelling, but because those they want to influence have trouble agreeing upon standards and policies. The central conclusion to be drawn is that the shift in the mission of the museum to a more inclusive model, together with the unstable nature of the museum’s role and responsibilities, pressures museum professionals to include groups who are asking for recognition even when the professionals are not confident of the legitimacy of these groups. This means that groups such as the Pagan organization HAD can influence museum practice, especially when they campaign around the treatment of human remains—which has come to be a recognized issue in the museum sector—even when they have minimal support and ill-defined aims. Human remains have been caught up within this process of contestation and advocacy work. As objects with symbolic potential and sacred associations, they are an effective tool or currency in lending weight to different demands and concerns. The contemporary debate over how to respect human remains has a great deal more to do with ‘us’, and little to do with ‘them’. My central point is that for all the talk of respecting human remains, and the people of the past, the contemporary controversy overlooks and jeopardizes knowing more about them, choosing instead to use the dead as a platform to make political claims about the present day campaigners such as the Pagan activists, and also museum professionals agitating for change within the institution. Ironically, given all the talk of ‘respect’ for human remains, skeletons and body parts are being used to fight the battles of the living. But the implication of using human remains to challenge institutions, legitimate advocacy work, and empower voices, may end up avoiding tackling these issues head on. B I BL I OG R A P H Y Alberti, A., Bienkowski, P., Chapman, M., and Drew, R. 2009. Should we display the dead?, Museum and Society, 7(3), 133–49. Best, J. 1995. Images of Issues: Typifying Contemporary Social Problems, New York: Aldine De Gruyter. Chamberlain, A. T. and Parker Pearson, M. 2001. Earthly Remains: The History and Science of Preserved Human Bodies, London: The British Museum Press. Davies, P. 1997. Respect and reburial, The Druids’ Voice: the Magazine of Contemporary Druidry, Summer, 8, 12–13.

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DCMS. 2003. Report of the Working Group on Human Remains, London: Department of Culture Media and Sport. English Heritage. 2010. Research into Issues Surrounding Human Bones in Museums. English Heritage. See: http://babao.org.uk/index/cms-filesystem-action/eh%20opinion_ survey_report.pdf (Accessed January 2012). Fukuyama, F. 1995. Trust: the Social Virtues and the Creation of Prosperity, London: Hamish Hamilton. HAD. n.d. HAD Feedback on the DCMS Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums, Honouring the Ancient Dead. Available from: http://www.honour.org. uk/had-feedback-on-the-dcms-guidance-for-the-care-of-human-remains-in-museums/ (Accessed 23 October 2013). Hallam, E., Hockey, J., and Howarth, G. 1999. Beyond the Body: Death and Social Identity, London and New York: Routledge. Harper, S. 2012. Looking Death in the Face: Comparing English and American Funeral Rituals, Lampeter: Edwin Mellen Press. Heaney, S. 1975. North, London: Faber and Faber. Jenkins, T. 2010. Contesting Human Remains in Museum Collections: The Crisis of Cultural Authority, London: Routledge. Jenkins, T. 2016. Keeping Their Marbles, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Latour, B. 2005. Reassembling the Social. An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lee, E. 2003. Abortion, Motherhood and Mental Health: Medicalising reproduction in the United States and Great Britain, Hawthorne NY: Aldine de Gruyter. Levitt, S. and Hadland, L. 2006. Museums and human remains, paper presented to: Respect for Ancient British Human Remains conference, 17 November 2006. MA. 2008. Code of Ethics for Museums: Ethical Principles for All who Work for or Govern Museums in the UK, London. Museums Association. MA. 2009. National Trust/English Heritage Avebury Reburial Consultation: Response, London. Museums Association. Mirza, M. 2005. The therapeutic state: addressing the emotional needs of the citizen through the arts’, International Journal of Cultural Policy, 11(3), 261–73. Nordström, N. 2007. De odödliga Förhistoriska individer i vetenskap och media, Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Restall Orr, E. 2004. Honouring the ancient dead, British Archaeology, 77, 39. Restall Orr, E. and Bienkowski, P. 2006. Respectful treatment and reburial: a practice guide, paper presented to Respect for Ancient British Human Remains conference, 17 November 2006, Manchester University Museum. Sayer, D. 2010. Ethics and Burial Archaeology, London: Duckworth. Sitch, B. 2007. Feedback to Lindow Man Project Participants, Manchester: Manchester University Museum. Sitch, B. 2009. Courting controversy—the Lindow Man exhibition at the Manchester Museum, University Museums and Collections Journal, 2, 51–4. Smith, M. and May, S. 2007. Ancestors of us all, Museums Journal, 107(1). Stead, I. M., Bourke, J. B., and Brothwell, D. 1986. Lindow Man: the Body in the Bog, London: the British Museum.

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Swain, H. 1998. Displaying the ancestors, The Archaeologist, 33, 14–15. Thackray, D. and Payne, S. 2010. Avebury Reburial Request Summary Report. London and Swindon: English Heritage and National Trust, Available from: https://content. historicengland.org.uk/content/docs/consultations/avebury-reburial-requestsummary. pdf (Accessed 26 February 2016). Turner, R. C. and Scaife, R. S. (eds) 1995. Bog Bodies New Discoveries and New Perspectives, London: British Museum Press. Verdery, K. 1999. The Political Lives of Dead Bodies: Reburial and Postsocialist Change, New York: Columbia University Press.

13 To Gaze Upon the Dead The Exhibition of Human Remains as Cultural Practice and Political Process in Scandinavia and the USA Liv Nilsson Stutz

INTRODUCTION: EYE TO E YE WITH THE P AST The clattering sound of a child’s shoes across the cold stone floors; the echo is magnificent. I am nine or ten years old and I make my way through the prehistoric exhibition at the National Museum in Copenhagen. The dimly lit display cases are filled with arrowheads, heavy beads of perforated amber, funnel beakers, and bronze artefacts. I reach my goal, the alluring Bronze Age oak cists where the buried men and women from the heaths of Jutland are looking back at me. I touch the glass. My eyes wander over their reddened hair and their clothes, stained in deep shades of peat brown. My eyes seek theirs in the hollow orbits of their skulls. I close mine and imagine a life thousands of years ago. My small hand moves across the glass, leaving an almost invisible trace. Small fingerprints; a dreaming child’s gesture. I would stay there forever, dreaming of the past. Feeling it. I know that it was moments like this, when I could see and feel the humanity of the past that made me want to become an archaeologist. The immediate encounter with an individual from the past is a privileged moment. For a brief moment our destinies cross paths, and hundreds, even thousands of years are transcended. Scenes like this one, of children gazing at the dead and seeing the past, are not unusual. In museums across Europe, the archaeological findings from burials, including both the human remains and the items that accompanied the dead, are often displayed with pride and confidence. The public expects this and is drawn in with fascination to stand face-to-face with the deep past. Beyond this, the display of the dead and of death itself, with all

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of the allure and drama that accompany it, becomes a privileged locus for pedagogy and communication. But while this confident attitude towards the display of the dead may be typical in Europe, it is not as evident in North America. In North American museums, it is rare to see human remains from archaeological contexts displayed in any form (exception seems to be given to Egyptian mummies, which still are prominently displayed by many institutions that have them among their collections). This attitude stems in part from a post-colonial critique of the role of science in the politics of oppression, but also from a greater and more general understanding that the exhibition of the dead is perceived as offensive by many, and especially by people who identify as the descendants of those on display (see McClelland and Cerezo-Román this volume; Swain this volume). The differences in attitudes between the two continents are thus intimately linked to the relationship between the exhibited subjects and the majority populations. In Europe where archaeology was traditionally constructed within a nationalist framework, the deep past was, and still to some extent is, perceived as the origin of the state (Trigger 1989; Hagerman 2006), and the human remains in museums are viewed as the ancestors of the majority population. In contrast, North American archaeology was practised within a colonialist context and when the remains of Native Americans filled museum storage rooms and display cases, their descendants felt that this was just another technology of oppression that not only offended their cultural and religious traditions but also took away their right to write their own history. Whether to display human remains or not has become a political decision that goes beyond the realms of the museum walls and the past, and is intimately tied to contemporary concerns and sensitivities. This chapter takes a critical look at this contrast in attitudes to the exhibition of human remains. I have chosen to compare the USA and Scandinavia, two cases that allow us to explore a clear contrast between a post-colonial and a post-nationalist experience (for a more theoretical exposé of the contrast and comparison, see Nilsson Stutz 2007 and 2013). This contrast also allows us to discuss how the paths chosen by museums today may be very different, yet thoughtfully crafted and motivated by good intentions. Through examples of museum policies and reactions to exhibitions, this chapter is an invitation for a broader debate that considers the display of human remains as cultural practice and political process.

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND In order to understand the different attitudes to the exhibition of human remains between Europe (and specifically in Scandinavia which is the focus for

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this study) and the USA, it is necessary to acknowledge the different roles archaeology and museums historically have played, and still hold, in these different political, historical, and academic contexts. In North America, which is a dominating arena for the re-evaluation of museum technologies, archaeology has historically been intimately connected to the colonial project (Thomas 2000). Anthropology, of which archaeology is an integral part in the USA, was part of the colonial politics of oppression. By collecting the artefacts and the human remains of a people that according to the colonial mindset were doomed to extinction, archaeology and anthropology participated in ordering and naming the New World, and in the process withheld the right of the colonized to define their histories, identities, and destinies. This power relationship was challenged and gradually overturned with the repatriation movement that started out as part of the civil rights movement in the 1960s (Bray 2001; see also Hammil and Cruz 1989; Hill 2001) and came to fruition in 1990, after decades of debate and discussion, when the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) was signed into law. The history of this process and its legal dimensions have been described in detail elsewhere (Lovis et al. 2004; Ousley et al. 2005), but for our purposes here it is important to note that the law regulates the transmission of ownership from the federally funded institutions that curate human remains (like public universities and museums) to any federally recognized tribe that can demonstrate that they have affiliation to these remains. The legislation also regulates the process of consultation in case of new discoveries of human remains, and it has had a great impact on both archaeological and museum practices. While the law only regulates the handling of human remains and cultural items that can be affiliated to federally recognized Native American tribes, it has had a more far-reaching impact on the museum community in the United States. One unintended and unregulated consequence of the repatriation movement and of NAGPRA is that most large museums today tend to avoid exhibiting human remains from archaeological contexts altogether (a few exceptions to this policy will be discussed below). The critique of the repatriation movement in general, and of NAGPRA in particular, has seen a gradual change over time. In the 1990s, it was still common to hear scientists object to the implementation of the law on the basis that it restricted scientific inquiry (Landau and Steele 2000; Baker et al. 2001). These voices are relatively rare today, as archaeologists and anthropologists in the United States have made peace with the legal framework of NAGPRA and are starting to see not only the challenges but also the significant gains that have been brought by increasing collaborations (Goldstein and Kintigh 2000; Nash and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2010; see also contributions in Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008 and Killion 2008). Instead a different kind of critique has emerged among those who argue that while there

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are decisively positive outcomes of collaborations, caution must be practiced since there is a risk that claims to culture are essentialist and relying on, and to some extent (re-)producing concepts, such as past–present continuity, that contemporary archaeology has long sought to deconstruct (Roslund 2002; Nilsson Stutz 2007). This critique remains rare in the debate and has more generally been voiced by scholars who tend to view claims to the past by specific groups as more problematic than their North American colleagues (Nilsson Stutz 2007). The roots to this critique can be found in the European experience, which in many ways is radically different from that of North American archaeology. In Europe, archaeology (in particular prehistoric archaeology) historically was a nationalist rather than colonialist project. Academic archaeology emerged in the nineteenth century as a study of the deep past of the nations and the peoples of Europe, and archaeologists tended create their own roots and their own ancestors (Hagerman 2006). As a stark contrast to archaeology in colonial contexts, archaeology here equalled the ‘indigenous’ with the self and nation rather than with the other, and while the tone sometimes could be patronizing, it was still establishing a link of continuity between the people in the past and the people in the present. This archaeology was integrated into the nationalist agenda at the time and sometimes even co-opted by fascist ideologies, the most notorious example being the exploitation of Germanic and Norse archaeology by the Third Reich (Arnold and Hassmann 1995; Arvidsson 2001; Myhre 2001; Eickhoff 2005; Halle 2005). The deployment of archaeology in nationalist discourses has come under increasing scrutiny by the discipline; the growing field of history of archaeology has critically examined this phenomenon on a worldwide scale (Gathercole and Lowenthal 1990; Dietler 1994, 2006; Kohl and Fawcett 1995; Atkinson and Banks 1996; Diaz-Andreu and Champion 1996; Silberman and Small 1997; Meskell 1998; Abu el-Haj 2001; Halotte and Joffe 2002; Kohl et al. 2007; Greenberg 2009; Boytner et al. 2010). As a consequence of this critical examination, archaeologists in Europe today tend to distance themselves, and the discipline, from all exclusive claims to the past. The past, it is argued, cannot be claimed by any particular group since it belongs to all mankind. The nationalist use of archaeology is particularly representative of Scandinavia. In Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, which are the three countries examined in more detail here, archaeology has always had a strong connection to the national project. Exclusive claims to this cultural heritage today is mostly voiced from the far right—whether it is the extreme right underground scene that systematically uses Viking Age paraphernalia to express their identity as ‘indigenous’ to Scandinavia, or the right extremist parties that today are represented in all the national parliaments and who have made the preservation of the national cultural heritage a priority (Oestigaard 2001; Jensen 2009, 2011; Gustafsson and Karlsson 2011). Most archaeologists in

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Scandinavia today openly resist this deployment of the past in xenophobic discourse, and the notion that any particular groups could claim the material remains of the past because of a perceived connection (real or imagined), has simply become anathema to the critical examination of the discipline and its past. While this image correctly represents the archaeology of the majority population in Scandinavia, we must also recognize that there are minority groups, in particular the Sámi, that identify as indigenous to Scandinavia. In some ways, the Sámi experience with museum collections is more similar to that of Native Americans since their graves were systematically plundered in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in the name of science, and the human remains ended up in medical collections (Schanche 2002; Sellevold 2002; Zachrisson 2002, 2004). However, when comparing the two contexts, we must keep in mind that while biological anthropology, as an integral part of the American four fields of anthropology, was closely associated with archaeology, this is not the case for Scandinavia where the two disciplines were separated into different faculties. Archaeology was viewed as part of humanities and biological anthropology fell under medicine and biology. Most collections of human remains were part of medical collections and initially not connected to archaeology or archaeological collections and museums. If anything, archaeology long neglected the Sámi cultural heritage. This kind of omission can of course be viewed as a strategy of oppression and domination as the Sámi cultural heritage was not accorded representation alongside the Southern Scandinavian cultural heritage in the narrative of the making of the nations. Without going into further detail here, we can summarize the relevance for this brief historical overview by underlining the importance this historical and political context plays in shaping experiences and attitudes to the exhibition of human remains from archaeological contexts. While the display of human remains is viewed as problematic today in many American museums because of the association with colonial politics and a lack of respect for the dead, it is generally perceived as unproblematic in Scandinavian museums where the human remains on display are perceived either as distant relatives of the people that view them, or as interesting scientific specimen.

A TRANSATLANTIC COMPARISON How do these different perceptions and experiences shape the policies of exhibiting human remains in museums in these different contexts? To explore the topic, I interviewed (by phone and in some cases by email) curators at several large and mid-sized museums in Scandinavia (the Swedish History Museum in Stockholm, the National Museum in Copenhagen, the Museum of Cultural History in Oslo, and Kulturen in Lund), and in the United States (the

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American Museum of Natural History in New York, the National Museum of Natural History in Washington DC, the Peabody Museum at Harvard University in Cambridge, and the Carlos Museum of Emory University in Atlanta). Several of these museums also have ethnographic collections, but while I recognize that there may be significant overlap between categories, this discussion is limited to how the archaeological material is viewed and used. The museums represent a selection and the sample seeks to capture mainly big national institutions, but three important regional museums were included as well. Kulturen in Lund was included since it curates and exhibits a large number of medieval human remains, mostly from the city itself, which creates an interesting proximity between the museum visitor and the remains on display. This sense of proximity is possibly strengthened by the fact that the city markets itself as a medieval city. The Carlos Museum at Emory University was included as a representation of the many art museums in the United States that display Egyptian mummies. The Peabody Museum was included to balance the very large US museums and illustrate how also university museums are working very intentionally with these issues. The interviews were conducted in a semi-structured manner. In all cases, the contact was personal and the interviewee answered questions specifically relating to this project. One exception to this approach was my exchange with the National Museum of Copenhagen where my request was answered by a more general response to frequently asked questions. In all cases, the person interviewed was suggested to me by the museum as somebody with specific insight and experiences. These individuals ranged from an archaeologist, to a biological anthropologist or a curator. The questions asked in the interviews were all relating to policies on human remains (Did they have one? For how long had they had one? What prompted the development of this policy?) and practices (What values underlie the exhibition practices?), as well as experiences that the institution had had in relation to the exhibition of human remains (What reactions did they have from the public? Were there any exhibitions that had caused them to rethink their practices?), and any reflection and reaction on behalf of the institution to the public’s response. This study, while limited in scope, brings to the fore some of the differences discussed above and at the same time also adds nuance to the generalizations.

A Scandinavian point of view All the Scandinavian museums included in the study exhibit human remains. In interviews it became clear that these exhibitions are valued as important by the museums, and that based on the public’s reactions, it expects and appreciates them. While the degree of formality involved in stating formal ethical

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guidelines vary between the museums included in the study,1 all interviewees underscored the policy of being ‘respectful’ in the exhibition of human remains, and all interviews revealed that there is an active reflection in these museums regarding the exhibition of human remains. It further became clear that what actually constitutes an ‘ethical’ exhibition of human remains is subjective, and different concerns were highlighted in the different interviews. Concerns could be with maintaining the bodies clothed (where clothes were preserved, as in the case of the National Museum in Copenhagen), or in their coffins. This kind of policy reflects the particular questions emerging relating to the specific material in each museum, but also reveals a more general concern to respect the integrity both of the person and the archaeological deposit. When only skeletons remain of the dead, there is in general less consideration of the integrity of the body. Skeletal remains are often used in exhibitions, both in the form of the entire skeleton exhibited as an individual, or as isolated bones or anatomical segments. When this is done, there is generally a specific purpose to do so. What transpired as most important to motivate the exhibitions of human remains was the pedagogical content. In other words, human remains should neither be displayed only to seek attention or cause a reaction, nor should the displays be simply decorative or motivated by scenography. The idea, that people want to see human remains because they are spectacular in a horrific or gory way (an opinion that is heard from time to time as a critique of the display of human remains, see Sayer and Sayer this volume), was clearly not supported by the museums who sought to avoid feeding the needs of an overt voyeurism. Nevertheless, exactly how the remains were used differed slightly from one museum to the next. The Swedish History Museum in Stockholm exhibits human remains to achieve a number of different goals in meeting with the public. One such goal is to provide a meeting with an individual from the past. This is emphasized as a common thread throughout the permanent prehistory exhibit Forntider (Prehistories) where a significant part is created around the imagined lives of eight individuals from different time periods in Swedish prehistory (see also Williams this volume). The exhibited burials are central to the exhibition, as they constitute a departure for many of the stories that are communicated to the visitors. The focus on the individual is also clear in the poster for the exhibition, which shows a cranium in frontal view. The golden shimmer of the image transforms the cranium from its natural state, giving it a hyperaestheticized, machine-like expression. The choice to use a cranium on the poster, rather than a reconstruction of an individual or a scene of an imagined life history is interesting and could be viewed as contradictory. It clearly speaks to the voyeuristic side of the potential visitor, and could also be viewed as underscoring the scientific content of the exhibition, rather than the storytelling that is the official vehicle for the exhibition. Here the human remains,

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rather than the reconstructed pasts or biographies are highlighted and serve as a metonym for archaeological research into past lives. As an example, the reconstruction of ‘Disa’, the Girl from Birka in the Viking exhibition, clearly aims at communicating a human encounter with the past. The life size reconstruction of ‘Disa’ is placed in immediate proximity to the exhibition of her reconstructed grave. The impact of the display of a child’s grave and the reconstruction of her as a girl have been extremely effective in communicating a connection to a lived experience in the past with one of the large groups of the public, i.e. school classes that come to the museum (Lena Hejll interview). The projection of humanity onto the past is very clear in these cases and the museum seems to prioritize that dimension over the objectivity of the message communicated. Human remains are also used in the exhibition for other purposes. In some cases isolated human bones are used in pedagogical stations where the visitor learns what information can be obtained through osteological analysis. In another, potentially more problematic exhibition, a cranium from a comparative anatomical collection is used to address the history of the discipline and communicate the darker sides of the science. The skull is inscribed with a note that indicates that despite the fact that it was found in a Bronze Age grave in the southern province of Halland, it was identified as ‘possibly Sámi’. Here, curator Lena Hejll explained that the choice of individual was motivated by the fact that the cranium was already used for these purposes, it was inscribed and thus simultaneously an artefact that testifies of this particular cultural practice. It is possible that the archaeological context in which it was found, in Southern Sweden far away from the traditional Sámi region, also played a part in how controversial the specimen would be within the Sámi community. The skull can be seen on the museum’s webpage.2 The museum is aware of the sensitivity of the case, but according to curator Lena Hejll, this display has not caused any known negative reactions among visitors. As a contrast to the subjective emphasis in the Swedish museums, the National Museum in Copenhagen takes the approach that while the human remains should be exhibited because it is ‘an accepted practice and the public expects it’ (Poul Otto Nielsen interview), the display should speak for itself, and an active choice is made to not facilitate the encounter with the past beyond what the remains themselves can tell the visitor. Here the respect for the individual from the past is expressed by not infringing too much on the individual biography. This is likely also a reflection of differences in the recent archaeological traditions between Sweden and Denmark, where the former places a stronger emphasis on interpretation and the latter on empiricism. If preservation has endowed the National Museum in Copenhagen with extremely well-preserved human remains, the reverse can be said about its counterpart in Oslo, the Museum of Cultural History. Here very few human remains from Norwegian prehistory are on display. The reason is not that

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showing them is considered problematic, but rather that there are so few remains to show. The scarcity of well-preserved human remains from prehistoric contexts have even led to a somewhat problematic display of a Viking burial where the human remains are not the ones initially found in the burial, but have been placed there for the museum exhibition (Susan Matland interview). It appears that the use of actual human remains was considered necessary to communicate to the public what a Viking Age grave may have looked like (in contrast to the Sutton Hoo example, discussed in Giles and Williams this volume). The authenticity prioritized is that it is actual human bones in the display, not that it is the bones of the person initially buried in this Viking Age grave. The exhibition was created in the 1980s at a time when this was considered unproblematic. In my communications with Susan Matland, it became clear that while there is awareness today about the ethical dimensions of exhibiting human remains, it is not yet a central question. However, a change in attitude and sensitivity can be seen in the recent changes made in the mummy exhibit (including a display of the lids ‘floating’ above the coffins, and the use of carefully dimmed lights in conjunction with the remains), and it is possible that this Viking grave will be exhibited in a different way in the future. Finally, Kulturen in Lund uses human remains in a wide range of different exhibitions. What is especially interesting here is that the exhibited remains are local, medieval, and from Christian burials. The identification factor for the average visitor is therefore likely to be relatively high, not because there is a real genetic link between them and the individuals on display, or that they even remotely identify as practising Catholics, but mainly through the geographical proximity and a more generally perceived sense of ‘walking the same streets’ of a city that is radically transformed since the Middle Ages yet successfully markets itself as the 1000-year old city. How the human remains are used depends in large part on the purpose of the exhibition. One exhibition in particular has actually caused some debate on how the human remains are displayed. When entering the first room of the permanent exhibition about Medieval Lund, Metropolis Daniae (opened in 1999), the visitor is met by a row of crania lining the upper part of the wall (Fig. 13.1). The purpose is to provide a face-to-face meeting for the visitor with a range of individuals that lived in the medieval city (Roslund 2002), but some, the author included, feel that the display seems to transgress the boundary that separates the pedagogical and the decorative. While the intentions were good, perhaps the communicative message did not fully transfer into the final form of the exhibition. In addition to the individual meeting, isolated bones and anatomical segments are used to tell specific stories about the past through several exhibitions in the museum, for example, as evidence for violence in the context of warfare or legal punishment (Fig. 13.2). Some of the interesting but invisible tensions involved in the exhibition of human remains at Kulturen are given form in the exhibition of a cast of the cranium of Archbishop Jakob

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Fig. 13.1 In the Metropolis exhibition at Kulturen in Lund, human crania are exhibited along one of the walls. The rationale of this display was to provide an eye-to-eye encounter with a medieval individual. Below the crania, a sign lists a series of names of individuals from Lund corresponding to this time period and known from records. These names do not correspond to the identity of the individuals whose crania are on display

Erlandsen (Figs 13.3 and 13.4). The original cranium was buried in the crypt of the nearby Cathedral and the cast is exhibited to show the impact of a crossbow shot that was the cause of death of this politically powerful man in 1274. Here we see an interesting tension of where practices of exhibition and reburial have been negotiated. We can wonder why the Archbishop received a reburial while the anonymous many are lined up along the walls. Is it because we know his name, or because of his social or religious status? While the museum has a very reflective attitude to the exhibition of human remains, this discrepancy invites us to ask questions about choices made (Brown, Nordström, and Williams this volume). A similarly interesting case emerged at Kulturen in 2001 with the temporary exhibition Underbara Fasansfulla Människa—Vem har rätt att leva? (Wonderous Horrendous Human Being—Who has the Right to Live?). The exhibition problematized the medicalization of human difference and discussed, among other things, racial biology. Human remains, and the history of their study, were central components to the exhibition. While the exhibition

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Fig. 13.2 In the Metropolis exhibition at Kulturen in Lund, human crania from executed individuals are on display in a part of the exhibition that discusses violence and legal punishment (Photograph by Liv Nilsson Stutz)

contained the remains of many individuals, only the cranium of a Jewish man (later identified by two journalists as a Polish immigrant by the name of Levin Dombrowsky who had committed suicide in 1879, see Orrenius and Fagerström 2005), caused any significant reaction. The cranium was inscribed with the words ‘Cranium af Jude’, a testimony from a period when it had been part of the anatomical collection of the university. It was exhibited under soft lighting and partially covered by a brown shawl, probably to emphasize both the humanity of this individual and perhaps also his Jewish identity (as a symbolic tallit). The exhibition drew the attention of the Jewish congregation in Malmö, which after several years of litigation with the University obtained the remains and reburied them in 2005 (Orrenius 2005). The debates at the time did not really concern the exhibition of the skull (and perhaps it was a case that was difficult to argue since the point of the exhibition was to educate the public on the horrors of racial biology) but the fact that it had been collected in the first place and still was University property (Conny Johansson Hervén interview). However, the case had long-term effects on the internal discussions on how to deal with both human remains and descending communities in the museum and probably also at the University and beyond. And yet, while high profile, the case of Levin Dombrowsky remains an exception in the attitudes to

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Fig. 13.3 The display of Archbishop Jakob Erlandsen’s tomb is housed the basement of an old house on the museum grounds. A reconstruction of the tomb, initially positioned in front of the altar in a Franciscan friary church, can be seen to the left in this figure. In a separate display case to the right, the reconstruction of the cranium is on display. The original human remains were reburied in the Lund Cathedral (Photograph by Liv Nilsson Stutz)

the exhibition of human remains in Sweden. While it probably had the effect at the time of raising awareness of different sensitivities, it did not significantly affect the practice of exhibiting human remains more generally. It is probably relevant that as a claim from a minority within Swedish society, it was framed as a minority issue, rather than a general ethical problem regarding the curation and exhibition of human remains. Even the local paper Sydsvenskan, which sided strongly with the Jewish congregation in this matter, continued to publish images of skeletal remains form the Battle of Lund in 1676 on their webpage to draw attention to archaeological topics (unproblematically, one might add, drawing on the same voyeuristic power in such images). This indicates that there is a clear watershed here in the attitudes to the display of human remains of the majority population. If anything, this particular case was political and about minority rights, rather than more broadly about ethics. With the exception of the cast of Jakob Erlandsen (mentioned above), none of the Scandinavian museums included in this study use casts in the place of actual human remains. At the National Museum in Copenhagen it is not ruled out, ‘but would require a decision since it would transgress the boundaries of

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Fig. 13.4 The cast of the cranium of Archbishop Jakob Erlandsen clearly reveals the lethal injury to his head (Photograph by Liv Nilsson Stutz)

the authentic’ (Poul Otto Nielsen interview). At the moment, real human remains are used because they are available, the public expects them, and because there is a tradition of displaying human remains (Poul Otto Nielsen interview). At the Swedish History Museum in Stockholm, the query about casts is met with some surprise. Lena Hejll answered that it has never come up, since part of the Museum’s responsibility is to make their collections available to the public, and the best way to do so is to show them in the exhibitions (Lena Hejll interview). As regards to human remains, this is not a difficult decision since there is very little risk of theft or destruction (something that may not be the case for all items in the collections). This response further clarifies that the museums do not see a fundamental ethical problem in the exhibition of human remains per se. In summary, all the Scandinavian museums included in this study consistently exhibit human remains. Yet the choice to do so is not, as some critics may think, an unreflected position, but rather the result of considerable consideration of the ethics of the practice and a consideration of the responsibility of the museums to both curate and exhibit archaeological remains and communicate in different ways with the public. The differences that can be observed seem to reflect various national traditions within the field of archaeology, and the history of each institution.

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The point of view of the USA For a European archaeologist collaborating with North American colleagues, the contrast in how to deal with human remains is striking. Since the passing of NAGPRA, attitudes have changed dramatically in the United States, not only in museum exhibitions, but also in illustrations in archaeological books and images shown at professional conferences. In many instances, it is considered insensitive or even uneducated to show human remains in any form. While the sensitivities generally have to do with avoiding causing offence among Native Americans, the censorship tends to be a strategy of caution that also encompasses human remains from other contexts. However, just like in the case of Scandinavia, a closer look at the actual situation indicates that beneath this deceivingly homogenous surface, there is significant variation that is firmly anchored in cultural traditions and concerns. Overall, the museums included in this study do not exhibit any Native American human remains, but some of them display other human remains. The brief summary below will detail some of the kinds of variations and considerations that can be gleaned from the interviews. An example of a museum that does not exhibit any human remains at all from archaeological contexts is the Peabody Museum at Harvard. While they have human remains in their collections, they do not have any on display in the museum. The reason is that since the museum has an active and engaged repatriation programme and regularly receives Native American delegations for consultation, they want to show respect and err on the side of caution to not offend anybody. From the museum’s point of view, it is more important that people feel comfortable and welcome in the museum than it is to display human remains to the public (Michelle Morgan interview). The American Museum of Natural History in New York City also has a policy of not exhibiting any human remains from their collections. Still, in specific instances, exceptions to this policy have been made to accommodate the wishes of descendant communities. All displays of human remains, ethnographic and archaeological, were taken down as the debate about NAGPRA was heating up in the 1980s. It was done, as archaeologist David Hurst Thomas remembers it, ‘without fanfare’ (David Hurst Thomas interview). It is interesting to note that the decision was not restricted to Native American remains but also encompassed materials from other parts of the world. This strict policy even came to conflict with wishes from some descendant communities. For example, Peru wanted the museum to display its mummies, but the museum felt it would not be appropriate. The only exception made today in the permanent exhibitions is for the Copper Man—a miner who was trapped with his tools in AD 550 +/– 40 years, in a shaft at the mining site Chuquicamata (Chile) and was naturally mummified (for images of the human remains on display, see Fuller 2004).

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A discrete out-of-the-way place has deliberately been designated for this display, which remains in place to accommodate wishes expressed by the Chilean state. Temporary exhibitions have sometimes led the museum to loosen its policy. One example was the Vikings: The North Atlantic Saga exhibition in 2000, where the display of human remains seemed problematic for the museum, but was left in place after a consultation with the consulates of all Scandinavian countries in New York City had assured the museum that this was not only acceptable but desired from their point of view as descendant communities (compare to Gill-Robinson 2004). This sensitivity that is characteristic of the academic and museum communities as regards to human remains from archaeological contexts does not seem to be universally applicable to the public as a whole. While some stakeholders, and in particular many Native Americans, have a strong point of view on the issue, the American general public seems to find it rather unproblematic to view human remains on display. One eloquent example of this is the huge success of Gunther von Hagens’ Body Worlds (and versions of it) in the United States. Another example is the popularity of the display of Egyptian mummies. In fact, Egyptian mummies appear to be an exception to the general caution in displaying human remains from archaeological contexts in the United States. Mummies are often displayed in museums that identify as Art Museums (but also at the Field Museum in Chicago and at the National Museum of Natural History in Washington DC). In art museums, mummies are on display as an integral part of the coffins, which are the actual focus (being ‘art’). The choice to display them is based on an idea of keeping the grave assemblage as intact as possible. It would, in other words, be seen by curators as ‘unethical’ to remove the mummy from the coffin before displaying it. However, the considerations go further than that. Todd Lamkin, at the Carlos Museum at Emory, explains that the mummies in their exhibitions have been ‘closed back up’ to preserve their physical integrity (Todd Lamkin interview). The National Museum of Natural History in Washington DC also exhibits mummies, but, instead of emphasizing the art historical value, it displays them as sources of information to be obtained through scientific inquiry (Figs 13.5 and 13.6). This probably reflects both the history of the museum and its collections when mummies were perceived as scientific curiosities, and the contemporary focus on science by the institution. Based on the experience of museums that exhibit mummies, it seems that they tend to bring visitors through the doors. As an example, at the Carlos Museum, the highest number of visitors ever recorded was generated by the exhibition of the mummy of Ramses I. Another exhibition that was conceived around a mummy from the Old Kingdom placed among the top-five most-visited exhibitions in the history of the museum (Todd Lamkin interview). Perhaps this is what motivated the Field Museum in Chicago to show an exhibition called Opening the

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Fig. 13.5 Entrance to the osteology area at the National Museum of Natural History in Washington DC (Smithsonian). The word ‘Mummies’ is clearly indicated for the visitor, and is placed alongside the words ‘Bones, Insect and Zoo’, placing the mummies within a natural rather than cultural context (Photograph by Liv Nilsson Stutz)

Vaults: Mummies, which showed over twenty mummies from their collections (February–April 2012), with a following exhibition Images of the Afterlife focusing specifically on a mummy from their collections containing two individuals and the research conducted on them (June 2012–June 2013). It seems like mummies are not considered in the same category as other human remains. As Todd Lamkin put it: ‘They occupy a different place in people’s minds.’ It is difficult to completely understand this specific and contrasting status in American culture of mummies and other human remains. Perhaps their radical transformation through elaborate past mortuary practices of embalming, in combination with their strong iconicity of the exotic created through a combination of art history, archaeology, and popular culture, removes them from humanity in some sense. It probably also reflects the fact that Egyptology, being a discipline associated with Classics, has not been a part of the critical debates and policies that other branches of American archaeology, most often connected to anthropology, have been so transformed by.

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Fig. 13.6 Mummies on display at the National Museum of Natural History, Washington DC (Smithsonian). The display case emphasizes the scientific research carried out on the remains and what we can learn from these studies. In the foreground we see the remains of a mummified child (Photograph by Liv Nilsson Stutz)

Another interesting exception to the hesitation to display human remains from archaeological contexts could be seen in the exhibition called Written in Bone: Forensic Files of the 17th-Century Chesapeake at the National Museum of Natural History at the Smithsonian in Washington DC (February 2009 to January 2013).3 The exhibition showcased the osteological material from early Jamestown and was crafted around the concept of the forensic case file, and the kind of information that can be obtained by osteological analyses and what it in turn can reveal about life in the seventeenth century (Fig. 13.7). The exhibition displayed named individuals (Captain Bartholomew Gosnold, 1572–1607), but also told the osteological biographies of the unnamed many, for example, that of a fourteen-year-old boy who was killed by a projectile point, but whose skeletal remains also revealed painful pathologies (Fig. 13.8). The exhibition combined forensic science with the writing of individual and collective histories, and thus constituted an impressive crossdisciplinary learning experience for the visitor. The public received this exhibition very positively, and there have only been a few cases of people

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Fig. 13.7 The Written in Bones exhibition at the National Museum of Natural History, Washington DC (Smithsonian) clearly communicates a forensic science approach to the remains. In this introductory part of the exhibition, the display cases are built up to resemble lab benches (Photograph by Liv Nilsson Stutz)

voicing their objections (Kari Bruwelheide interview). This makes the experience similar to what we see in Scandinavia. Another significant fact that made this exhibition possible was that it did not include any Native American remains. The picture gleaned from this limited survey of attitudes and practices in museums in the United States indicates significant variation. But despite this obvious diversity, it is still relevant to point out a few interesting trends. First of all, American museums that are intimately connected to the debate about repatriation appear to be sensitive about exhibiting human remains—the American Museum of Natural History and the Peabody Museum at Harvard being the most striking examples in this overview. In both cases, the policy is driven mainly by internal wishes to accommodate the (changing) attitudes of the public and descending communities. It seems reasonable to conclude that the change in attitudes was driven by the debates surrounding NAGPRA and its implementation in 1990. The fact that archaeologists and anthropologists, who have been engaged in these debates for more than two decades, seem more sensitive to these matters than almost any other museum specialists (compare to art museums, medical museums, etc.) only underscores this

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Fig 13.8 The Written in Bones exhibition at the National Museum of Natural History Washington DC (Smithsonian) displays the archaeological material through the representation of forensic case files. The signage uses vocabulary such as ‘evidence on the scene’, ‘eye witness accounts’, ‘evidence on the body’, and ‘circumstantial evidence’. In this room we see the individual human remains displayed at the centre of the room with the interpretation on a large sign at the back of the room. A facial reconstruction can be seen in a small case to the right of the sign (Photograph by Liv Nilsson Stutz)

point. In fact, as relatives of individuals who died at the World Trade Centre (WTC) attacks on 9/11 started to press charges against the WTC Memorial Museum to have the remains of their loved ones released for burial, they turned to two archaeologists, David Hurst Thomas and Chip ColwellChanthaphonh, to help them build their case.4 It is also interesting to note that when the focus of an exhibition is not (only) archaeological, the display of human remains seems less problematic. The exhibition of Egyptian mummies in art museums is a case in point. In fact, this framing of the Egyptian mummy seems to even transform it into an entity that can also be exhibited at museums that usually pay significant attention to the needs of descendant communities,5 like the Field Museum or the National Museum of Natural History. Other interesting loci for negotiation are the exhibitions that mix the archaeological with the medical, like Written in Bone. Here the treatment of the individuals on display is both archaeological and forensic. It is possible that this changes the perceptions in the minds of both

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the public and the museums. As the body on display becomes part of medical science, a different set of ethical guidelines appear to be put in motion, absolving the exhibition from the otherwise omnipresent problematization of the practice.

THE MIRROR AND TH E P ANOPTICON—THE POLITICS OF HUMAN REMAINS How can we understand these differences in terms of cultural practice and political process? It seems clear that in both contexts, the archaeological museums are moving away from traditional technologies of categorization and display and toward a reflexive approach that considers the humanity in the remains and actively make efforts to both respect it and draw on it for communication and pedagogy purposes. The directions taken are clear reflections of the different political landscapes these museums are a part of. The objection to the exhibition of human remains from archaeological contexts that dominates the museum landscape in the United States can be framed by several different perspectives that all lead to the decision to refrain from it. First, it is viewed as a display of power that actively denies the individual on display a proper burial according to the wishes of his or her descendants. Second, the display can be seen as a technology of oppression, which reproduces the unequal power relationship between the colonizer and the colonized, and where the gaze by the visitor through the glass establishes a power relationship in which the human being on display—and its descendants that it comes to represent—is subordinate to the viewer (e.g. Foucault 1979). By choosing to not exhibit human remains, American museums clearly communicate a new role for themselves as non-offensive meeting places. When exhibitions of human remains are carried out in the USA they are often in art museums that have not been as intimately involved in the NAGPRA debates as the archaeological museums (and more rarely hold Native American collections of importance), or the exhibitions are connected to the natural sciences and the medical realm that still hold a position of uncontested status and where the connection to the human body perhaps also seems more acceptable. For the exhibition of human remains in museums in Scandinavia, the situation can be seen as almost the opposite, and the practice is embraced and defended by every museum approached in this study (with the exception of the exhibition of Sámi remains which, in recent years, have become increasingly contested in Sweden, Norway, and Finland). Since the archaeologists, the curators and the public all have been socialized into viewing the

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remains on display as their own ancestors or more generally as ancestors of a shared humanity, the gaze they project onto the remains is affectionate and characterized more by fantasy and desire, and perhaps even identification, closer to the mirror stage described by Lacan (2002) than Foucault’s panopticism that is characteristic for the understanding of the display of human remains in the USA. In Scandinavia, the exhibition of human remains from archaeological contexts remains relatively unproblematic due to both deep-seated expectations of, and perhaps the cultural elite status of, the museum, and a faith in the authority of academia and science to provide the stories of a mythical past that today are deliberately opened up to be democratic and inclusive. If we turn, then, to decode how these dominating attitudes are negotiated and what exceptions occur in each context we get further insights. The exceptions in the USA are either products of negotiations and active engagement with the wishes of stakeholders (as in the case of the exhibition of human remains at the American Museum of Natural History), framed as part of a communication which both underlined the medical and biological component of the writing of history (Written in Bone), or concerned special kinds of human remains (specifically mummies). An interesting twist which highlights the comparison is that when Gunther Hagens’ Body Worlds, which was so popular in the USA, was shown for the first time in Sweden in 2012 at Tom Tits Experiment (a science museum directed toward children), the contemporary media coverage was filled with articles questioning the ethics of the project under titles such as Exhibition of Corpses to Sweden (Langseth 2012; see also Svanell 2012). While the medical realm seems to provide sanction in the USA, the opposite appears to be the case in Sweden where the exhibition of human remains from archaeological contexts is mainstream, but where Body Worlds is questioned. In Scandinavia, negotiations to remove human remains from archaeological exhibitions are rare, but the reburials of human remains from Kulturen—whether part of their collections (Archbishop Jacob Erlandsen), or only associated with them by a loan for an exhibition (Levin Dombrowsky)—indicate that while the topic on the surface appears to be unproblematic, complications may run deeper in the national psyche. While this study is only preliminary it indicates that the exhibition of human remains in museums is an interesting example of cultural practice and political process that is deeply seated in the cultural concerns. Both contexts show examples of interesting negotiations and exceptions, and ultimately also a set of circumstances that are taken for granted since they are recognized and reproduced by a dominating discourse. These structures are constantly in flux, and perhaps more so now than they have been in the past. For that reason, the choices made in one context are not necessarily relevant or transferrable to the other.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I want to warmly thank everybody who agreed to talk to me about these sometimes highly contested topics. Marie-Louse Franzén and Lena Hejll at Statens Historiska Museum in Stockholm, Poul Otto Nielsen at Nationalmuseum in Copenhagen, Susan Matland at Kulturhistorisk Museum in Oslo, Conny Johansson Hervén at Kulturen in Lund, David Hurst Thomas at the American Museum of Natural History in New York, Michelle Morgan at the Peabody Museum in Cambridge, MA, Todd Lamkin at the Carlos Museum in Atlanta, and Kari Bruwelheide at the National Museum of Natural History in Washington DC. I also want to thank Mats Roslund and Fredrik Svanberg for helping me initiate some of the contacts, and the Swedish Research Council (VR) for funding a research programme on repatriation that has led me to these questions. Thank you also to Melanie Giles and Howard Williams for including me in this volume, commenting on the content, and patiently allowing me to carry this project to term. Finally, I want to thank the anonymous reviewer who contributed with thoughtful and interesting comments. All opinions expressed in this chapter are my own.

ENDNOTES 1. The Swedish History Museum in Stockhom has a formal document that outlines the principles in detail. The Culture History Museum in Oslo is currently developing such a document, which previously has been missing. Kulturen in Lund does not have a museum specific policy but states clearly that they follow the guidelines formulated by ICOM. At the National Museum in Copenhagen, ICOMs guidelines are followed for the ethnographic collections, but there is no formal document outlining guidelines for the archaeological exhibitions. 2. http://www.historiska.se/template/RelatedImagePopup.aspx?parent=18404& image=22129 3. More information on the exhibit can be found at http://anthropology.si.edu/ writteninbone. 4. For more information, please see http://www.respecthumanremainsatthe911memorial. com. 5. Of course there is nothing that indicates that the exhibition of mummies should be problematic for contemporary Egyptians, but this is still an interesting contrast when compared to the caution to exhibit human remains form Scandinavia or South America at AMNH described above.

B I BL I OG R A P H Y Abu El-Haj, N. 2001. Facts on the Ground. Archaeological Practice and Territorial SelfFashioning in Israeli Society, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Arnold, B. and Hassmann, H. 1995. Archaeology in Nazi Germany: the legacy of the Faustian bargain, in P. Kohl and C. Fawcett (eds) Nationalism, Politics and the Practice of Archaeology, 70–81, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Arvidsson, S. 2001. I skuggan av kors och hakkors. Om Willhelm Schmidts, Willhelm Koppers och Marija Gimbutas teorier om ‘indogerm,ansk’ religion och kultur, in C. Raudvere, A. Andrén, and K. Jennbert (eds) Myter om det nordiska. Mellan romantic och politik, 91–110, Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Atkinson, J. A. and Banks, I. (eds) 1996. Nationalism and Archaeology, Glasgow: Cruithne Press. Baker, B. J., Varney, T. L., Wilkinson, R. G., Anderson, L. M., and Liston, M. A. 2001. Repatriation and the study of human remains, in T. Bray (ed.) The Future of the Past: Archaeologists, Native Americans, and Repatriation, 69–89, London: Garland Publishing. Boytner, R., Swartz Dodd, L., and Paker, B. J. (eds) 2010. Controlling the Past, Owning the Future. The Political Uses of Archaeology in the Middle East, Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Bray, T. 2001. American archaeologists and Native Americans: a relationship under construction, in T. Bray (ed.) The Future of the Past: Archaeologists, Native Americans and Repatriation, 1–8, London: Garland Publishing. Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C. and Ferguson, T. J. (eds) 2008. Collaboration in Archaeological Practice. Engaging Descendant Communities, Lanham MD: AltaMira Press. Díaz-Andreu, M. and Champion, T. (eds) 1996. Nationalism and Archaeology in Europe, Boulder: Westview Press. Dietler, M. 1994. ‘Our ancestors the Gauls’: Archaeology, ethnic nationalism, and the manipulation of Celtic identity in modern Europe, American Anthropologist, New Series, 584–605. Dietler, M. 2006. Celticism, celtitude and celticity. The consumption of the past in the age of globalization, in S. Rieckhoff (ed.) Celtes et Gaulois, l’Archéologie face à l’Histoire, 1: Celtes et Gaulois dans l’histoire, l’historiographie et l’idéologie moderne, Centre archéologique européen, 237–48, Bibracte: Glux-en-Glenne. Eickhoff, M. 2005. German archaeology and National Socialism. Some historiographical remarks, Archaeolical Dialogues, 12(1), 73–90. Foucault, M. 1977. Discipline and Punish, New York: Random House. Fuller, D. R. 2004. The production of copper in 6th-century Chile’s Chuquicamata Mine, J. Minerals, Metals and Materials, 15(11), 62–6. Gathercole, P. and Lowenthal, D. (eds) 1990. The Politics of the Past, London: Unwin Hyman. Gill-Robinson, H. 2004. Bog bodies on display, Journal of Wetland Archaeology, 4, 111–16. Goldstein, L. and Kintigh, K. 2000. Ethics and the reburial controversy, in D. Mihesuah (ed.) Repatriation Reader. Who Owns American Indian Remains?, 180–9, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Greenberg, R. 2009. Towards an inclusive archaeology in Jerusalem: the case of Silwan/ The City of David, Public Archaeology, 8(1), 35–50. Gustafsson, A. and Karlsson, H. 2011. A spectre is haunting Swedish archaeology—the spectre of politics. Archaeology, cultural heritage and the present political situation in Sweden, Current Swedish Archaeology, 19, 11–36. Hagerman, M. 2006. Det rena landet. Om konsten att uppfinna sina förfäder, Stockholm: Nordstedts.

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Halle, U. 2005. Archaeology in the Third Reich. Academic scholarship and the rise of the ‘lunatic fringe’, Archaeological Dialogues, 12(1), 91–102. Halotte, R. S. and Joffe, A. H. 2002. The politics of Israeli archaeology: ‘nationalism’ and ‘science’ in the Second Republic, Israel Studies, 7(3), 84–116. Hammil, J. and Cruz, R. 1989. Statement of American Indians against desecration before the World Archaeological Congress, in R. Layton (ed.) Conflict in the Archaeology of Living Traditions, 195–200, London: Unwin Hyman. Hill, R. W. 2001. Regenerating identity. Repatriation and the Indian frame of mind, in T. Bray (ed.) The Future of the Past: Archaeologists, Native Americans and Repatriation, 127–38, London: Garland Publishing. Jensen, M. B. 2009. Royal Jelling: Danish national heritage reinvented, Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 24(1), 77–95. Jensen, M. B. 2011. Comment on ‘A spectre is haunting Swedish archaeology’ from a Danish point of view, Current Swedish Archaeology, 19, 37–43. Killion, T. W. (ed.) 2008. Opening Archaeology. Repatriation’s Impact on Contemporary Research and Practice, Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press. Kohl, P. L. and Fawcett, C. (eds) 1995. Nationalism, Politics and the Practice of Archaeology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kohl, P. L., Kozelsky, M., and Ben-Yehuda, N. (eds) 2007. Selective Remembrances. Archaeology in the Construction, Commemoration and Consecration of National Pasts, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lacan, J. 2002. The mirror stage as formative of the I function as revealed in psychoanalytic experience, in Jacques Lacan Écrits: A Selection, 3–9, New York: W. W. Norton and Company. Landau, P. M. and Steele, D. G. 2000. Why anthropologists study human remains, in D. Mihesuah (ed.) Repatriation Reader. Who Owns American Indian Remains?, 74–94, Lincoln NE: University of Nebraska Press. Langseth, A. 2012. Utställning med lik till Sverige, Svenska Dagbladet, 27 April 2012. Lovis, W. E., Kintigh, K. W., Steponaitis, V. P., and Goldstein, L. 2004. Archaeological perspectives on the NAGPRA: underlying principles, legislative history, and current issues, in J. R. Richman and M. P. Forsyth (eds) Legal Perspectives on Cultural Resources, 165–84, Walnut Creek CA: AltaMira Press. Meskell, L. (ed.) 1998. Archaeology Under Fire. Nationalism, Politics and Heritage in the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East, London: Routledge. Myhre, L. N. 2001. Arkeologi och Nazism. En ockupation av ämnet, in C. Raudvere, A. Andrén, and K. Jennbert (eds) Myter om det nordiska. Mellan romantic och politik, 60–90, Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Nash, S. E. and Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C. 2010. NAGPRA after two decades, Museum Anthropologist, 33(2), 99–104. Nilsson Stutz, L. 2008. Archaeology, identity, and the right to culture. Anthropological perspectives on repatriation, Current Swedish Archaeology, 15–16, 157–72. Nilsson Stutz, L. 2013. Claims to the past. A critical view of the arguments driving repatriation of cultural heritage and their role in contemporary identity politics, Journal of Intervention and Statebuilding, 7(2), 170–95. Oestigaard, T. 2001. Norge utan Nordmen. En antinasjonalistisk arkeologi, Oslo: Spartacus. Orrenius, N. 2005. Här kan Dombrowski få vila i frid, Sydsvenska Dagbladet, 10 February 2005.

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Orrenius, N. and Fagerström, E. 2005. Levins resa slutade i Lund, Sydsvenska Dagbladet, 2 February 2005. Ousley, S. D., Billeck, W. T., and Hollinger, R. E. 2005. Federal repatriation legislation and the role of physical anthropology in repatriation, Yearbook of Physical of Anthropology, 48, 2–32. Roslund, M. 2002. De närvanade döda. Människan som ting, in C. Fredriksson (ed.) Tingsligheter, 153–61, Lund: Kulturen i Lund. Silberman, N. A. and Small, D. B. (eds) 1997. Archaeology of Israel: Constructing the Past, Interpreting the Present, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Schanche, A. 2002. Sami skulls, anthropological race research and the repatriation question in Norway, in C. Fforde, J. Hubert, and P. Turnbull (eds) The Dead and Their Possessions. Repatriation in Principle, Policy and Practice, 47–58, London: Routledge. Sellevold, B. J. 2002. Skeletal remains of the Norwegian Saami, in C. Fforde, J. Hubert, and P. Turnbull (eds) The Dead and Their Possessions. Repatriation in Principle, Policy and Practice, 59–62, London: Routledge. Svanell, A. 2012. Frågor och svar om Body Worlds, Svenska Dagbladet, 27 April 2012. Thomas, D. H. 2000. Skull Wars. Kennewick Man, Archaeology and the Battle for Native American Identity, New York: Basic Books. Trigger, B. 1989. The History of Archaeological Thought, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zachrisson, I. 2002. ‘Den samiska samlingen’ på Statens historiska museum, Douddaris, 20, 83–5. Zachrisson, I. 2004. Archaeology and ethics. The south Sámi example, in H. Karlsson (ed.) Swedish Archaeologists on Ethics, 117–31, Lindome: Bricoleur Press. Interviews Bruwelheide, Kari, Forensic anthropologist at the National Museum of Natural History, Washington DC. Interviewed by email during April 2012. Franzén, Marie-Louise, Acting Head of Department, Cultural History and Collections, National Historical Museum, Stockholm, interviewed by telephone 16 March 2012. Hejll, Lena, Curator, Statens Historiska Museum, interviewed by telephone, 21 March 2012. Johansson Hervén, Conny, Head of Cultural Heritage Department Kulturen, Lund, interviewed by telephone, 13 April 2012. Lamkin, Todd, Director of Collections Services and Chief Registrar at Emory University, Michael C. Carlos Museum; interviewed at the Michael C. Carlos Museum, 22 March 2012. Matland, Susan, Head of Department of Documentation, Kulturhistorisk Museum, Oslo, interviewed by telephone, 19 April 2012. Morgan, Michelle, Associate Curator, Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University, interviewed by telephone, 16 April 2012. Nielsen, Poul Otto, Keeper The National Museum, Research & Exhibitions, Danish Prehistory and Environmental Archaeology, interviewed by email during April and May 2012. Thomas, David Hurst, Curator at the American Museum of Natural History, New York, interviewed by telephone, 21 March 2012.

14 Firing the Imagination Cremation in the Museum Howard Williams

I N T R O D U C TI O N The displays of articulated, unburned, and fleshed human remains in European museums are often claimed to fixate and simultaneously repulse the modern viewer, and provoke all manner of varied responses in between these extremes (Brooks and Rumsey 2007: 279–80). Unused to the sights (and smells) of corpses and skeletons, the modern visitor is certainly fascinated by the uncanny nature of the archaeological dead. While bearing the signs of transformation by time and treatment, they often retain an unsettling individual persona, regularly enhanced by being posed, re-clothed, and sometimes awarded facial reconstructions when selected for museum display (Swain 2002, 2007a; Wallace 2005). Seemingly denying and disrupting the passage of time and drawing the past into the present, these cadavers afford the illusion of sleeping persons suspended between animation and oblivion (see also Nordström this volume). Such ‘immortals’ can become emblematic of entire societies and periods in the human past and icons of archaeology itself as a discipline that deals with the traces of human mortality through time (Nordström 2007, this volume; Williams 2009). It is the strikingly ‘human’ and ‘whole’ cadavers that have provoked the strongest emotional responses from the public as well as securing direct spiritual connections for particular religious minority groups. Such is the case of the campaign by the British Order of Druids who focused their claim for reburial centred on the memorable and evocative skeleton of a Neolithic child ‘Charlie’ on display in the Keiller Museum at Avebury (see Giles and Williams this volume; Tatham this volume; Rathouse this volume). Such claims of affection and affinity are clearly predicated on the corporeal integrity and the emotive responses this integrity evokes for the viewer.

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While human remains provoke the most powerful emotive engagements with the archaeological dead, other strategies for displaying mortuary contexts, such as casts of human bone (Goodnow 2006a: 18–19) and artist’s reconstructions of funerals (Williams 2009; Giles this volume), can inspire strong reactions. The same also applies to dioramas with mannequins: their uncanny resemblances to living persons can create powerful imaginative and educational connections between visitors and past individuals and the societies they represent within the museum context. The Seven Vikings exhibition at the Moesgård Museum, for example, focused on the journeys of seven fictitious Viking Age individuals; they are encountered at the start of the gallery as seven sleeping (and some snoring) mannequins (Asingh 2011). In sleep, they appear living and dead, between past and present and hence disrupting history in a comparable way to a well-preserved skeleton or mummy. Hence, whether displays involve ‘real’ human remains, casts, mannequins, or simply images and photographs, the sense of the uncanny abject is sought in, and mediated through, visualized whole cadavers and reanimated figures inspired by inhumed skeletons in graves. Resemblance to living people, or to be more accurate, just-dead persons, is what provokes the sense of abjection in the cadaver, not human remains per se (cf. Goodnow 2006b). This seems married to a discourse that regards the cadaver as ‘evidential’, projecting the past simply through the disclosed information contained in or exhibited from graves and other mortuary contexts (Crossland 2009a). Many exhibitions focusing on mortuary data emphasize the scientific information that dead bodies reveal, and even attempt to reconstruct the process of excavation, through articulated and fleshed human remains and the stories of past lives, diseases, and circumstances of death they show (see Williams 2009). As ‘evidence’, intact cadavers are thus portrayed as windows onto past lived experiences of being human. Good examples are the London Bodies and Skeletons: London’s Buried Past exhibitions (Werner 1998; Redfern and Bekvalac 2013). Hence, this evidential approach, predicated on an abject status created by the archaeological cadaver’s similarity to a once-living person, makes the intact or represented cadaver a powerful educational and memorable dimension of many Western museums. Inversely, this discourse of reconstruction, focusing on identities rehabilitated and created through burial archaeology and bioarchaeological investigation and resulting in museum displays, finds a parallel with the perceived creation of corporeal and community wholeness and healing achieved through the process of repatriating and reburying human remains from museums (see McClelland and Cerezo-Román this volume). Simultaneously and significantly for this study, this fixation with visually and materially resurrecting a corporeal integrity for the dead reflects the longestablished ambivalence in Western tradition towards the disarticulation and fragmentation of the corpse. It also reflects the commodification of the body as

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an entity, readily objectified as a substance to be treated and traded and consumed as image and art (Brooks and Rumsey 2007; Crossland 2009b). Indeed, many mortuary archaeologists who regard their task to be the empirical resurrection of past lives and mortuary behaviour have garnered an intellectual ambivalence to past mortuary practices that involve the dissolution or transformation of the cadaver. Such practices are often characterized as exotic, facilitating interpretation only via far-flung corners of the world. Alternatively, they are seen as barriers to interpretation and practices that must be overcome rather than studied in their own right. From this perspective, archaeologists seem to share with neo-Pagan and Judaeo-Christian groups a tendency to valorize corporeal integrity and promoting affinities with ‘whole’ bodies indexically linked to past ‘individuals’. The flip-side of this approach is that both draw upon a post-Reformation discourse that mirrors Sir Thomas Browne’s Urne Buriall (1658) in which cremation is regarded as oblivion and illustrates with material clarity that: ‘there is no antidote against the Opium of time . . . ’ (Browne 1658: 74). Thus, cremated and other fragmentary human remains are often regarded in contemporary society as both less ‘evidential’ and less ‘abject’, albeit to varying degrees by different researchers. This has ramifications for how museums display the dead. Alongside other categories of disarticulated and fragmentary human remains in museums, cremains are often implicitly perceived to be second-rate data and second-rate ancestors, more intractable as objects of scientific scrutiny, less knowable, less human, and less individual as persons. It is difficult to escape the evidential role of the unburned body in forensic investigations, for example, as witnesses of the genocide of thousands upon thousands by the Khmer Rouge and counter to the country’s Buddhist cremating traditions (Cougill 2006). Yet equally to regard cremation as nonevidence has powerful and disturbing ramifications, which, if taken to extremes, implies that those whose bodies are subject to cremation, from murder victims to victims of the Holocaust, are denied an historical identity and corporeality. The destructive force of cremation on the identification of whole individuals should not be uncritically translated and equated with a reduced historical and cultural value. Therefore, it is revealing that museums seem rarely to receive objections to the display of cremated human remains which are rarely afforded centre-stage in displays in a manner comparable to the Egyptian cadaver ‘Ginger’ or the Lindow Man at the British Museum (but there are exceptions, see Sayer this volume). Hence, I suggest that both academic and popular cultures persist in regarding disarticulated human remains as less worthy of affording narratives and identities and less valuable for archaeological research. Indeed, the same stark avoidance of cremation applies to popular syntheses on mortuary archaeology in which cremation rarely receives more than passing attention (e.g. Bahn

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2002; Chamberlain and Parker Pearson 2001; Parker Pearson 1999). More surprising still, in discussions about how the dead are displayed in museums, cremation has been completely overlooked in favour of mummies of different kinds and unburned skeletons (e.g. Beattie 1999; Swain 2002, 2006, 2007a; Curtis 2003; Goodnow 2006b; Brooks and Rumsey 2007; Giles 2009; Sanders 2009; Jenkins 2010; Sayer 2010; Hall 2013). Therefore, in combination, articulated cadavers in museology and mortuary archaeology are part of a wider valorization of corporeal integrity that equates to both scientific data and human likeness. Only in extreme examples, where affinities of place and cultural identity outweigh all other considerations, do we find cremation being the focus of present-day disputes. For example, the recent disruption and calls for reburial of the cremation burials re-excavated at Stonehenge relates to the specific affinities with that iconic ancient monument by a range of neo-Pagan groups (Parker Pearson et al. 2013). The same applies to the repatriation of Aboriginal cremains to Australia (Swain 2007b: 193). These instances aside, the pervasive representational bias means that anyone reading the recent literature on mortuary archaeology and observing displays of the dead in museums might be forgiven for thinking that archaeologists rarely investigate cremating societies, that cremated human material is rarely placed on display, and more seldom still does cremation inspire popular interest and public displays of emotion and affinity. Indeed, a number of recent books dealing with the socio-political context of mortuary archaeology do not even deem cremation to be worthy of listing in the index let alone discussion (e.g. Giesen 2013). Of course, it is true that cremating human remains results in the fiery fragmentation, distortion, and shrinkage of human bone and hence obscures both scientific data and the human likeness. Yet cremation operates in past and present in different ways to those foregrounded in the recent academic and public emphasis on corporeal wholeness and individuality in death. Since the Renaissance in Europe, cremation has been frequently encountered in the archaeological record, as have other strategies for transforming and disarticulating the cadaver after death. Moreover, over the last half century, macroscopic and microscopic osteological and archaeological analyses of cremation repeatedly challenge the view that cremation is second-rate data (Williams 2008). In terms of the popular imagination and global heritage, cremation enters into the interpretation of many iconic sites of prehistoric and early historic data from ancient Greece to the Viking world. Regarding heritage sites, we can readily encounter many thousands of memorials covering cremation graves, from the Aubrey Holes that form a key element of the narrative of Stonehenge to the vast Romano-British burial mounds known as the Bartlow Hills of Essex. One can walk past monuments covering the cremated dead at the famous Isola Sacra cemetery of Ostia, Italy (Hope 1997a), and tourists can walk around the hundreds of burial mounds,

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many covering the cremation graves of the former occupants of the Viking town of Birka, Sweden (Gräslund 1981). Indeed, architectures and landscapes of cremation in the modern era, such as Golders Green crematorium, London, and the Stockholm South Cemetery, are themselves international heritage destinations (Williams 2011). The cremated dead also continue to connect to archaeological sites: frequently modern ashes are scattered at beauty spots including ancient monuments, thus allowing the intangible dead to diffuse into tangible and memorable places for the individual, their family, and friends. The archaeology and literature of cremation, as for example described in ancient Roman texts and revealed by Roman tombs, has inspired literature, and the repeated re-imagining of mythical, legendary, and prehistoric and early historic pasts. Such imaginings even inspire the memorials, architectures, and landscapes of crematoria in the modern era (Back Danielsson 2011). Hence, cremation’s omission from discussions of the impact and engagement of mortuary archaeology with contemporary society is both problematic and revealing; consequently it demands closer scrutiny. Against this background, it seems inherently problematic to isolate and talk about a universal category of ‘human remains’ on display with which the viewing public can engage. Instead, modern museums construct varied and complex identities—both individual inhering within single skeletons and dividual distributed between bones and material cultures—as well as sophisticated narratives involving different categories of human remains: articulated, disarticulated, and frequently without deploying any human remains at all. Via these display strategies, different senses of past societies, personhoods, and contrasting emotive immediacies are constructed and arranged for the modern public. Indeed, this mirrors a broader and complex, cenotaphic commemorative culture of late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century Britain in which popular deathways involve multiple locales, memorials, and material cultures where the body is implied, absent, or elsewhere. Cremation needs to be considered as part of this variability in the museum reanimation of the ancient dead through display, and the focus on whole articulated human remains both patronizes visitors and presumes that their only potential appreciation of life and death in the human past is through the individual body. This chapter uses four case studies to rectify this scholarly discrepancy and illustrate the wide variety of ways in which cremation is displayed within the museum environment but is rarely subject to critical discussion. For the sake of brevity, other heritage locales are not considered in this chapter. The wider potential of this study is to expand and enrich the study of the display of human remains and provide a new platform from which to consider the ethical, political, and sociological dimensions of the archaeological engagement with mortality in contemporary society. In particular, I hope to illustrate how fragmentary, disarticulated, and fire-transformed cadavers provide versatile

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and contrasting corporealities within museum displays, often juxtaposed alongside articulated and fleshed cadavers to create contrasting identities for the ancient dead within modern society (see also Williams 2009). However, my aim is not to herald ‘good practice’ or deride ‘bad practice’, since all current strategies of display are currently contributing to current understandings of cremation and the cremated dead in contemporary society.

A TYPOLOGY OF CREMATION ON DISPLAY The first step in exploring cremation on display in the modern museum is to create a basic typology of the remains encountered that present the cremated dead. Based on museum visits over the last decade in Scandinavia, the UK, and Republic of Ireland, I propose ten broad and frequently combined categories currently in operation to display the cremated dead directly or indirectly (Table 14.1). 1. Texts and audio commentaries: usually they provide few details and simple descriptions of what past cremation practices comprised 2. Artefacts and vessels derived from cremation graves are often displayed, whether their original context is discussed or implied in their arrangement or not 3. Memorials and monuments associated with the cremated dead can be displayed, with or without explicit associations with cremation 4. Cremated bone is itself displayed in a manner comparable to artefacts and substances or arranged into ‘deposits’ and containers 5. A widespread practice is to mock-up associations between artefacts, ashes, and urns as an assemblage, giving the viewer a sense of what cremation graves from particular periods and regions looked like 6. Reconstructions of the grave-contexts themselves can be recreated, in which cases the context as well as the assemblage is afforded attention 7. Architectures, monuments, wider cemetery environments, and landscape settings associated with cremation can sometimes be displayed 8. Excavation records, including plans, sections, and photographs, can be employed to communicate cremation practices and burials 9. Artists’ impressions and models can be employed to bring cremation ceremonies ‘to life’ 10. Historical, literary, and sometimes even ethnographic accounts might be drawn upon through text and image to ‘flesh out’ the archaeological evidence.

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Table 14.1 Broad categories identified in the display of the cremated dead in museums Code

Type

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Text and audio Artefacts and materials Memorials and monuments Bones Assemblages Contexts Architectures and landscapes Excavation records Artist’s impressions and models Historical, literary and ethnographic references

For simplicity, this discussion will not address other important ways in which ancient cremation practices revealed by archaeology are made manifest in popular culture. For example, I leave for others to discuss open-air re-enactments of cremation funerals, and the cemeteries and monuments associated with cremation surviving the modern cultural landscape, focusing simply on the ten principal ways by which cremation is materialized within the museum and heritage centres. Equally, for sake of simplicity, I focus on a series of permanent physical exhibitions rather than temporary exhibitions and online media. This focus allows us to compare museums of different scale and character to identify both shared themes and subtle variations in how cremation is displayed.

H J E M S T E D O L D T I D S PA R K EN—AN O PE N- A I R MUS E UM The first museum case study is Hjemsted Oldtidsparken (HO) in southern Jutland, Denmark (Table 14.2).1 Opened in 1996 as an open-air country park as much as a museum, HO presents archaeology found around Hjemsted through large-scale excavations and dating mainly to the pre-Roman Iron Age, Roman Iron Age, and Migration Period (later first millennium BC and early first millennium AD). I visited in 2010 while participating in the fieldtrip associated with the Internationales Sachsenposion conference in Haderslev. The museum is divided into two zones. First, the large open-air museum with numerous reconstructed Iron Age dwellings focuses attention upon daily life in the Iron Age. Second and in stark contrast, the subterranean museum aptly considers death and burial in the Iron Age, reflecting the well-preserved Iron Age cemeteries revealed at the site (Ethelberg 1986, 1990).2 I begin with HO because it is a museum that uses many strategies for displaying the dead retrieved from a well-preserved Iron Age archaeological

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Table 14.2 Key displays of cremation at HO witnessed in 2010 Cabinet

Type

Description

HO1—Bronze Age Cremations

1 4

Text panel introducing the material. Bones displayed in triangular arrangement on shelf within display case.

HO2—Burial Customs 500–50 BC

1

Text panel outlining that large cemeteries are the norm and burial location was static. There are no big differences in burial wealth indicative of social stratification, it says. Artefacts displayed, including cinerary urns. Photographs of burials under excavation. Isometric plan of a cemetery, half under turf, illustrating the character of the graves post-excavation revealing the character of the archaeological traces.

2 8 9

HO3—New Burial Customs, 50 BC–1 BC

1

5

Explains that these graves show greater wealth and variation and family plots replace large cemeteries suggesting increasing social hierarchy. A partial cinerary urn containing cremains and a bronze brooch.

HO4—Roman Iron Age Weapon Burials

1 5

Text panel introducing the material. Cinerary urns containing cremations within display case of martial implements found in Roman Iron Age graves The artefacts are displayed as assemblages separate from the urns containing cremains.

HO5—Roman Iron Age cremation cemetery

1 7

Text panel introducing the material. Visitors walk over both cremation and inhumation graves visible beneath their feet. Cinerary urns contain cremains and artefacts.

HO6—Peasants’ Graves— 1–200

1

A description of the artefacts found in male and female cremation graves. No cremains in this display, only the urns. Artefacts are displayed separately but by context on near-vertical triangular boards. Photographs of the two urns in section are adjacent to the text panel together with a plan of the graves’ location on the site plan.

AD

2

8

HO7—A Puzzle of Bone Fragments

1

4

HO8—A Burial Ground at Hjemsted

1 8

Explains the effect of cremation on the human skeleton and its preservation and the subsequent problems of identification by specialists. Vertical white-on-black outline of human skeleton, upon which fragments of cremated bone have been placed at the correct anatomical position. Text panel introducing the material. A cemetery plan is annotated with photographs of each grave taken during excavation.

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landscape that has received extensive investigation by modern archaeological methods. This is a striking piece of bespoke architecture, and there is plenty of space for innovative strategies for communicating the archaeological past to visitors. Hence, the manner in which cremation is displayed is not overly restricted by attempts to fill a pre-existing space. Furthermore, the juxtaposition of an above-ground open-air museum and underground museum emphasizes how the division between ‘living in the past’ and ‘death in the past’ fossilizes a major division in how the past is presented in the modern museum. Open-air museums often emphasize daily life through re-creation, forming a timeless world in which death is denied. The only above-ground indication of mortuary activity is in the car park where the visitor is greeted by an ancient burial mound topped by three giant spears. In contrast, the traditional museum is designed to appear static, still, and almost as if the dead are in suspended animation. Hence, the traditional museum is still recognized as an appropriate venue for the solemn vestiges of ancient obsequies. Within the subterranean museum at HO, we find text panels describing cremation but also artefacts from inhumation and cremation graves displayed for their own purposes and divested of context. The inhumed cadaver is displayed via mannequins within mock-up graves and displays of Iron Age costume. Yet equally, we find a diversity of ways by which the cremated dead are displayed. Artefacts and piles of cremated bone (HO1) occur as do conventional displays of cremains within cinerary urns (HO2, HO3, and HO4: Fig. 14.1). Archaeological plans (e.g. HO8) and plenty of site photographs (e.g. HO2 and HO8) illustrate discoveries of cremation graves on the site, while the impact of cremation on anatomy is revealed through burned human remains situated upon a vertical outline of a human skeleton (HO7: Fig. 14.2). The display of numerous urns and artefacts afford a sense of mortuary variability within the same population (HO5 and HO6). Yet the most striking of all is a reconstruction within the floor of the museum of an entire burial ground, including cremation and inhumation graves, their spatial relationships mirroring their distance from each other as revealed during excavation (HO5: Fig. 14.3). What is apparent is the ability of the cremated dead within HO to take on numerous guises and populate the museum space within conventional display cabinets. Equally significant is how cremation and inhumation graves spread out into the visitor’s space, mimicking, and perhaps provoking reflection upon, the many ways in which the dead would have been handled in the past. What is not displayed is equally palpable: neither is there a reconstruction of a cremation ceremony nor any attention to the mortuary process, dimensions so important for understanding Iron Age cremation practices in Scandinavia (e.g. Høilund Nielsen 2009). Moreover, despite the rich strategies of display, how cremation took place and why it varied is left to the visitor’s imagination.

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Fig. 14.1 Cremated human bone arranged in fragmentary urn with artefacts, HO (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2010)

Fig. 14.2 Cremated human remains placed upon an outline of a human skeleton, HO (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2010)

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Fig. 14.3 Arrangement of Iron Age cinerary urns within the floor of the museum mimicking their spatial arrangement upon excavation, HO (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2010)

COLCHESTER CA STLE M USEUM —A TOW N MUS E UM Visited in 2012 and housed within a Norman keep, Colchester Castle Museum, Colchester, Essex, UK (hereafter CM), provides our case study of a museum in which the dead are widely deployed to narrate the history of a town and its immediate environs (Table 14.3; see Anon 1997 and Crummy 1997). In contrast to HO, the displays enjoy a generous space but are restricted by the pressures of a pre-existing historic environment. Moreover, in contrast to HO, many of the finds result from nineteenth-centuries discoveries, with many of them lacking a well-recorded context. The displays have run for over two decades. The phenomenal range of guises by which the ancient dead are displayed within the town museum at CM is striking and comparable to HO. A map of Roman cemeteries around Colchester, Roman tombs, and four displays of unburned human remains were found: (i) ‘Bones from Balkerne Hill’ associated with the Roman invasion, (ii) ‘Aches and Pains’: bones displaying

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Table 14.3 Key displays of cremation at CM witnessed in 2012 Cabinet

Type

Description

CM1 Colchester Vase

5

Famous icon of the museum and Colchester, displayed in a wall-safe near the entrance to the museum.

CM2 Bronze Age —‘Death and Burial’

1

Text accompanying art and artefacts explains briefly the prevalence and characteristics of Bronze Age cremation practices, 2000–1000 BC. Jupes Hill barrow with a secondary cremation burial within the ditch. Two collared urns on a mock-ground-surface of pebbles to invoke the context of discovery. One was found upside down placed over cremated remains of a girl, but these remains are not displayed. The second collared urn contained cremated bones, found near the Jupes Hill barrow. Deverel-Rimbury cinerary urns also displayed in a comparable way in two glass cabinets. Cremated bone displayed adjacent to these urns.

1, 9 1, 2, 5

1, 2, 4 CM3 Belgic Beakers

1, 2

Five ‘Belgic’ vessels (50 BC to AD 43) are presumably all from cremation graves.

CM4 Lexden Tumulus

1, 2, 3

The famous Lexden Tumulus is displayed, the text panel explaining that they contained the ‘cremated remains of an important man (possibly a king of the Trinovantes called Athedomarros)’ and the artefacts were broken as part of the funeral ritual and the grave desecrated not long after their burial.

CM5 Colchester Child’s Grave

1, 2, 8

Rich display of artefacts from the grave with antiquarian illustration of the assemblage.

CM6 Stanway ‘Warrior Burial’.

1, 2

Artefacts displayed derive from a ‘native style cremation burial’.

CM7 Roman Tombstones

3 1, 5

Tombstone of Longinus Sdapeze, son of Matygus. Tombstone of Marcus Favonius Facilis. An early Roman tombstone juxtaposed with lead canister, glass bottle, and copper-alloy bowl in cabinet with pebble-mock groundsurface.

CM8 Glass

1, 2, 5

‘Storage bottle re-used to hold cremated human bones AD 75–200’.

CM9 Columbarium

1

Text panels sometimes state that the pots now still hold cremated remains, but they are concealed from view. A variety of different kinds of Romano-British cremation burial found from in and around Colchester, many placed on pebble mock ground surface. The choice of a wall-display alludes to the Roman-style of columbarium tomb, unknown from Colchester but known from Italy. Above the columbarium, a painted landscape scene of Roman cemetery and procession on road.

6

7

9

Firing the Imagination CM10

5

From the Mersea Barrow, a glass bowl holding the cremated remains of a child.

Mersea Island

7, 8

Photographs of the site during excavation and in recent times. Diagrammatic section through the grave, from the original excavation report. Second-century cremation group from Mersea Island in a glass vessel with lead plate as a lid. Test-tube containing cremated bone upon cremated bone.

4, 5

305

Roman-period diseases and medical practices, (iii) ‘The Art of Death’ featuring three lead coffins, photographs of their contents, and associated artefacts, and (iv) two late Romano-British ‘Christian’ inhumation graves from the Butt Road cemetery. Other periods are narrated through unburned human remains. A piece of skin found under a door hinge of Copford Church is displayed, possibly providing tangible evidence somehow linked to the local folklore that the skins of Danes were pinned to church doors as deterrents. To these, we might add memorial traces of the dead: near the entrance is a commemorative plaque to the Quaker, James Parnell, who was imprisoned for his faith and died in Colchester Castle in 1696, aged 19. Yet, cremated human remains are ubiquitous and the variability is illustrated by discussing ten displays relating to three eras: the Bronze Age, the late Iron Age, and the Romano-British period. Further examples are excluded from this study: including the burned (not necessarily cremated) human jaw associated with the Boudiccan sacking of the city. Within this variability, text is the most common medium, usually taking a brief, descriptive approach to mortuary procedures. Yet artefacts often stand for cremated remains that are not available or chosen for display (CM3, CM5–7) or are obscured by the presence of artefacts and cinerary urns themselves (CM7, CM9). This latter scenario is true of the famous and iconic Colchester Vase with its gladiatorial scenes (Fig. 14.4). Displayed in a wall-safe by the entrance as an artefact, only with the information provided by the curator could I (being slightly below average height for a UK male) readily apprehend that, from a certain angle, it is possible to view cremated human remains that have been kept within this vessel since its discovery in the nineteenth century (CM1). In other cases at CM, the cremains and artefacts are displayed in mock-ups of their original arrangement in the grave (Fig. 14.5). In one example, cremains in a glass vessel illustrate the many uses of glass in Romano-British society (CM8). Ashes can be displayed separately (CM2) and in one case within the antique test-tubes in which they were stored following excavation in the 1920s and thus implying something—unexplained—about the history of archaeology (CM4, CM10;

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Fig. 14.4 The Colchester Vase, still containing cremated human remains but difficult for the visitor to spot within its wall-safe, CM (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2012)

Fig. 14.5 Mock-up of Romano-British cremation burial, part of the ‘columbarium’ at CM (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2012)

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Fig. 14.6 Cremated human bone in test-tubes as retrieved from the Lexden Tumulus, CM (Photograph by Howard Williams 2012)

Fig. 14.6). There are numerous examples of cremains within vessels (CM1, CM2, CM7–10) and within mock-archaeological contexts (CM9). The combination of an assemblage comprising the cinerary urn and a Roman tombstone of Marcus Favonius Facilis (RIB 200) is a rare and striking juxtaposition of above- and below-ground archaeology coalescing within a museum display of a cremation grave (Fig. 14.7). This allows the visitor to simultaneously gaze at his memorial inscription and portrait and then imagine the hidden contents of his urn: a unique instance of a cremated individual’s portrait, without visible human remains, in a fashion that allows his known identity to fully communicate to the visitor (CM7; see Hope 1997b: Plate XVI). Meanwhile, another striking success of the CM exhibition of the RomanoBritish dead is a ‘columbarium’—a wall of death—with the mock-up arrangement of cremation graves of different sizes and utilizing different gravestructures and grave-goods, thus providing a sense of the rich mortuary variability in Romano-British cremation practices within the same display (Fig. 14.5). Despite CM inhabiting a pre-existing space, many of the same impressions are left to that afforded by HO. At both sites we have encountered a wide range of intelligent but straightforward display strategies for cremation in the human past, juxtaposed within the same museum. As with HO, cremation processes are overlooked although the variability in cremation practices within and between time periods is exhibited but poorly explained and conflated

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Fig. 14.7 The striking juxtaposition of the cinerary urn and tombstone of centurion Marcus Favonius Facilis (CM), a rare instance where it is possible to view above- and below-ground mortuary components relating to the funeral of the same individual in a British museum (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2012)

within conventional cultural epochs. At both, there is no attention to cremation as a ritual technology but variability is made clear, implicit in the juxtaposition of many different types of cremation grave. A palpable difference from HO is the number of artefacts and assemblages from cremated graves displayed without the cremains. Furthermore, the number of hidden and semi-concealed displays of burned human remains is more apparent, perhaps reflecting a lack of consideration for cremated human remains in contrast to the artefacts found in cremation graves. Also, at CM, the presentation of artefacts and ashes is restrained within the conventional display case and does not appear (as at HO) beneath floors. A further striking difference from the Danish heritage site is how rarely the public are shown archaeological plans and photographs. While, the engagement with cremation is more conventional, and seldom lets the visitor into an understanding of the archaeological contexts from whence they were derived, CM reveals that complex and varied displays of cremation in the human past are integral, not only to bespoke single-phase displays at heritage sites, but to town and city museums with long histories of collecting and displaying mortuary remains.

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MUSEUM SØNDERJYLLAND—A CO UNTY MUS E UM The Museum of Southern Jutland (Museum Sønderjylland, hereafter MS) has its own archaeological museum and department—Arkælogi Haderslev— situated in the town of Haderslev, Denmark (Table 14.4). The museum was established in 1887 and the building dates from 1977. In the grounds there is Denmark’s oldest open-air museum, while inside the building are a range of archaeological displays narrating the region’s prehistory and early history through a traditional archaeological narrative. The display was observed during a visit in September 2010 while I was attending the Internationales Sachsensymposion, hosted by the museum. Despite its regional coverage, the area for display is broadly comparable, perhaps slightly smaller space than HO and CM.3 There are numerous indirect traces of the ancient dead on display, as for example, the many weapons and other military artefacts associated with Roman Iron Age booty sacrifices from Ejsbøl; the bodies of defeated warriors are absent but implied through the treatment of the artefacts (Nørgård Jørgensen 2011). Likewise, among the artefacts and materials used to illustrate life in the region’s past, many derive from mortuary contexts, including reconstructions of male and female Iron Age costume based upon gravefinds. There is even a diorama of the entrance of a Neolithic passage grave; human remains are absent, but the pottery and food arranged around the entrance speak of dialogues between the living and the dead among these early farming communities. The ancient dead take many further forms and human remains are prominent at the museum despite the absence of an iconic bog body as found elsewhere in Denmark at, for example, the Moesgård Museum, Aarhus. At MS, the visitor encounters Bronze Age log-coffins containing well-preserved skeletons and their equally well-preserved clothing and artefacts. There are mock-ups of Iron Age inhumation graves achieved through depictions of clothed bodies (two-dimensional figures, not mannequins) accompanied by material culture. There are innumerable representations of site-based photographs, archaeological site-plans and grave-plans, and schematic cut-away representations of Bronze Age burial mounds, so that the material qualities and dimensions of sources of the evidence are readily accessible to the visitor. There is even an artist’s impression of the actions required in the construction of a Bronze Age burial mound comprised of nine sequential frames of activities. There are five principal displays of past cremation that I wish to discuss in chronological order (Table 14.4). The first—MS1—is modest in appearance but significant in national terms as it claims to be Denmark’s oldest grave. The ‘Hammelev-graven—Danmarks ældste gravefund’ display comprises multiple

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Table 14.4 Key displays of cremation at MS Cabinet

Type

Description

MS1, Grave from Hammelev— Denmark’s Oldest Grave.

1

Denmark’s oldest grave dated to c. 8250 BC was first cremated. The cremains of an adult together with a wildcat and tools were placed on an animal skin and sprinkled with red ochre before being wrapped and placed in a hole 70 cm deep. Annotated photograph of the mock-grave accompanies the text panels. Other photographs include artefacts, a human mandible, and the assemblage upon discovery. Reconstruction of Denmark’s oldest grave upon hexagonal plinth. Photograph of the excavated assemblage on text-panel.

6, 8

6 8 MS2a, A Grave from Tappendalhøjen.

1

5

MS2b, A Family Tragedy?

1

5

8 MS3, Urns from the Older Barrow.

1

2 MS4a, Pre-Roman Iron Age Cremation Cemetery, Årupgård, 500–150 BC.

1

5 9

The text describes a how the cremains of a 30–50-year-old person with a razor and awl were found amidst stones that may have supported a plank coffin. Un-urned cremains from Tappendalhøjen on a glass display shelf, together with two bronze artefacts: a razor and sickle. The text describes the discovery of a doublegrave of two individuals, an adult of 30–50 years and a child of 2 years, and a 20–35-yearold possible male. Un-urned cremains from the same site, possibly a family grave of two persons and a child of 2 years, together with a range of bronze artefacts. Excavation photograph of the cremation graves. Text panel explains that cremation replaced inhumation in the later Bronze Age during the period 1000–500 BC and the range of artefacts that can be found with cremation graves dug into the edges of older mounds. Two shelves displaying eight cinerary urns of the Late Bronze Age. No cremains included. Text panel introduces Årupgård as reflecting the beginning of the Iron Age with continuity from the preceding burial rites of the Late Bronze Age, with graves increasingly placed under their own little mounds. Window in the text panel allows view back into the display of Late Bronze Age urns—MS3 Text panel and window allowing a view of the Late Bronze Age urns is surrounded by a artist’s colour reconstruction of how the cemetery appeared, with small mounds

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surrounding an older Bronze Age mound. Two figures walk away from the viewer for scale. MS4b, Pre-Roman Iron Age Cremation Cemetery, Årupgård, 500–150 BC.

1

2

8/9

5

9 MS5, Early Roman Iron Age Burial Customs

1

6

6

Text explaining the spatial organization of the cemetery including its division by social group and wealth. Seven chronological divisions were identified based on the brooches. A clear distinction in artefacts and urn-size between adults and children and changes in the organization of ring-ditches are described. Miniature pots were found as grave-goods across the cemetery. Four shelves stacked with cinerary urns from the same cemetery, a phenomenal display of a wide range of vessels. The shelves are divided into seven vertical strips according to colour, that mark the chronological development of the cemetery from left to right. Adjacent to the shelves of cinerary urns and on the wall to their left, there is an isometric excavation plan of the barrow cemetery from whence the urns came, showing the development focusing on Bronze Age barrows and depicting the nature of the archaeological features uncovered. The front row of seven urns are associated with artefacts in front of them. Cremains can be viewed within the urns without lids. Like the urns behind them, these vessels are placed in chronological order, placed on a differently coloured surface that corresponds with the colour-coded grave-plan. Each of the seven urns represents a phase in the cemetery’s evolution. A colour-coded cemetery plan, indicating the development of the cemetery over time. The diversity of mortuary practice is explained, although the predominance of cremation is stated, cremation burials take place either in urns or in a pit without an urn. Inhumation is a new burial rite. Details of the burial rituals are described, including evidence for paving within cemeteries and pot-sherds scattered in graves, the process of cremation including the care taken to retrieve ashes and wrap them in cloth, and the artefacts placed in cinerary urns. Schematic representations of two inhumation graves and three cremation graves reconstructed elsewhere in the same display Adjacent to mock-ups of an adult female inhumation grave containing grave-goods and an outline of a costumed figure rather than a (continued )

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Table 14.4 Continued Cabinet

Type

9

9

Description skeleton, there are three different mock-ups of cremation graves of early Iron Age date, one un-urned and two urned (one open, one with a lid in place). All these are placed into a brown display case to imply the earth. All three can be viewed through glass from above, while the two cinerary urns can also be viewed from the side. The un-urned cremation is accompanied with weaponry, the urned cremains are placed with artefacts. Behind is an artist’s impression of a cremation ceremony. A panorama of an Early Roman Iron Age landscape with a funeral in progress, and burial mounds of different sizes, presumably implying those covering both inhumation and cremation graves, with a settlement in the distance. Artist’s impression of an Early Roman Iron Age open-air cremation.

text panels supported by photographs with information about the ochre, flint artefacts, animal and human remains recovered, and the find’s significance (Fig. 14.8). These surround a reconstruction of the grave itself, portrayed as revealed upon discovery and displayed beneath an irregular hexagonal display cabinet accessible from all sides. No attempt to reconstruct the deceased’s identity is attempted; the find is portrayed for what it is: a modest, isolated discovery that is important for its early date: a narrative of obscure post-glacial origins. In contrast to this attempt to portray the archaeological context of a primordial individual, a display case of Bronze Age finds (MS2) portrays cremains as a context-free pile of material, where artefacts found associated with them are placed separately with an accompanying text panel postulating whether the burial of a child and two adults reflects ‘a family tragedy’. MS3 is also a conventional display of Late Bronze Age cinerary urns and artefacts, with no cremains displayed. Moving into the Pre-Roman Iron Age, MS4 is an intelligent and powerful display on a number of levels, using the vast quantity of urns and grave-goods from a single barrow-cemetery to superb effect, together with artist’s reconstructions and colour-coded cemetery plan, to communicate aspects of both the continuity and variability of mortuary practice during the second half of the first millennium BC. The use of multimedia supporting the careful arrangement of cremains and artefacts, and the inclusion of a large number of items, are all commended in affording a sense of mortuary practice and variability (Fig. 14.9). Finally, we come to the use of

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Fig. 14.8 Denmark’s oldest grave, MS (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2010)

inhumation and cremation during the Roman Iron Age (MS 5) where the considered use of multiple media includes mock-ups of inhumation juxtaposed with three very different cremation graves. The combination with two artists’ impressions—one of an Iron Age landscape and one of a cremation pyre alight—provide spatial context to the mock-graves (Fig. 14.10). While offering a different permutation of display methods, MS is similar to HO and CM in its diversity of techniques and the mix of single graves serving to illustrate a time period and multiple graves to illustrate the variability in cremation practice within and between epochs. Where MS differs is in attempting to portray the cremation process through artist’s reconstructions: a major omission in the other museums.

H I S T O R I SK A M US EET—A NATIONAL MUSEUM My final example is a national museum, the Historiska Museet (HM), Stockholm, Sweden (Table 14.5).4 Almost every period of Sweden’s past is

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Fig. 14.9 A plan of an Iron Age urnfield with pots representing each chronological phase, MS (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2010)

Fig. 14.10 Mock-graves and illustration of an Iron Age cremation, MS (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2010)

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Table 14.5 Key displays of cremation at HM Cabinet

Type

Description

HM1—Hasslöv Late Bronze Age Cremations

1

Text panel explains the cremation context and likely family affiliation of the occupants of the graves and asks whether the items were personal possessions. Nine cinerary urns, artefacts, and silhouettes to denote the age and gender of the deceased individuals found with three each.

5

HM2—Children from Bankälla

1 5

9

HM3—The man from Krankmartenhögen, Norrland

1

6 and 7

9

HM4—the Man from Kvisselby, Norrland

1

2

5

HM5—Köpingsvik, Öland.

1 2

Text panel and audio (in Swedish) Six burial assemblages on small separate shelves upon a vertical surface, comprising the cremains of neonates, infants, and a young child with their ceramic urns (for five assemblages) and artefacts (for one assemblage). Translucent fabric hanging with photographs of two children in Iron Age clothing, the older behind and with arms around the younger child’s neck implying familial affection. A text panel explains the burial of a man dated to the early first millennium AD from northern Sweden, asking the question, ‘can we really say these were Sámi’? A modest collection of cremains is placed at the front of a corner-display without the bark container in which it was found. A stone cairn is implied by a display of boulders beneath the antlers. Reindeer and elk antlers provide a sense of the material found in the cairn A panoramic artist’s impression of how the cemetery may have appeared overlooking the lake, each cairn covered with reindeer and elk antlers. Text panel gives basic information about the status and likely external contacts of the occupant of the grave from Norrland. Around the central display are discrete clusters of artefacts from within the cremation burial—glass, ceramics, arrowheads, and bear claws. Cremains of humans and animals are contained within a bronze cauldron and topped by bear bones. Text panel explaining the wealthy artefacts from this Vendel Period cremation grave. Open casket implying a jewellery box within which are 25 compartments of equal size (continued )

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Table 14.5 Continued Cabinet

Type

4 HM6—Heathen Woman of Power, Köpingsvik, Öland.

1

2 HM7—Who Owned the Brown Hair? Adelsö, Lake Mälaren

1

from a rich eighth-century female cremation. Nine contain cremated artefacts, arranged by artefact-type. The remaining 16 compartments contain cremated human and animal bone. Text panel explains that the artefacts of ‘majestic splendour’ included powerful symbols of heathen magic and worship, suggesting a leading religious role and symbol of aristocracy. Individual artefacts arranged in display case.

5

Description of a cremation under a large mound producing evidence for a plait of brown hair. The text speculates that she may have been a human sacrifice at a male funeral. The sacrifice of horses and dogs, as well as cat, sheep, swine, pike, and various birds is mentioned. An assemblage of artefacts from a rich cremation burial including glass gaming pieces and horse bridle situated around the vessel containing cremains. The human hair is prominently displayed. Cremains within large bronze bucket.

9 and 10

Short looped video of scenes from the preparation and cremation of a deceased Viking leader within a boat.

2

HM8—Video of re-enacted BoatCremation Inspired by the Account of Ibn Fadlan.

Description

represented by the range of human remains within HM’s galleries. Human remains saturate the chronologically arranged Prehistories 1 gallery (see Bünz 2012) as well as the thematic Prehistories 2 gallery and the Viking gallery. The new History of Sweden gallery charts the nation’s development from the eleventh century to the present day and human remains are integral to the narrative. Human remains are unsurprisingly absent from the Gothic Hall (Medieval Ecclesiastical Art), Textile Chamber, and Gold Room, but these spaces too contain many material cultures and monuments associated with the commemoration of the dead and/or found in graves. The most recent human remains on display include a syphilitic skull that provides a grisly memento mori and counterpoint placed on a mirror-backed dressing table display about eighteenth-century, ‘culture: fashion, beauty, vanity’. Close by, a skull bearing distinctive tooth-wear illustrating the habit of smoking clay pipes is part of a display on the ‘products of slavery’. The relatively new Prehistories gallery (opened in two stages between 2005 and 2008) is replete with human remains, with an overarching emphasis upon narrating what can be told about the lives and cultures of individuals. It is through

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such ‘immortals’, such as the Bäckaskog Woman, portrayed as a powerful huntress (see Bünz 2012; Nordström 2007, this volume), the Mesolithic Skateholm doublegrave of an elderly man and child, and the Roman Iron Age ‘woman from Gårdlösa’, that the visitor walks through Swedish prehistory from the last Ice Age to the Vendel Period. In the absence of human remains, martial and feasting assemblages from the Vendel boat-graves create a world of the living, rather than that of the dead, an idealized vision of lordly life focusing on the hall’s high-seat and hearth. In the Viking gallery, identities for the dead are displayed without human remains including the display of rune-stones and Gotlandic picture-stones and an artist’s reconstruction of a Viking adult female’s inhumation grave illustrating the passage from ‘Heathen to Christian’ at the Valsta, Uppland cemetery. Among this range of human and mortuary remains, HM has constructed many different stories and identities for the cremated dead, revealing both innovative display strategies and profound tensions and confusions over how to deal with the cremated dead in the modern museum context. At one level, cremation is of limited use in charting the appearances and identities of individuals, but affords possibilities for the creation of other kinds of narratives. In this regard, the HM is perhaps more polarized in its treatment of cremation than the other museums considered so far, possibly reflecting different curators’ ideas and the diversity of challenges inherent within the wide range of material on display in a national museum. Artefacts are displayed that are inadequately connected to their cremation contexts, such as the three Thor hammer-rings on display in the Viking gallery (see Andersson 2005). In contrast with the other museums discussed, the HM galleries fail to tackle prehistoric mortuary variability, but in common with the others they afford limited attention to why some past cultures cremate or use other disposal strategies; burned and unburned human remains are simply juxtaposed without explanation. In the second half of the Prehistories gallery, ironically one of the most recent, cremation is more often neglected; the texts describe ‘human bones’ and ‘bones’ without reference to cremation, and there is no commentary in the context, significance, and variability of the mortuary practices from which the bones derive. Even when a burial assemblage (category 5) is partially reconstructed, the text panel does not mention the association with cremation ritual, and instead states boldly: ‘Wooden trough with bones of human, cow, swine and sheep or goat/ Skåne, Simris, Viarp/ 1100–500 f Kr (BC)’. Elsewhere, house-shaped urns (category 2) from Skåne, Småland, and Gotland are dislocated from cremation; nothing is said about their use as cinerary urns or associated with cremation practices. Likewise, in the first half of the Prehistories gallery, heavily fragmented burned bones from the site of Lunda, Södermanland, are displayed in a cabinet under the title ‘gods and sacrifices’ without entertaining an association with cremation or other fire rituals (Andersson 2006: 196). In the Viking gallery, there is a pair of reconstructions of the Valsta

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cemetery by the same artist supported by a bilingual text panel entitled ‘Heathen to Christian in Valsta’, yet the presence of both cremation and inhumation graves at the cemetery is overlooked in the narrative presented (Andersson 1997). Some display strategies found elsewhere are not apparent: there are no reconstructed contexts for cremation graves and no unambiguous displays of monuments relating to cremation practice (category 3). Notably, excavation plans and photographs of cremation graves only appear in a part of the exhibit about the history of archaeology, with a photograph of a cut-through section model of the largest mounds at Gamla Uppsala, a photograph of the mounds under excavation, and a display copy of the excavation report (category 8). Between these extremes, cremated human remains challenge attempts to reconstruct the individual and their life ways, but do provide opportunities to construct alternative narratives about past societies and their mortuary practices. However, because of the obsession with the individual, these attempts are only partially effective. I here focus upon eight displays at HM that illustrate the variability. Five (HM1–5) are from the Prehistories gallery, and three (HM6–8) from the Viking gallery (Table 14.5). The first of our eight is perhaps the most effective and notably does not contain any cremated human remains; this is a display of artefacts from nine late Bronze Age cinerary urns from the cemetery of Hasslöv, Halland: HM1: Fig. 14.11). These are presented upon angled niches on two levels, four on the upper, five on the lower. Each urn is different in form, invoking a sense of the individuality of those within. This is drawn out by the decision to place the artefacts found within the urn on horizontal space below their pedestals, and in between each urn and grave-goods, a silhouetted profile of a head is added, alluding to the age and gender of the individuals reflected in the artefacts found (and possibly the bones, but this is not made clear). Intriguingly, this very effective display strategy works without cremated human remains, showing how the absence of cremains need not restrain the use of material culture to articulate the cremated dead, past identities, and socialities. Unfortunately, the evidence behind the presentation of age and gender is not made clear. All that is said about the osteological evidence behind the identification of each silhouette is a general statement articulating their youth. What this display strategy does possess is an emphasis upon the mortuary context of a cemetery comprised of burial mounds in which individuals of varying social identities were interred in varied kinds of cinerary urn. However, the attempt to impose both an individual, and a kinship identity, upon the remains by framing the display as ‘The chief and his relatives’ does not fully marry up with the impression the display presents to the visitor of greater communality. This is because, while the ‘chief ’ is given double the space—one for his urn, one for the bronze dagger and sheath found with him—beyond that, his modest urn and lack of other evidence of high status means that a relative equality in death

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Fig. 14.11 Bronze Age cremations with silhouettes of their occupants, HM (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2012)

is projected. By drawing on a range of graves from the same cemetery, the display affords a sense of both the individuals behind the graves, and a sense of a community in death. In both these regards, this is a strikingly rare and important display, since this is hardly ever attempted for the cremated dead even when their remains are found in cemeteries of tens or even hundreds of discrete burial deposits. Disappointingly, little is said about the cremation ceremonies of the time and their variability between funerals and over space and time. Also, the significance of the urn remains unstated—nothing is said of the choice and character of the funerary vessels—let alone the artefacts found therein. Moving into the Pre-Roman Iron Age, we find a different display of cremated remains entitled ‘Barnen från Bankälla’ (children from Bankälla: HM2). Again an impression of context is afforded by using child-graves from the same cemetery. Five cremation urns and one cremation deposit constitute the display, containing the remains of newborn and young infants, and in one case, a child of 6–7 years at the time of death. There are practical problems with this display: the numbers on the text panel are not replicated in the display, leaving some ambiguity as to which is which. But here we find

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cremated human remains used to invoke the diminutive nature of these dead individuals, exacerbated by the stark yellow vertical wall upon which they are widely spaced, and hence implying something of the reality of infant mortality in the past and the emotive nature of this loss. This is brought powerfully home through a photograph printed on a semi-transparent textile-hanging: with a backdrop of farmland there are two children in prehistoric dress, the elder one smiling and embracing the younger. Again, here is an attempt to connect to individuals through the display of human remains. However, once more, nothing is said regarding the cremation process or archaeological interpretations of these, or how these graves compare to those of older juveniles, subadults, and adults from the same era. Equally there is only a limited sense of cemetery, monument, or landscape context. Moving to the late Iron Age, we encounter an opposition of two cremation displays (HM3 and HM4). First, cremated human remains are encircled by traces of the resin used to seal its original organic container. Above these, a sense of the stone cairn raised over the graves is provided by a single spread of boulders lain into the available space. These are covered by the skull-top and horns of elk and deer, reflecting the evidence that these had been placed on the monument (HM3: Fig. 14.12). Above and behind these again, there is an artistic reconstruction of how the cemetery may have appeared: a panoramic backdrop illustrating the linear arrangement of monuments along the prominent ridge and its wider landscape situation in relation to hills and lakes. This serves to simultaneously provide the sense of a burial community of repeated monumental graves which is sadly lacking in the text that focuses on the treatment of the single grave. There is clearly, once again, a tension between attempting to talk about individuals and the emphasis upon the communal cemetery context. A further aspect of identity is negotiated; the display asks: ‘can we really say these were Sámi’? Nothing further is stated about the debates regarding this issue in Swedish archaeology. A further sense that this cemetery was situated in an inland landscape is a projection of a waterfall while on the floor, a ‘river’ trails across towards an opposing display of a ‘man from the coast’. The opposing display is from a grave at Kvissleby (HM4). With a projection of a coastal landscape reached by the ‘river’ on the floor, this individual’s display lacks any further landscape context beyond a statement that there were many burial mounds in the area. While the ‘man from the inland’ is one of a community of graves that are not talked about, the desire to discuss the individual male identity of the Kvissleby grave is in tension with the statement that the cremated human material contained within were from both a man and a woman. Still, the advantage of foregrounding the male identities present in both graves allows comparisons and contrasts to be considered between the inland and coastal regions and their different societies and burial traditions. The Kvissleby grave is a reconstruction of a burial context: the burned human

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Fig. 14.12 Iron Age cremation from northern Sweden, HM, including artwork by Mats Vänehem (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2012)

remains are displayed in a large bronze vessel covered with birch bark and containing glass, ceramics, arrowheads, and bear claws displayed around them. Yet the identity of the female in this grave is omitted, revealing a clear masculine bias in the narrative constructed. A further kind of anonymity is found juxtaposed against the absence of human remains in the Vendel period boat-grave treasures (HM5). In a single case, the vertical display, arranged to imply an opening casket, are a range of female-gendered artefacts, all from graves from the island of Gotland, apart from finger-rings from Södermanland. These inform, and give context to, the horizontal display at the bottom of the cabinet. The materials in the horizontal display within the same case are all from the same high-status female cremation grave from Öland and dated AD 700–800 (see Svanberg 2003: 132–3; Fig. 14.13). The fact that they come from a single context is not made clear to the viewer as there is no allusion to landscape or cemetery context, monument, grave-plan, or photos. The remains from this grave are arranged in square boxes, arranged in a grid of five by five, giving twenty-five spaces. Sixteen of these (all of the back row, partly overshadowed by the vertical display and difficult to see, and subsequent four, three, two, and two of each subsequent row) contain cremated human material. None is labelled and cremated

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Fig. 14.13 Display of female jewellery from late Iron Age inhumation graves (vertical display) and twenty-five compartments containing the artefacts and cremains from a rich Vendel-period female cremation grave from Öland, HM (Photograph by Howard Williams, 2012)

material is not mentioned outside of the text panel. Here cremation is rendered present materially, and absent in terms of interpretation, gap-fillers to the nine boxes containing gold jewellery, necklaces, garnet jewellery, gold and glass, horse harness, casket fragments, a mirror, and a key. It is mentioned that the person was cremated in a boat or wagon, with a range of animals, but these are not explicitly displayed, although they may be mixed in with the cremated human material on show. The relationship with the surrounding treasures of the male boat-graves form Vendel remains implicit and one of simple juxtaposition, rather than explicit comparison and contrast. Relations between the male and female spheres is emphasized by the fact that the display is surmounted by a large photograph of an embracing couple from a Vendel-period gold-foil figurine, while the focus on female body is implied through close-up photos of a model combing her hair with the comb on display, wearing brooches, and two rings. Yet it might be argued that this focus on intimate female attire and body grooming contradicts the material evidence on display.

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Instead, the evidence reveals the importance of animal sacrifice and boats in the funerary process of cremation. Moving into the Viking gallery, the majority of the artefacts on display are from mortuary contexts, and some from cremation graves. For example, in a display of a rich cremation grave from Öland in the Viking gallery, the artefacts are presented but not the human remains (HM6). In a comparable display ‘Who owned the brown hair?’ a rich female cremation from Adelsö (HM7) comprises the reconstruction of the original context with bones in a bronze vessel and surrounded by the grave-goods found within. The final display worth noting in the Viking gallery is a looped video of an open-air cremation of a ship upon a pyre with actors shown bringing the corpse and laying it to rest in the boat and the placing of a dead dog with his body (HM8). Warriors clash their shields as the flames rise higher. This was a Russian-made film, apparently inspired by the account of Ibn Fadlan on the banks of the River Volga (Svanberg, pers. comm.). The scenes observed by Ibn Fadlan that involved the rape and violent slaying of a slave-girl are, unsurprisingly, omitted from this reconstruction, although something of the process of cremation is vividly invoked. What is apparent is that the Viking gallery tenaciously retains a pan-Nordic vision of Viking mortuary practice, with little of the local and regional variability explained in the disposal of the dead by cremation and inhumation explained. Cremation is portrayed as part of a normative Viking culture (cf. Svanberg 2003).

CONCLUSIONS This chapter has identified a significant lacuna in our current research and debates over the display of the dead in museums and heritage contexts. To date, the widespread and varied displays of cremated bone in British and Scandinavian museums, and found widely throughout Continental Europe too, have been systematically overlooked in discussions of the display of human remains in museums. Instead debates have foregrounded articulated skeletons, bog bodies, and mummies. In order to investigate and redress this imbalance, I have focused on four case studies, and deliberately selecting those that I consider to have plentiful, varied, and carefully designed installations of cremated human material on display alongside unburned fragmentary and articulated skeletal remains. In doing so, the chapter has explored the variability in the display of the cremated dead and their distinctive and widespread presence as integral components of heritage sites as well as town, regional, and national museums.

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The chapter has identified some critical concerns with how we display cremated human remains presently with clear ramifications for both future curatorial practice and broader debates regarding the roles of the archaeological dead in public archaeology and contemporary society. This is because, even in these modern, well-presented museum displays, cremation often remains poorly explained and inconsistently taken into consideration at present. Frequently, the cremated dead for any particular period or region are treated in normative terms that implicitly caricature the practices and communities they represent in relation to out-moded and misleading culturehistoric paradigms. Another problem with this approach is that it fails to explore the varied and complex uses of cremation in relation to other disposal strategies for the dead and their social, economic, and ideological contexts. Often the cremated dead are simply rendered mute, anonymous, and amorphous in the modern museum. A particular issue regarding the display of cremation is that context is often downplayed and, in particular, past cremation ceremonies and mortuary environments are rarely visualized and explained. In many displays, cremated human material is treated akin to artefacts and afforded little or no interpretation as pertaining to past human lives and past mortuary practice. The cremated dead are even sometimes obscured from visitor experience with no explanation, as when ashes are half-hidden and sometimes fully concealed within vessels and containers, or else fully visible and yet without any caption explaining that they are even human remains and/or have been affected by fire. Thus, a key criticism of current museum displays is the lack of attention to the spectacle and tempo, multi-stage and sensory nature of cremation processes, and relationships with other contemporary disposal methods. However, the situation is not that negative, and this study has attempted to foreground many positive aspects of the complexity and variability of cremation in the museum, both in terms of material presences and the narratives and identities displays convey. Each of the museums featured in this paper show fascinating and innovative attempts to display the cremated dead and cremation-related contexts and thus articulate dimensions of life and death in the human past. Within each of the case studies, the cremated dead are arranged and presented to perform many different narratives from those afforded to articulated skeletons and mock-ups of inhumation graves, thus the cremated dead in museums acquire varied and distinctive identities. Individuality is never completely lost with the cremated dead, and although they rarely take centre stage as discrete individual personalities for the modern visitor, this can occur, as with the Mesolithic cremation from the South Jutland Museum or the combination of urn and gravestone of the centurion Facilus at Colchester. The same can be said for the striking instance of the mock-up of the late Iron Age cremation grave from Welwyn Garden City on display in the British Museum: here a single wealthy grave with Mediterranean

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imports takes on a prominent position to narrate a key moment in British proto-history. An important point is that the scale and character of cremation allows for both individual and communal identities to be explored in museum contexts in fashions that assemblages and human remains associated with the articulated and unburned dead cannot achieve. Frequently therefore, rather than the pervading sense of ‘immortal ancestors’ created through the display of individual single skeletons (see Nordström this volume), collections of displayed cremation burials and/or urns can characterize entire communities and their changing mortuary traditions over time, as with pre-Roman Iron Age urns at the Museum Sønderjylland (MS4). Elsewhere, cremations operate in supporting roles to articulated remains from inhumation graves, but even when artefacts are selected and cremated remains are obscured or absent, there is potential to communicate past death ways in intelligent and evocative fashions as illustrated by the Bronze Age burials displayed in the Historiska Museet, Stockholm (HM1). Cremated human remains may be a challenge to communicate past individual lifeways to museum audiences, but this study shows how they do serve to convey alternative stories and identities about the human past. Cremated human material can be displayed to imply aspects of the archaeological contexts from whence they came and to create senses of past mortuary activity and the variegated social identities of those subjected to cremation. The cremated dead can be displayed in stark isolation but also as part of grave assemblages, and within mock-graves and memorials. Furthermore, the cremated dead can be absent, yet still vividly invoked through assemblages, vessels, artists’ impressions, site photographs, and plans. The fragmented and portable, and hence versatile nature, of cremains facilitates their inclusion within display cases in association with material culture in fashions that unburned and articulated remains cannot, often allowing aspects of mortuary variability to be addressed by displaying many dozens of cremation assemblages in close association. Therefore, text, images, material culture, and architectural settings are combined with burned bones to make the cremated dead narrate vivid and lucid themes of life and death in the modern museum. Inevitably this variation is in response to the contrasting biographies of each museum, the agency of successive museum curators, as well as the limitations on space and budgets affecting individual collections. While much remains unsatisfactory and ill-considered, I contend that the variation identified also reveals the challenges curators face and the innovative solutions some have already devised in dealing with the ubiquitous remains of the cremated dead. In the context of this book, these observations are crucial in identifying how the archaeological dead ‘speak’ to the living, not only by revealing aspects of past life and death ways, but also allowing historical reflection on the contemporary widespread use of cremation in contemporary society. By considering cremation, it is clear that the archaeological dead in European museums

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perform variegated narratives and identities about life and death in the human past and also inform how we deal with mortality in the present. Cremation is one of a series of ways that museums narrate mortality outwith the abject cadaver which is the concern of many chapters in this book. The cremated dead are frequently less human-like, more ‘dead’, and provide different, less emotionally jarring, and yet equally rich and varied stories to tell. The longterm character and significance of museum displays of human remains is misinterpreted and misunderstood without recognition and engagement with how the cremated dead are deployed to articulate dimensions of the human past to visitors. In a climate where the cremated dead have long been side-lined and regarded as second-rate evidence, this recognition might foster new, innovative approaches to the display of the cremated dead. This might be done by adopting some of the innovative attempts to speak about other dimensions of mortuary variability, process, and change identified in the museum displays of the cremated dead discussed in this chapter, as well as recognizing existing lacunae in current curatorial practice, There are broader implications still for how we think about displaying human remains as a cultural practice (Nilsson Stutz this volume) as well as its relationship to contemporary dialogues with the dead using ashes and urns. The contemporary archaeological study of cremation needs to engage critically with the display of cremation in the modern museum alongside its investigations of cremation memorials and landscapes in the contemporary world (e.g. Williams 2011). Recognizing the way we deal with cremation sheds light on our own attitudes and practices surrounding the cremated remains of the dead. The ubiquity of displays involving cremation, and the diversity inherent within them, speaks volumes regarding Western attempts to employ cremation anew in the late twentieth- and early twenty-first centuries. Exploring cremation in the museum as more than an issue of curatorial practice but relating to broader debates in public mortuary archaeology and contemporary mortuary archaeology will ensure that cremated human remains continue to fire the imagination about the past and present.

A C K NO W L E D G E M E N TS I am grateful for the feedback from the audiences of earlier versions of this paper at the following venues: Cardiff Osteoarchaeology Research Group Conference, 9–10 October 2009, the Institute for Archaeologists annual conference at Southport, April 2010, and the Theoretical Archaeology Group annual conference at Bristol, December 2010. For photographic permissions, thanks to Hjemsted Oldstidsparken, Denmark; Colchester Castle Museum, UK’ Museum Sønderjylland, Haderslev, Denmark; Historiska Museet, Stockholm, Sweden and Mats Vänehem. I am also very grateful for the staff of the

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museums that provided the case studies for this paper. I am equally grateful to Annika Bünz, Nina and Philip Crummy, Ing-Marie Back Danielsson, Jessica I. Cerezo-Román, Melanie Giles, Amy Gray Jones, Mads Holst, Pernille Kruse, Anna Mackenzie, Karen Høilund Nielsen, John Robb, Martin Rundkvist, Fredrik Svanberg, Paul Sealey, Tim Flohr Sørensen, Anna Wessman, and Philip Wise for their insights and critical comments on earlier drafts of the paper. All errors and opinions remain my own.

ENDNOTES 1. http://hjemsted.dk/en (Accessed 29 June 2015). 2. http://openarchaeology.info/venues/hjemsted-oldtidsparken-dk (Accessed 29 June 2015). 3. http://www.museum-sonderjylland.dk/arkeologien.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). 4. http://www.historiska.se/home/ (Accessed 29 June 2015).

B I BL I OG R A P H Y Andersson, G. 1997. A struggle for control: reflections on the change of religion in a rural context in the Eastern Mälaren Valley, in H. Andersson, P. Carelli, and L. Ersgård (eds) Visions of the Past: Trends and Traditions in Swedish Medieval Archaeology, Lund Studies in Medieval Archaeology, 19, 353–72, Stockholm: Central Board of National Antiquities. Andersson, G. 2005. With Thor on our side: the symbolism of the Thor hammer-ring in Viking Age burial ritual, in T. Artelius and F. Svanberg (eds) Dealing with the Dead, 45–62, Stockholm: National Heritage Board. Andersson, G. 2006. Among trees, bones and stones: the sacred grove at Lunda, in A. Andrén, K. Jennbert, and C. Raudvere (eds) Old Norse Religion in Long-term Perspectives: Origins, Changes, and Interactions, 195–9, Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Anon. 1997. Colchester Castle Museum: A Souvenir Guide, Colchester: Colchester Borough Council. Asingh, P. 2011. Seven Vikings, in H. Skov and J. Varberg (eds) Aros and the World of the Vikings, Aarhus: Moesgård Museum. Back Danielsson, I.-M. 2011. Presenting the past: On archaeologists and their influence on modern burial practices, Mortality, 16(2), 98–112. Bahn, P. (ed.) 2002. Written in Bones, Newton Abbot: David and Charles. Beattie, O. 1999. Sleep by the shores of those icy seas: death and resurrection in the last Franklin expedition, in J. Downes and T. Pollard (eds) The Loved Body’s Corruption: Archaeological Contributions to the Study of Human Mortality, 19–29, Glasgow: Cruithne. Bünz, A. 2012. Is it enough to make the main characters female? An intersectional and social semiotic reading of the exhibition Prehistories 1 at the National Historical

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Museum in Stockholm, Sweden, in I.-M. Back Danielsson and S. Thedéen (eds) To Tender Gender: The Pasts and Futures of Gender Research in Archaeology, 97–116, Stockholm: University of Stockholm. Brooks, M. M. and Rumsey, C. 2007. The body in the museum, in V. Cassman, N. Odegaard, and J. Powell (eds) Human Remains: Guide for Museum and Academic Institutions, 261–89, London: Altamira. Browne, T. 1658. Hydriotaphia, Urne-Buriall, or a Discourse on the Sepulchrall Urnes lately found in Norfolk, London: Ivy-lane. Chamberlain, A. and Parker Pearson, M. 2001. Earthly Remains: The History and Science of Preserved Human Bodies, London: British Museum. Cougill, W. 2006. Buddhist cremation traditions for the dead and the need to preserve forensic evidence in Cambodia, in J. Lohman and K. Goodnow (eds) Human Remains and Museum Practice, 75–9, London: Museum of London. Curtis, N. G. W. 2003. Human remains: The sacred, museums and archaeology, Public Archaeology, 3, 21–32. Crossland, Z. 2009a. Of clues and signs: the dead body and its evidential traces, American Anthropologist, 111(1), 69–80. Crossland, Z. 2009b. Acts of estrangement. The post-mortem making of self and other, Archaeological Dialogues, 16(1), 102–25. Crummy, P. 1997. City of Victory: The Story of Colchester—Britain’s First Roman Town, Colchester: Colchester Archaeological Trust. Ethelberg, P. 1986. Hjemsted—en graveplads fra 4. og 5. årh. e. Kr. Haderslev: Skrifter fra Museumsrådet for Sønderjyllands Amt, 2. Ethelberg, P. 1990. Hejmsted 2—tre gravepladser fra 3. og 4. årh. e. Kr. Haderslev: Skrifter fra Museumsrådet for Sønderjyllands Amt, 3. Giesen, M. (ed.) 2013. Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Goodnow, K. 2006a. Why and when do human remains matter: museum dilemmas, in J. Lohman and K. Goodnow (eds) Human Remains and Museum Practice, 16–20, London: Museum of London. Goodnow, K. 2006b. Bodies: taking account of viewers’ perspectives, in J. Lohman and K. Goodnow (eds) Human Remains and Museum Practice, 123–30, London: Museum of London. Giles, M. 2009. Iron Age bog bodies of north-western Europe. Representing the dead, Archaeological Dialogues, 16(1), 75–101. Gräslund, A.-S. 1981. Birka IV: The Burial Customs. A study of the graves on Björkö, Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell International. Hall, M. 2013. The quick and the deid: a Scottish perspective on caring for human remains at the Perth Museum and Art Gallery, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 75–86, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Høilund Nielsen, K. 2009. Rituals to free the spirit—or what the cremation pyre told, in D. Sayer and H. Williams (eds) Mortuary Practices and Social Identities in the Middle Ages: Essays in Burial Archaeology in Honour of Heinrich Härke, 104–22, Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Hope, V. 1997a. A roof over the dead: communal tombs and family structure, in R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill (eds) Domestic Space in the Roman World, 69–88, Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeological Supplementary Series No. 2.

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Hope, V. M. 1997b. Words and pictures: the interpretation of Romano-British tombstones, Britannia, 27, 245–58. Jenkins, T. 2010. Contesting Human Remains in Museums: The Crisis of Cultural Authority, London: Routledge. Nordström, N. 2007. De odöldliga. Förhistoriska individer i vetenskap och media, Falun: Nordic Academic Press. Nørgård Jørgensen, A. 2011. Mission impossible: the Ejsbøl army. Organisation, attack and defeat, in L. Boye, L. Heidemann Lutz, S. Kleingärtner, P. Kruse, L. Matthes, and A. B. Sørensen (eds) Arkæologi i Slesvig/Archäologie in Schleswig. Sonderband ‘Det 61. Internationale Sachsensymposion 2010’: Haderlsev, Denmark, 297–316, Neumünster: Wachholtz. Parker Pearson, M. 1999. The Archaeology of Death and Burial, Stroud: Sutton. Parker Pearson, M., Pitts, M., and Sayer, D. 2013. Changes in policy for excavating human remains in England and Wales, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 147–58, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Redfern, R. and Bekvalac, J. 2013. The Museum of London: an overview of policies and practice, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 87–98, Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Sanders, K. 2009. Bodies in the Bog and the Archaeological Imagination, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sayer, D. 2010. Ethics and Burial Archaeology, London: Duckworth. Svanberg, F. 2003. Death Rituals in South-East Scandinavia AD 800–1000: Decolonizing the Viking Age 2, Lund: Acta Archaeologica Lundensia Series in 4°, 24. Swain, H. 2002, The ethics of displaying human remains from British archaeological sites, Public Archaeology, 2, 95–100. Swain, H. 2006. Public reaction to the displaying of human remains at the Museum of London, in J. Lohman and K. Goodnow (eds) Human Remains and Museum Practice, 97–105, London: Museum of London. Swain, H. 2007a. An Introduction to Museum Archaeology, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Swain, H. 2007b. The value of human remains in museum collections, Public Archaeology, 6(3), 193–7. Wallace, J. 2005. Digging the Dirt: The Archaeological Imagination, London: Duckworth. Werner, A. 1998. London Bodies¸ London: Museum of London. Williams, H. 2008. Towards an archaeology of cremation, in C. W. Schmidt and S. Symes (eds) The Analysis of Burned Human Remains, 239–69, London: Academic Press. Williams, H. 2009. On display: envisioning the early Anglo-Saxon dead, in D. Sayer and H. Williams (eds) Mortuary Practices and Social Identities in the Middle Ages: Essays in Burial Archaeology in Honour of Heinrich Härke, 170–206, Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Williams, H. 2011. Cremation and present pasts: a contemporary archaeology of Swedish memory groves, Mortality, 16(2), 113–30.

Part 3 Public Mortuary Archaeology

15 Contemporary Pagans and the Study of the Ancestors William Rathouse

I N T R O D U C TI O N In 2007, English Heritage and the National Trust initiated a public consultation process regarding the display of human remains at the Alexander Keiller Museum at Avebury. This was a response to contemporary Pagan calls for reburial of a child’s skeleton displayed there (BBC News 2007; Jenkins 2011 and this volume; Tatham this volume; Thackray and Payne 2009; Historic England 2015). This chapter derives from ethnographic research (semistructured interviews and participant observation fieldwork) undertaken between April 2008 and March 2012 for a doctoral research project as well as nearly twenty years of personal engagement with the British Pagan community. This project was designed to provide qualitative analysis of relations between heritage and archaeological professionals and contemporary Pagans and did not attempt to establish any quantitative data on the proportions of people in these groups who hold particular views. It focused on the arguments and ideas behind contestation of sites and human remains. This chapter examines how the archaeology of ancient human remains aids contemporary Pagans to reinvent beliefs and emulate practices of the pre-Christian past. It also explores how excavation and display of human remains provides an arena for counter-cultural elements of contemporary Paganism1 to contest the authority of the heritage establishment. The sheer diversity of values, practices, and expression make it challenging to define contemporary Paganism. Pagans usually conceptualize the divine as immanent in nature either as pantheism (the divine permeates reality) or panentheism (the divine permeates reality but also exists beyond it). The divine may be seen as unified (monotheism), gendered polarities of the God and the Goddess (duotheism), or multi-faceted (polytheism). Additionally,

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some Pagans may be animists, which Harvey (2005: xi) defines as the belief that the world is inhabited by many persons, only some of whom are human, or even be atheists. Harvey (2005: 28, 2013: 206–10) suggests that religions may be better defined by their practices and behaviours rather than their beliefs. This is slightly harder to do with Paganism since most Wiccans and Druids tend to practice their rites by standing in circles of fellow Pagans and invoking elemental spirits at the four cardinal directions, while many Shamans, Heathens, and other reconstructionists do not. However, the most defining attribute of contemporary Pagan spiritualities is the veneration of nature. The most well-known identities or traditions of Paganism are witchcraft (of which Wicca is the best-known expression), Druidry, Heathenry (sometimes referred to as Asatru), and Shamanism, but there are others and many Pagans are content to identify themselves simply as Pagan without subscribing to a particular tradition (Pagan Federation 1992; Moorey 1996: 2; Harvey 1997: 176; Blain and Wallis 2004: 10).

USING M ORTUARY ARCHAEOLOGY TO INFORM SPIRITUALITY Lewis and Hammer (2007: 15) note that since Hutton’s (2001) exposition of the recent genesis of Wicca, contemporary Pagans have acknowledged the lack of continuity between the paganisms of antiquity and contemporary Paganisms and are therefore uniquely unconcerned about legitimating their beliefs and practices through the past. However, in my own field research, every Pagan interviewee who was asked whether knowledge of the past was important to his or her spirituality replied that it was. This, coupled with Cooper’s (2010: 64–70) description of ‘ancientization’ in his ethnography of Druids, demonstrates that many Pagans think of their spirituality as a continuation, revival, or restoration of pre-Christian paganisms. Pagans often cite the importance of reverence for ‘the Ancestors’2 in their spirituality, but this is a term that needs some unpicking. Common usage of the word ancestors refers to parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, i.e. lineal or genetic progenitors. Indeed the Oxford English Dictionary defines an ancestor as ‘any (esp. remote) person from whom one is descended’ (Pearsall and Trumble 2003: 48). However, a few belief groups acknowledge spirit Ancestors who may not necessarily be direct relatives (e.g. South African Sangomas in Hall 1995: 95). Contemporary Pagans may often have problems connecting spiritually with known ancestors who are generally Christian and therefore presumed to be hostile to Paganism. Therefore Brown (2012: 6–24) aka Colvin (2006: 16),

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and Restall Orr (2000: 90) suggest that, in addition to ‘blood’ Ancestors, Pagans may acknowledge Ancestors ‘of place’ who have dwelt in the same place and ‘of tradition’ who have held similar beliefs. The origins of Ancestor veneration in contemporary Paganism are not entirely clear but materials available to inform pagan beliefs and practices of the past and facilitate inspiration and emulation are derived from four sources: • Archaeological and ethnographic material produced by academic and other researchers, including Parker Pearson and Ramilisonina’s (1998) ideas on Stonehenge as a place of the ancestors (see also Edmonds 1999), Eliade’s and Castaneda’s work on shamans (Wallis 2003: 39–42), Meaden’s (1999) idea of a marriage of the gods at Avebury, Michell’s (1969) ideas on ley lines and sacred geometry; • Contemporaneous descriptions of ancient societies by authors from other, more literate societies such as Caesar, Tacitus, and Pliny, or Ibn Fadlan; • Mythological material such as the stories of Cuchullain, Isis, Inanna, and the Norse Eddas, or the tales of the Mabinogion; • Spiritual revelation or personal gnosis, including intuition, psychic communication, or contact with supernatural entities (Blain 2006: 246). Having identified sources, connections with the past may be expressed by emulating material culture, for example, by Druids wearing white robes as cited by Pliny (Rackham 1960: 549), Wiccans purchasing bronze athames (ritual knives), or Asatruar (Germanic polytheists) wearing Thor’s hammer pendants and amber beads (Blain 2011: 1024). Contemporary Pagans also often visit ancient sites either as pilgrims for ritual purposes or less formally to learn about them. Details of gods, goddesses, and other spiritual beings with whom Pagans interact may be drawn from classical writers, archaeological finds, ethnographic records, and personal gnosis. Finally, elements of ancient practices and beliefs are generally at the core of the more revivalist or traditionalist elements but still influence even the most eclectic Pagans. So archaeology is important, but what is the specific importance of mortuary archaeology to contemporary Pagan ideology and praxis? Certainly some of the aforementioned material culture was discovered in funerary contexts. One example drawn from an almost exclusively funerary source is Ogham script, which Druids, Celtic reconstructionists, and some Wiccans use extensively in a range of contexts. Taylor (2011: 89) asserts that funerary remains offer the clearest demonstration of ritual in past societies. However, in twenty years of engagement with the Pagan community, I have come across very few Pagan funerals directly and consciously emulating practices evidenced by archaeology. A single funeral I attended and an interview with Emma Restall Orr, who manages a woodland burial ground and is founder of both the Druid

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Network (TDN) and Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD), suggest that green funerals utilizing entirely biodegradable containers or shrouds and graves marked only by a tree are more typical. Indeed, the only case of a deliberate emulation of prehistoric mortuary practices I have heard of in the UK appeared in BBC News (2014) and involves a newly built long barrow containing 220 stone shelves for cremation urns at All Cannings, Wiltshire. Whilst it is possible that some users are, or will be, Pagan, Bell (2014) records that the man behind the project describes himself as an atheist. Thus I suggest that mortuary archaeology does not inspire a great deal of emulation of funerary practices. However, a more significant way in which mortuary archaeology might feed into Pagan ideas and practice may be the spiritual focus on Ancestors. A focus on Ancestors has become a significant archaeological metanarrative. This is exemplified by Parker Pearson and Ramilisonina’s (1998) interpretation of Stonehenge as a centrepiece of a late Neolithic ritual landscape centred on, or mediated through, the Ancestors. However, interviews such as that with Shallcrass (Rathouse 2015: 252), who leads the British Druid Order, reveal that Ancestors were a focus for Druids and heathens from the late 1960s. I have, however, noticed a significant increase in reference to Ancestors in Druid liturgy over the last twenty years, which I believe suggests that archaeological metanarratives on Ancestors have served to stimulate the prevalence of pre-existing Ancestor veneration in contemporary Paganism.

MORTUARY ARCHAEOLOGY AS AN A RENA FOR CONTESTING HERITAGE In contrast to its minor role in inspiring or informing spiritual ideas, practices, and material culture, mortuary archaeology also offers an arena of protest over excavation, retention, and display of human remains and a campaign to promote respect, in some cases in the form of reburial, of curated remains. This serves to challenge the self-perceived marginalization and victimization of some Pagans as well as claiming equal rights with other religious groups (Blain and Wallis 2007: 189–203; Jenkins 2011: 79–104; BBC News 2007). Reasons for Pagan campaigns for reburial of ancient human remains may be considered to fall into two categories: spiritual and political/ethical. The spiritual reasons for opposing retention and display of ancient human remains include concerns over consequences for the dead themselves. Angela Grant, a former HAD activist, explained to me that her world view, which she describes as animist, included the belief that all matter, including human bones, incorporates a soul or spirit, and this needed to dissipate as the bones

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decomposed; thus bones should be left to decay. Another Pagan interviewee put forward the view that to move bones might affect the afterlife of the person whose bones they were. This idea is at least partially drawn from a letter written by an Egyptian pharaoh to a man named Sinuhe, a political exile, who, after a change in government, is forgiven and exhorted to return for his corpse’s sake by the new pharaoh since only in Egypt can he ensure a desirable afterlife (Hubert 1994: 162–3). Some campaigners for the reburial of cremated remains excavated from Stonehenge cite a belief that the monument’s efficacy as a ritual site is adversely affected by their removal from the Aubrey Holes in which they had been deposited (Magicoak 2009). Political and ethical arguments for reburial of human remains focus on respect for the dead and equal consideration of Pagans to that shown to other religious groups (Fryer 2009). Equal consideration has been a particularly important issue to Pagans due to a strong narrative of oppression and victimization (Starhawk 1979: 5–7; Magliocco 2004: 185–204). Hutton overturns the assertion that early modern witch trials were a deliberate persecution of surviving Pagans (2001: 342–4), but he confirms (2001: 253–87) that early responses of media to the appearance of contemporary Pagan witchcraft in the early 1950s included almost hysterical condemnation as well as polite interest. Such condemnation, conflating Paganism with Satanism and alleging lewd and licentious behaviour, leading to cases of Pagans experiencing social ostracism and employment problems after being publicly outed, have continued to worry members of the Pagan community (Pengelly and Waredale 1992: 1; Pagan Federation 1996: 6–7; Hutton 2001: 255, 259–60, 266–71, 319). In 1985, the Stonehenge Free Festival, which centred on Pagan solstice celebrations, was violently suppressed by police (Bender 1998). Attendees were beaten, mobile homes were destroyed, and moves made to take children into care (Worthington 2005: 139–51). This, alongside subsequent allegations of satanic ritual abuse in the 1980s and 1990s (which were subsequently disproven: see Bell 1988 and La Fontaine 1999), also fed into a climate of fear among many Pagans of being identified publicly. This history of condemnation and prejudice accounts for the widely held victim mentality among Pagans (deplored by Nick Ford of the Grey Mare community in an interview in August 2010). It should come as no surprise that many Pagans are therefore on the lookout to challenge any perceived discrimination and to fight for equal rights. Magliocco (2004: 195–6) explains how the perception of victimhood generates powerful emotions and hence shared identity and the will to resist perceived acts of oppression. Reburial activist interviewees have asserted that the graves of people who are seen as part of the Abrahamic and secular Western cultural complex are likely to be treated with more respect than those considered outside it, such as colonized groups and prehistoric societies. Several Pagan interviewees expressed the (fallacious) belief that excavated remains identified as Christian

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are automatically reburied after analysis. Attendees at the 2010 TDN Druid conference were surprised to be told of insensitive graveyard clearances (Sayer and Symonds 2004: 56 and anonymous interviewee) and the fact that the vast majority of remains in two museums, where I conducted research interviews, were identified as Christian. Nevertheless, assumptions of the different treatment of Pagan and Christian remain and are not entirely baseless: for example the National Museum of Wales has no actual Christian remains on display; all bones on public display are from pre-Christian contexts. However, facial reconstructions of remains from an early mediaeval Christian settlement are shown alongside photographs of their bones (see also Carpenter 2008). The counter-cultural character of contemporary Paganism (Hutton 2001: 364; Magliocco 2004: 185–204; Ortenburg 2006: 132) may also be a factor in the political contestation of human remains. The archaeological community and heritage organizations are obviously not organs of the Church, but they are seen by some as part of ‘the establishment’ and therefore assumed to be hostile to Paganism. By ‘the establishment’ I am referring to those perceived as the ruling elite and their allies (e.g. see Pearsall and Trumble 2003: 480). The archaeological and heritage professions appear to some Pagans to be complicit in their subordination and oppression due to the involvement of English Heritage in the suppression of the Stonehenge Free Festival and subsequent exclusion of solstice pilgrims (Bender 1998; Worthington 2005: 139–51). Such exclusion had been actively campaigned for by influential archaeologists such as Glyn Daniel (1992: 8, 12, 28, 51, 59, 126, 173). Subsequent contestation of access is unlikely to have fostered good relationships between archaeological and heritage professionals and the Pagan community (Maughfling 1997: 8–10, 2000: 4–6; Blain and Wallis 2007: 77–123; Cooper 2010: 141–56; Pluskowski 2011: 1033–4). We have seen why some contemporary Pagans want to contest mortuary archaeology. However, why should such contestation be more prominent than other issues of Pagan significance such as environmental matters or inclusion in interfaith dialogues? The idea of a right of sepulture found in Scottish, but not in English, law (Roberts 2009: 26) along with a general discomfort with death, and a British cultural tradition of dutiful but unfocused respect for the dead, means mortuary archaeology appears an easy target for which popular support would be forthcoming. Certainly mortuary archaeology involves complex ethical issues (Sayer 2010). Having examined why some Pagans contest archaeological authority over ancient human remains, I shall now examine briefly how this contestation has come about and developed. During the late 1990s, Philip Shallcrass, joint leader of the British Druid Order, read about the repatriation and reburial of Long Wolf, a Native American, from Brompton Cemetery in London (Shallcrass, pers. comm.) and sought access to ancient British remains for ritual as well as advocating reburial (Wallis 2000: 258–9; 2003: 191–2; Blain and Wallis 2001,

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2007: 197–8; Wallis 2000: 258–9; 2003: 191–2). Paul Davies, who was studying archaeology and anthropology at the University of Wales Lampeter, also learned of the debates concerning Native American and Australian Aboriginal remains. Both felt that their Pagan Druid spirituality paralleled these traditional spiritualities and Davies felt inspired to write on the subject. Shallcrass published two of Davies’s articles calling for reburial in The Druids’ Voice (journal of the Council of British Druid Orders) (Davies 1997, 1998, cited in Wallis 2000: 257 and 2003: 189–91 and Blain and Wallis 2001, 2007: 194–5). In 2004, Emma Restall Orr, previously joint chief of the British Druid Order with Shallcrass, started HAD to campaign for respectful treatment of ancient British human remains. HAD consists of a broad range of interested people and groups with a broad range of opinions. It aims to work co-operatively with museum and archaeological professionals to build a consensus on the ethical treatment of ancient British remains and to persuade individuals and organizations to implement such treatment (HAD 2004–8). Jenkins (2011, this volume) describes in detail how HAD were involved in the exhibition of Lindow Man with some success. However, both Pagan and heritage interviewees have asserted that in at least two instances activists have demonstrated an aggressive approach which has alienated archaeologists and curators. In 2006, Kit Warwick, a retired engineer and Druid, launched a group named Dead to Rights to campaign for the return of the ‘Red Lady of Paviland’, the partial skeleton of a Palaeolithic male, aged about 21, who died about 29,000 years ago, to Paviland Cave in the Gower Peninsula in South Wales (BBC News 2006; Blain and Wallis 2007: 199). These bones are in the care of the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford University, but at the time were on loan to the National Museum of Wales in Cardiff. He explained to me that he did not have a problem with people viewing the remains but wanted to see them returned to the cave where they were found. He is happy to have them on display in a concrete and glass container there and has explained to reporters how a steel staircase could be set into the rocks there to permit access. His campaign has been unsuccessful so far (Warwick, pers. comm.). Davies (pers. comm.) explains that he was elected as reburial officer of the Council of British Druid Orders (CoBDO) in 2007. Rollo Maughfling of CoBDO (2009) confirms that Davies was associated with CoBDO in 2006 but denies he was ever given authority to act on the council’s behalf regarding reburial. Davies launched his campaign for reburial of the Neolithic child’s skeleton, nicknamed Charlie, in the Alexander Keiller museum at Avebury in 2007 (BBC News 2007; Fryer 2009), and this has become something of a test case for reburial campaigns for British remains in the UK. In response, English Heritage and the National Trust commissioned a report into the issue (Thackray and Payne 2009) incorporating an independent survey of public attitudes on human remains (see also Tatham and Jenkins this volume). This report upholds the decision to retain the skeleton on display and is likely to inform policy for

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some years to come. In an interview, Davies (pers. comm.) has stated that he will maintain the campaign for reburial of ancient British human remains but has not initiated any further campaigns at the time of writing. In 2008, Arthur Pendragon began a campaign against the excavation and retention of previously excavated and reburied cremations from one of the Stonehenge Aubrey Holes (Magicoak 2009; BBC News 2007, 2011). This campaign has been marked by considerable passion on behalf of the protestors with instances of abusive or threatening behaviour by them being reported by both Pagan and archaeological informants. Despite commencing the campaign as soon as the remains began to be excavated, Pendragon has stated that he does not oppose the excavation and analysis but insisted that archaeologists must adhere to the original Ministry of Justice licence stipulation that the remains should be reburied after a maximum of two years (Pendragon 2008 and pers. comm.). The archaeologists have explained that, partly due to a key member of staff taking maternity leave, the analysis has not proceeded as quickly as initially hoped and have successfully applied for an extended licence to analyse the remains despite Pendragon’s objections and legal challenges (BBC News 2011). A further extension to that licence has renewed Pendragon’s call for reburial of these remains (BBC News 2015). By May 2013, news had reached Pendragon and his order that the new Stonehenge visitors centre would include prehistoric skeletons as part of the museum area. When the centre opened on 18 December 2013, a group of Druid activists numbering about sixty people picketed the event (Western Daily Press 2013). Arthur Pendragon has also sought to challenge the decision to display these remains through the courts (BBC News 2013). It is important to stress that not all Pagans, or even all within the Druid community, support the reburial of pre-Christian human remains. Yvonne Aburrow started an online networking group calling itself Pagans for Archaeology (PfA) specifically to oppose reburial campaigns. In her explanation of what PfA is all about she explains that the group believes that archaeologists treat human remains with respect and that mortuary archaeology contributes greatly to our understanding of our pre-Christian ancestors (Aburrow 2008). Figures on the social networking site Facebook indicate (though not conclusively) a near equal split within the Pagan community in that PfA’s Facebook page has 12,202 ‘likes’ as opposed to HAD’s 1901 and a 12,927 for a page supporting Pendragon’s campaign at Stonehenge (figures correct on 25 August 2013).

CONCLUSION We have seen that mortuary archaeology provides information on preChristian culture, ritual, and beliefs. This information is unsurprisingly of

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interest to most (perhaps even all) contemporary Pagans in the UK. Some Pagans are keen to use this information to inspire their own ritual and to develop their own beliefs. Others are simply keen to learn more of ‘Ancestors’ with whom they may feel an important spiritual connection. Despite the value of mortuary archaeology to some Pagans, there are others within the Pagan community who desire to challenge ‘the establishment’ especially over issues they feel are spiritually significant. In this chapter, I have suggested that these campaigners, in addition to spiritual and ethical reasons, find that the ethical complications surrounding provide a perfect opportunity to mount such a challenge. I have established through published views and personal field interviews that there are a variety of motivations for such contestation. Some are political, born of (not unjustified) perceptions of victimization and subordination. Others are spiritual, but perhaps the most significant reasons put forward are ethical. Contestation of mortuary archaeology has developed over the last fifteen years or thereabouts and remains a significant issue within the contemporary Pagan community.

ENDNOTES 1. Capitalization of contemporary Paganism whilst leaving ancient paganisms uncapitalized has become a convention due to the ancient term being ascribed from outside while the modern term is a self-adopted identity as much as Muslim and Christian. 2. Capitalization of ‘Ancestors’ denotes the spiritually important dead as opposed to familial antecedents which I have left uncapitalized.

B I BL I OG R A P H Y Aburrow Y. 2008. Pagans for archaeology—what we stand for [online] (updated 28 March 2009). Available from: http://archaeopagans.blogspot.com/2008/06/whatwe-stand-for.html (Accessed 21 July 2009). BBC News. 2006. Druid campaign for sacred sites [online] (updated 23 September 2006). Available from: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/south_west/5372598.stm (Accessed 20 May 2009). BBC News. 2007. Druids request re-burial of bones [online] (updated 22 Feb 2007) Available from: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/wiltshire/6385675.stm (Accessed 9 July 2009). BBC News 2011. King Arthur Pendragon loses human remains legal battle [online] (updated 23 August 2011). Available from: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-englandwiltshire-14630468 (Accessed 15 January 2012).

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BBC News 2013. Stonehenge bones exhibit druid’s legal bid. Available from: http:// www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-wiltshire-23545168 (Accessed 21 August 2014). BBC News 2014. Wiltshire’s ‘Neolithic’ long barrow burial chamber opens. Available from: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-wiltshire-29225327 (Accessed 22 January 2015). BBC News 2015. Stonehenge Druid King Arthur resurrects remains battle. Available from: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-wiltshire-34944768 (Accessed 17 December 2015). Bell, M. 2014. A tomb with a view—5,500 years on: Wiltshire farmer brings back the long barrow burial mound, The Independent. Available from: http://www.independ ent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/a-tomb-with-a-view–5500-years-on-wiltshire-farmer-bringsback-the-long-barrow-burial-mound-9028636.html (Accessed 22 January 2015). Bell, S. 1988. When Salem came to the Boro: The True Story of the Cleveland Child Abuse Case, London: Pan. Bender B. 1998. Stonehenge: Making Space, Oxford and New York: Berg. Blain, J. 2006. Constructing identity and divinity: creating community in an elder religion within a postmodern world, in S. Reid (ed.) Between the Worlds: Readings in contemporary Neopaganism, 241–50, Toronto, Canadian Scholars Press. Blain, J. 2011. Neo-Shamanism: pagan and ‘Neo-Shamanic’ interactions with archaeology, in T. Insoll (ed.) The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Ritual and Religion, 1017–31, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Blain, J. and Wallis, R. 2001. A British Reburial Issue? [online] (updated n.d.). Available from: http://www.sacredsites.org.uk/reports/reburial.html (Accessed 13 January 2013). Blain J. and Wallis, R. 2004. No one voice, British Archaeology, 78, 10–13. Blain, J. and Wallis R. 2007. Sacred Sites Contested Rites/Rights, Eastbourne and Portland: Sussex Academic Press. Brown, N. 2012. Druidry and the Ancestors: Finding Our Place in Our Own History, Alresford: Moon Books. Carpenter, D. 2008. Review of ‘Origins: In Search of Early Wales’ (updated January 2008). Available from: http://www.honour.org.uk/review-of-origins-in-search-ofearly-wales/ (Accessed 22 December 2015). Colvin, B. 2006. Hailing our ancestors, White Dragon, 48, 16–17. Cooper, M. T. 2010. Contemporary Druidry: A Historical and Ethnographic Study, Salt Lake City: Sacred Tribes. Daniel, G. 1992. Writing for Antiquity, London: Thames and Hudson. Davies, P. 1997. Respect and reburial, The Druids’ Voice, 8, 12–13. Davies, P. 1998. Speaking for the ancestors: the reburial issue in Britain and Ireland, The Druids’ Voice, 9, 10–12. Edmonds, M. 1999. Ancestral Geographies of the Neolithic: Landscapes, Monuments and Memory, London: Routledge. Historic England 2009. Avebury Reburial Consultation [online] (updated 2009). Available from: https://content.historicengland.org.uk/content/docs/consultations/reporton-consultation.pdf (Accessed 12 December 2015). Fryer, J. 2009. Druid Wars: How a drunken row over 4,000-year-old bones is causing chaos in pagan circles [online] (updated 25 January 2009). Available from: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1127430/Druid-wars-How-drunkenrow-4-000-year-old-bones-causing-chaos-pagan-circles.html (Accessed 8 June 2009).

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HAD. 2004–8. Statement of Intention—Honouring the Ancient Dead [online] (updated unknown). Available from: http://www.honour.org.uk/tag/statement-of-intent/ (Accessed 22 December 2015). Hall, J. 1995. Sangoma: My Odyssey into the Spirit World of Africa, New York and London: Simon and Schuster. Harvey, G. 1997. Listening People, Speaking Earth: Contemporary Paganism, London: Hurst and Co. Harvey, G. 2005. Animism: Respecting the Living World, London: C. Hurst & Co. Harvey, G. 2013. Food, Sex & Strangers: Understanding Religion as Everyday Life, Durham and Bristol: Acumen. Historic England 2015. Avebury Reburial Consultation [online] (updated 2009). Available from: https://content.historicengland.org.uk/content/docs/consultations/reporton-consultation.pdf (Accessed 12 December 2015). Hubert, J. 1994. A proper place for the dead: a critical review of the ‘reburial’ issue, in R. Layton (ed.) Conflict in the Archaeology of Living Traditions, 131–66, London: Routledge. Hutton, R. 2001. The Triumph of the Moon: A History of Modern Pagan Witchcraft, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jenkins, T. 2011. Contesting Human Remains in Museum Collections: The Crisis of Cultural Authority, New York and Abingdon: Routledge. La Fontaine, J. S. 1999. Speak of the Devil: Tales of Satanic Abuse in Contemporary England, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lewis, J. R. and Hammer, O. (eds) 2007. The Invention of Sacred Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Magic Oak 2009. Aubrey Protest2 [online] (updated 10 Feb 2009). Available from: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NfZO0rAfEZg (Accessed March 2009). Magliocco, S. 2004. Witching Culture: Folklore and Neo-Paganism in America, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Maughfling, R. 1997. Druids and Stonehenge, Druidlore, 1, 8–10. Maughfling, R. 2000. Stonehenge and Druidry in the twenty-first century, Druidlore, 3, 4–6. Maughfling, R. 2009. CoBDO Reburial Statement [online] (updated January 2009). Available from: http://www.cobdo.org.uk/html/reburial_statement.html (Accessed 28 March 2011). Meaden, T. 1999. The Secrets of the Avebury Stones, Britain’s Greatest Megalithic Temple, London, Souvenir Press. Michell, J. 1969. The View over Atlantis, London: Sago Press. Moorey, T. 1996. Paganism: A Beginner’s Guide, London: Hodder and Stoughton. Ortenburg, V. 2006. In Search of the Holy Grail, London and New York: Hambledon Continuum. Pagan Federation. 1992. The Pagan Federation Information Pack, London: Pagan Federation. Pagan Federation. 1996. Pagan News, Pagan Dawn, 120 Lammas, 6–7. Parker Pearson, M. and Ramilisonina. 1998. Stonehenge for the ancestors: the stones pass on the message, Antiquity, 72(276), 308–26. Pearsall J. and Trumble B. (eds) 2003. Oxford English Reference Dictionary, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Pengelly J. and Waredale D. 1992. Something out of Nothing, London: The Pagan Federation. Pluskowski, A. 2011. Druidism and neo-paganism, in T. Insoll (ed.) The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Ritual and Religion, 1032–42, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rackham, H. (trans.) 1960. Pliny Natural History: Volume IV Libri XII–XVI, London: William Heinemann Ltd. Rathouse, W. W. O. 2015. Contested Heritage: Examining relations between contemporary Pagans and the archaeological and heritage professions in Britain. Unpublished PhD thesis, submitted to University of Wales Trinity St David. Restall Orr, E. 2000. Ritual: A Guide to Life, Love and Inspiration, London: Thorsons. Roberts, C. A. 2009. Human Remains in Archaeology: A Handbook, York: Council for British Archaeology. Sayer, D. 2010. Ethics and Burial Archaeology, London: Duckworth. Sayer D. and Symonds J. 2004. Lost congregations: the crisis facing later post-medieval urban burial grounds, Church Archaeology, 5–6, 55–61. Starhawk, 1979. The Spiral Dance, San Francisco: Harper and Row. Taylor, T. 2011. Death, in T. Insoll (ed.) The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Ritual and Religion, 89–110, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Thackray, D. and Payne, S. 2009. Report on Consultation on the Request for Reburial of Prehistoric Human Remains from the Alexander Keiller Museum at Avebury [online] (updated unknown date). Available from: https://content.historicengland.org.uk/ content/docs/consultations/report-on-consultation.pdf (Accessed 22 December 2015). Worthington, A. 2005. Stonehenge: Celebration and Subversion, Loughborough: Alternative Albion. Wallis, R. 2003. Shamans/Neo-Shamans: Ecstasy, Alternative Archaeologies and Contemporary Pagans, London: Routledge. Wallis R. J. 2000. Queer shamans: autoarchaeology and neo-shamanism, World Archaeology, 32(2), 252–62. Western Daily Press. 2013. Druids protest outside new Stonehenge visitors centre. Available from: http://www.westerndailypress.co.uk/Druids-protest-outside-newStonehenge-visitor/story-20337510-detail/story.html (Accessed 25 August 2014).

16 ‘Tomb to Give Away’ The Significance of Graves and Dead Bodies in Present-Day Austria Estella Weiss-Krejci

‘ . . . the dead do not know anything; they have no further reward—and even the memory of them disappears.’ (Ecclesiastes 9:5)

I N T R O D U C TI O N Several years ago, my son and I moved into an apartment on the northern fringe of Graz, the capital of Styria, Austria. One day I decided to take a walk in a nearby forest through which a small stream, the Gabriachbach, flows. As I walked along the stream, I noticed in the water coloured glass shards as well as many nicely cut stone blocks. I became increasingly more curious and started to search the stream bed systematically. Picking up more and more artefacts, my collection grew at a great speed and soon the pockets of my trousers and the plastic shopping bag that I happened to have on me started to burst. Among other items, I found a water container, a broken lantern, several small glass bottles, and the fragment of a human long bone. As I gradually moved upstream, I found more worked stones in association with the remains of an iron fence. At that moment the realization dawned upon me that I was standing in the midst of the cleared out and dumped remains from a cemetery. Inquiring about the provenance of the remains, I was told by a friend of mine that they derive from a nearby graveyard, most likely of St Veit, and date to the first half of the twentieth century; he found a gravestone with the inscription ‘1943’. The dumping probably took place at the end of the 1970s since at that

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time the stream channel had been reconstructed, apparently with stones and other materials deriving from the cemetery. To find myself amidst discarded cemetery remains did not particularly shock me at the time. I assume it is my cultural disposition as an Austrian—we have a reputation for concerning ourselves with death quite happily—not worrying about such types of confrontations with the inevitability of death. I remember feeling a bit sad about all the dead people, their grave stones, flower vases, candle holders, and all the other belongings. My thoughts also went to those who had cared for the graves and who were also long gone. What really stuck in my mind though, is that overwhelming feeling of the futility of any material accomplishment by the dead as well as the lack of remembrance for them. Once in a while my thoughts return to that moment in the stream and to that particular emotion, especially when I am confronted with other people’s beliefs concerning ‘the dead and their possessions’ (Fforde et al. 2002). One such encounter took place in 2011 at the Austrian Academy of Sciences in Vienna, when I attended a repatriation ceremony of thirty-one human remains to Australia (Fig. 16.1). The bones and skulls had been collected by Austrian anthropologist Rudolf Pöch (1870–1921) in 1905 (Pöch 1915: 40;

Fig. 16.1 On 30 June 2011 thirty human remains in possession of the Austrian Academy of Sciences and one skull owned by the Federal Pathology Anatomy Museum were handed over to a delegation of five Australian Traditional Owners. The ceremony took place at the Austrian Academy of Sciences in Vienna. Between 1990 and June 2011, a total of 1248 indigenous human remains were repatriated to Australia. The share of the UK (1070 individuals) amounts to 86 percent. US institution have returned 91 individuals (7%), Austria 48 (4%), Sweden 33 (3%), the Netherlands five, and Ireland one

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Abbie 1962; Szilvássy et al. 1980: 754). It was the third overseas repatriation initiated by Austria. Earlier, in 1985, a Maori mummy taken from a cave in New Zealand by Austrian explorer Andreas Reischek in the late nineteenth century and kept by the Museum of Ethnology, Vienna, had been repatriated (Peter 1992: 36; Kolig 1996: 114) and in 2009, seventeen individuals from various collections in possession by the Viennese Natural History Museum were returned to Australia (Teschler-Nicola 2013; Weiss-Krejci 2013a). The repatriation ceremony not only furthered my thinking about repatriation of human remains in general but also made me consider our present-day attitudes towards our own dead in particular. I had already started to collect images from various types of mortuary contexts in Austria (cemeteries, charnel houses, relics in churches, anatomical collections, etc.). Hence, two separate lines of research started to coalesce into a new type of inquiry combining the repatriation issue with the photographic documentation of Austrian mortuary attitudes. The result is this photo essay, which provides a graphic impression of Austrian mortuary contexts and formulates some very preliminary ideas regarding why these contexts might have helped shaping differences in repatriation attitudes between countries such as Austria and the UK.

REPATRIATION OF HUMAN REMAINS Before the start of the 2011 repatriation ceremony, a press portfolio was handed out, which contained a list naming all the donor institutions, the number of remains, and the dates of repatriations to Australia since 1990 (Summary of Ancestral Remains 2011). After entering the information into a spreadsheet, I realized that England and Scotland were leading by a large margin. Including the 2011 Vienna ceremony, there had been fifty-one repatriations of human remains: twenty-seven from England, eleven from Scotland, five from the USA, four from Sweden, two from Austria, and one each from the Netherlands and Ireland. Until the end of June 2011, the total number of repatriated indigenous Australian dead bodies was 1248; Scottish institutions had repatriated 909 bodies and England 161 (Summary of Ancestral Remains 2011; Weiss-Krejci 2012). Two questions immediately crossed my mind. What has caused the high number of repatriations and number of remains returned from Scotland and England, and what has taken Austrian institutions so long? After all, nonEuropean indigenous groups have been demanding the return of the remains of their ancestors from museums and anthropological collections for almost four decades (Hubert and Fforde 2002; Fforde 2013). The Maori mummy repatriated in 1985 is an exception because it was considered a distant relation of the Maori kings and had been claimed back since the 1930s (King 1981).

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Some answers were easy. That the UK is dominating repatriations to Australia can of course be explained by the fact that there are large numbers of remains in British institutions reflecting former colonial, and subsequent Commonwealth, ties. The UK was among the first states to be approached by indigenous Australians in search for their ancestors (Turnbull 2002: 64). As a result Irish, English, and Scottish institutions are pioneers in international repatriations to Australia. In March 1990, the Royal College of Surgeons in Dublin returned a Tasmanian head, followed by the Pitt Rivers Museum, Oxford (six remains), the University of Bradford (one), Peterborough Museum (one) in June, and Kelvingrove Art Gallery & Museum, Glasgow (three remains) in October (Memorandum 2000). The high number of Aboriginal bodies repatriated from Scotland is caused by repatriations from the collections of the Anatomy Department of the University of Edinburgh (891 bodies) during the years 1991 and 2000 (Memorandum 2000; Summary of Ancestral Remains 2011). Being able to communicate in the same language probably also made negotiations easier. One could also argue that the political pressures for reparation through repatriation may have been higher in the UK than in other countries. The British scientists eventually developed a bad conscience given their colonial history; according to Jenkins (2011) reburial in the UK was not instigated by the public but mostly by the scientists themselves. Such postcolonial guilt was obviously not felt by Austrians who are generally proud that their country has not been a colonial power, even if that implies ignoring the fact that the Austro-Hungarian Empire did own colonies in the late eighteenth century, e.g. Delagoa Bay in East Africa and the Nicobar Islands in the eastern Indian Ocean. However, all these explanations are not entirely satisfying because they do not fully account for the slow progress in terms of repatriation of human remains not only in Austria but in continental Europe, including countries like Germany, which has owned several colonies. I came to wonder whether cultural differences could be held responsible for this excessive delay. Burial ethics are cultural constructions (Goldstein and Kintigh 1990) and especially in present day England and Scotland the dead constitute a much more protected and looked after group of people than in any German-speaking country. I will return to this issue in the discussion at the end of this chapter. In order to answer the question of whether the diverging attitudes towards the dead are rooted in our contemporary cultures, it was necessary to carry out an investigation into the nature of Austrian mortuary attitudes. Working from the assumption that the moral beliefs as well as the needs of a society eventually become reflected in laws and regulations, I enquired about Austrian burial and cemetery legislation. Apart from that, I communicated with cemetery administrators, mostly over the phone or by email, talked to colleagues and friends about the fate of the physical remains of their deceased relations,

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and looked at representations of dead bodies in the Austrian ‘landscape’, i.e. bones, skulls, and gravestones in churches, charnel houses, and graveyards. The following assembled selection of post-mortem fates in Austria summarizes my research. Instead of using too many words, I have decided to structure the text by these images, which not only complement the written analysis but often provide better insights than words.

AUSTRIAN ATTITUDES TOWARDS THE D EAD

Burial legislation in present-day Austria Austria comprises nine federal states (Fig. 16.2). Among the legislative powers of each of the states is the regulation of burial. Eight of the states have separate burial laws, whereas Tyrolean burial law is part of the municipal medical service legislation. 1. Vienna: Wiener Leichen- und Bestattungsgesetz—WLBG 2004 (LGBl. Nr. 38/2004) 2. Burgenland: Burgenländisches Leichen- und Bestattungswesengesetz 1969 (LGBl. Nr. 16/1970) 3. Styria: Steiermärkisches Leichenbestattungsgesetz 2010 (LGBl. Nr. 78/2010) 4. Carinthia: Kärntner Bestattungsgesetz—K-BStG 1971 (LGBl. Nr. 61/1971) 5. Lower Austria: NÖ Bestattungsgesetz 2007 (LGBl. 9480/2007) 6. Upper Austria: OÖ Leichenbestattungsgesetz 1985 (LGBl. Nr. 40/1985)

Fig. 16.2 The federal states of Austria and locations mentioned in the text

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7. Salzburg: Salzburger Leichen- und Bestattungsgesetz 1986 (LGBl Nr. 84/ 1986) 8. The Tyrol: Gemeindesanitätsdienstgesetz (Leichen- und Bestattungswesen) 1953 (LGBl. Nr. 33/1952) 9. Vorarlberg: Gesetz über das Leichen- und Bestattungswesen 1969 (LGBl. Nr. 58/1969) Burial legislation treats matters such as the coroner’s inquest, autopsy, inhumation, cremation, transfer, and exhumation of human remains, as well as the usage rights of graves, grave-plot fees, closing down of cemeteries, criminal acts, and fines. There are many points of similarity between the laws but also significant differences. For example, Vienna’s corpse and burial legislation §10 (1) requires the fast removal of the deceased from a private home without any exceptions. In the legislation of Burgenland §17, Carinthia §15 (2), and Upper Austria §16 (1) the laying out of the deceased in the house is allowed if no sanitary concerns exist, and the Mayor of the town or village has given his or her consent. According to the laws of Carinthia §14 (1) and Burgenland §19, the corpse can be buried as early as thirty-six hours after death, whereas the legislation of Salzburg §19 and Upper Austria §15 demand that at least forty-eight hours must have passed.

Display of human bones In all federal states of Austria, corpses, stillborn babies, bones, cremation ashes, and severed body parts of living people must be buried in a cemetery or an otherwise legally accepted burial place (= Bestattungspflicht). Exceptions from this ‘obligation to bury’ exist for bones and skeletons which are of historic, religious, and scientific value as well as body parts in anatomical institutions. Thousands of relic bones of Christian saints and martyrs are on public display in churches throughout Austria (Fig. 16.3). One of the largest relic bone collections can be found at St Nikolas in Hall in Tirol. The skulls were collected by the knight Florian Waldauf von Waldenstein in the late fifteenth century and brought to Hall in 1501 (Legner 2003: 350–61). The church of St Nikolas also contains bodies of so-called catacomb saints. In contrast to medieval saints, these are often more or less complete skeletons, fully dressed and decorated, and assembled in glass display cases in reclining, seated, and standing positions. From the seventeenth until the nineteenth century, thousands of these alleged martyrs, all believed to have died in ancient times for the Christian faith, were exhumed from Rome and imported to central Europe (Johnson 1996; Neurath-Sippel 2011: 269; Koudounaris 2013; Weiss-Krejci 2013b).

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Fig. 16.3 Holy heads and a holy body at the parish church St Nikolas, Hall in Tirol

Ossuaries in Austria Charnel houses and ossuaries are another context where bones are usually displayed en masse (Fig. 16.4). These places have a long history. In the Roman world, a strong separation between the living and the dead existed. No dead corpse could be burned or buried within a settlement of the living (Hope 2007: 129). Christianity gradually broke with this principle as inner city churches, which contained the relics of saints and martyrs, became the chosen burial ground for the entire population. The interior of the churches were usually reserved for the privileged: commoners were buried in the atrium. This led to the development of the medieval cemetery. Over time it became customary to exhume bodies from the overcrowded graveyards after a period of eight to ten years and deposit them in ossuaries or charnel houses (Bauer 1991: 22; Koudounaris 2011: 19). Between the eighteenth and the early twentieth centuries, a custom developed in western Austria and south-eastern Bavaria to decorate the skulls with names and ornaments (Sörries 2011: 260). With the exception of the Hallstatt ossuary—the last skull was buried there in 1995—the tradition of redeposition of bones into charnel houses and their display ceased at the turn of the nineteenth century. This was partially due to the fact that church authorities tried to put an end to the skulls’ use in superstitious rituals such as curing diseases or providing the winning numbers of the lottery (Andree-Eysn 1910: 151; Koudounaris 2011: 104). After being closed and

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Fig. 16.4 Charnel houses and ossuaries in Austria. Top left: Eggenburg, Lower Austria; bottom left: Hallstatt, Upper Austria; right: Kirchdorf, the Tyrol

emptied out, some former charnel houses were converted into memorial sites for First and Second World War victims. Others remained more or less intact, such as the ossuary at Eggenburg, Lower Austria (see Koudounaris 2011), and were turned into popular tourist attractions.

Usage rights for grave plots According to current laws, cemeteries, recognized churches, religious communities, or religious confessional communities which own a burial place are required to establish their own regulations (Friedhofsordnung). The cemetery administration provides the usage right for grave plots (Benützungsrecht an Grabstätten) within a particular cemetery. Usually grave plots cannot be bought and—with a few exceptions, e.g. war graves, honorary graves—right to sepulture is limited. Temporary usage rights are bought by one-time or instalment payments starting at the time of burial. Term of duration for the

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Fig. 16.5 Different types of graves at Graz Central Cemetery. Top left: small children; top right: adult inhumation graves; centre left: family vaults; centre right: war graves; bottom left: cremation niches; bottom right: cremation field (Celestial Spiral)

usage and costs vary according to the size, type of grave, and location within the graveyard, i.e. single or multiple burial plots with single or multiple coffins, adult’s or children’s graves, family burial vaults, cremation graves and niches, and so on (Fig. 16.5). If a new body or urn is entered into the grave —only possible after a set period of time to allow decomposition of the earlier corpse—a new payment has to be made and the use period is prolonged.

‘Grabrecht abgelaufen’: Expiration of grave usage rights The federal legislation of Burgenland §35 (4), Carinthia §26 (4), Lower Austria §27 (5), and Salzburg §29 (3) regulate the minimum period that a corpse must

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remain in the grave (Mindestruhefrist). The minimum period of undisturbed rest for inhumation graves, i.e. those where a wooden coffin is buried in the soil, is ten years. Longer periods are granted for family burial vaults and honorary graves. For family burial vaults, Carinthia §26 (4) prescribes a minimum period of undisturbed rest of twenty-five years and Lower Austria §27 (5) a period of thirty years. In the remaining federal states the period of undisturbed rest is regulated by the separate cemetery regulations but usually also comprises a minimum of ten years. The usage right for a grave can expire a) after the usage time is up and the usage right has not been renewed, b) by voluntary waiver, c) because of negligence of maintenance obligations, and d) closing down of the entire cemetery or parts of it. Usually there is a period of grace from several months up to two years after which, depending on the necessity for grave plots and quality and age of the monument, the cemetery administration will dispose of the contents of the grave as well as the grave monument. If relatives only visit a grave every other year it may well happen that they find the gravestone has, in the meantime, disappeared (Fig. 16.6).

Fig. 16.6 Expired graves at the Central Cemetery in Graz. A yellow sticker informs the relatives they should contact the cemetery administration for renewal. A second red sticker ‘Grabrecht abgelaufen’ warns that the grave usage right has expired and that the grave is in severe danger of being removed

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‘Gruft abzugeben’: Tomb to give away Some federal legislation, e.g. Burgenland §39 (3), and some cemeteries allow the transfer of historically—or artistically—valuable graves to unrelated people. This is the type of transaction which the owner of a tomb in the Graz Central Cemetery had in mind when she stuck the note ‘Gruft abzugeben’ on a tomb (Fig. 16.7, left). ‘Gruft’ is a subterranean crypt, which in this case came with a large monument; ‘abzugeben’ literally means ‘to give away’, as in puppies or cats to give away. The reason why the owner wanted to give the burial vault away was the 500 Euros which she was supposed to pay for renewal of the usage rights for another ten years. Additionally the deceased were strangers to her and she already had to take care of two more graves in other cemeteries. The tomb was constructed in 1903 and holds the remains of four people who died between 1894 and 1939, among them the tomb founder Alexander Koller, a former vice-mayor of the city of Graz (Derler and Urbanek 2002: 124). In 2012, the owner ‘gave away’ the tomb for the amount of 7000 Euros. Since the vault can only accommodate four people, the coffins and bones eventually will be exhumed at the cost of 1460 Euros. These costs which have to be paid by the new owner were deducted from the purchase price. Eventually, coffins will be discarded; the bones will be reburied into a collective grave within the graveyard. Several historic graves at Graz Central Cemetery, such as the neoclassicist Gustav Koller tomb (see Fig. 16.7, top right) designed in 1919 by artist August Rantz (Derler and Urbanek 2002: 125), have already been sold and reused. In order to preserve the original monument, the name of the deceased is engraved on a separate stone slab.

Termination of grave plots Once the rights to a grave plot have expired they revert to the cemetery (Heimfall) and the grave plot can be awarded to an entirely unrelated dead person (Fig. 16.8). Concerning the fate of the monuments and especially the bones, legislation in Burgenland §39 (1–2), Lower Austria §29 (4–5), and Salzburg §33 (1–2) demands that the owners remove monuments, crosses, and other objects associated with the grave, otherwise they run the risk of being charged with the costs for the removal. The same legislation additionally grants the right to the cemetery administrators to rebury human remains and urns into a collective grave within the graveyard. Legislation in Vienna, Carinthia, Vorarlberg, Upper Austria, Styria, and the Tyrol gives no recommendations concerning grave monuments and grave-goods. These are prescribed by the individual cemetery regulations.

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Fig. 16.7 Graz Central Cemetery. Left: Tomb to give away: the bones are removed; the monument remains in place. Right top and bottom: reused burial vaults

At the Graz Central Cemetery, the names of the dead are removed from historic monuments, which then can be reused by others. In contrast to bodies in vaults, which are exhumed and reburied into a collective grave, people buried in earth graves remain in the ground. Their monuments, however, usually end up on the rubbish dump.

Dissolution of entire cemeteries In Burgenland, a closed graveyard can only be used for another purpose thirty years after the last burial §32 (4). Carinthian legislation §20 (7) demands the exhumation and reburial of bones which have been buried less than twenty years ago. Vorarlberg §35 (2) follows a similar rule. Salzburg §33 (3) grants the rights to users to rebury their deceased’s remains at their own costs. Tyrolean §41 and Viennese §35 (2) graveyards are protected for a period of ten years. Viennese law §35 (5) determines that remains of corpses or their ashes, which are exposed upon dissolution of a cemetery, have to be reburied at the cost of

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Fig. 16.8 Examples of contemporary tombs in different stages of use-history. Left top and bottom: Expired historic tombs waiting to be reused; the names of the dead have been erased. Right: Grave disposal area: top: when a more permanent gravestone is erected on a grave the wooden cross is disposed of; bottom: graves stones are discarded after a period of ten years if nobody renews the license and takes care of the grave (death date on discarded gravestone: 1993)

the owner of the cemetery. Styria §38 (3) only demands the storage of the grave registry including a detailed map for at least thirty years. The legislations of Lower and Upper Austria do not contain any regulations for the bones and monuments in dissolved graveyards. When Vienna Central Cemetery (Wiener Zentralfriedhof) was opened in 1874, it meant the end for most of the communal cemeteries in the city. Many of these graveyards were later converted into public parks in the 1920s. With the exceptions of famous people, such as composers Ludwig van Beethoven and Franz Schubert, originally buried at the Währing Village Cemetery (= Währinger Ortsfriedhof, converted into Schubertpark in 1925) who were exhumed and reburied at Vienna Central Cemetery (Bauer 1991: 84; Huber 2002: 297), the bones of the remaining population stayed in the ground. This caused problems when, between 2002 and 2003, several underground garages were built within the area of the old cemeteries. Before the commencement of the garage constructions, rescue excavations were carried out between 2001 and 2002 at Schubertpark (Huber 2002; Huber and Traunmüller 2003a), Märzpark (formerly Schmelzer Friedhof = Schmelz Cemetery; converted into a park in 1928) (Huber 2003), and Währinger Park (formerly Währinger Allgemeiner Friedhof = Währing General Cemetery, converted into a

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Fig. 16.9 Construction of a garage in the area of the old Währing General Cemetery in 2003

park in 1923) (Huber and Traunmüller 2003b). Most skeletons were reburied at Vienna Central Cemetery, although some were turned over to the Museum of Natural History for further investigation. Those that were immediately reburied without further investigation derived from the Märzpark and Währinger Park excavations and comprised skeletons which lacked pathologies as well as several tons of commingled human bones that previously had been mixed with soil to create a levelling layer for the park (Huber 2003: 260; Huber and Traunmüller 2003b: 268). Unfortunately, at the Währinger Park the constructors’ excavation reached beyond the scientifically investigated area. As a result, many additional human remains were uncovered and destroyed (Fig. 16.9).

The Austrians and the dead Present-day Austrian burial regulations did not develop out of concern for the rights of the dead, their possessions, the feelings of the bereaved, or for the sake of ethics or morality. The same applies to Austria’s large cemeteries, which were established in the latter part of the nineteenth century (Fig. 16.10). Despite their garden-like layout and the original intent to move burials away from overcrowded cities, these cemeteries cannot be compared with Père Lachaise in Paris, established in 1804, or US and British cemeteries that developed in the wake of the ‘rural cemetery movement’ in the 1830s (French 1974). Idyllic garden-like cemeteries did exist in Vienna from the late eighteenth to the nineteenth centuries, such as the aforementioned Währing Village Cemetery, but were closed down when Vienna Central Cemetery was opened. Modern Austrian cemeteries were not meant to be peaceful gardens and active cemeteries at the same time, but are primarily the result of sanitary considerations and practicality (Derler and Urbanek 2002: 18–20). Although Austrian cemetery administrations are nowadays trying to

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Fig. 16.10 Rites of passage in the city of the dead (Graz Central Cemetery): from the funeral parlour to the dump. If not paid for, after one or two decades the burial plot is dissolved and the memory of the dead soon lost

sell the idea of the cemetery as a place of contemplation, tranquillity, and strength (Vienna Central Cemetery 2012), the attitudes towards the monuments and human remains of those who have been dead for more than a decade do not ring true with that image.

DISCUSSION AND CO NCLUSIONS At the beginning of this contribution I asked the question: why Austrians— this also applies to Germans—have made such slow progress discussing and repatriating museum collections of human remains when compared to other countries such as the UK, the USA, and Sweden (e.g. Fforde 2004; Moshenska 2009; Watkins 2004; Edgar et al. 2007; Welch and Ferguson 2007; Nilsson Stutz 2007, 2011; Scarre 2012). I proposed that the attitudes towards our own dead may be responsible for the delay. As this study has shown, there are further significant differences between Austria and other parts of the world. In North America and Scandinavia ossuaries do not exist. A few remain in the UK (Koudounaris 2011: 211), but the situation is not comparable to Austria

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where charnel houses and relic bones in and around churches abound and are easily accessible. The dead buried in present-day English graveyards are usually not disturbed within living memory, while the Scottish law is even stricter (White 2011: 483–5). This particular situation could explain why British neo-Pagan associations such as the Council of British Druid Order (CoBDO) and Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD) are loudly, albeit so far unsuccessfully, demanding the reburial of skeletons from archaeological excavations (Wallis and Blain 2006). As has hopefully become apparent from this chapter, these demands are absurd when considered from an Austrian perspective. Although neo-Pagans exist in my home country, their numbers are low and to my knowledge they have never been engaged in debates about human remains. Although countless historic cemeteries have been cleared in the UK, from an Austrian perspective, these neo-Pagan claims might be seen to stem from, rather than counter to, established British traditions of restricting the disturbance of the dead unless absolutely necessary. Another important question that needs attention is why the British, who stopped reusing graves and exhuming bones in the nineteenth century (White 2011: 483), saw no problems in acquiring thousands of non-European bodies and incorporated them into their study collections. Clearly, with the exception of socially stigmatized groups such as criminals (Crossland 2009), the care for human remains was largely restricted to British people and did not apply to those who in the colonial context often were either considered enemies or ‘primitive’. In Laura Peers’ words: ‘Only very particular dead, with very particular social positions vis-à-vis British society, . . . were seen as desirable for inclusion in a collection . . . Indeed, only very particular dead were available for collection. Looting of remains from graves was discouraged by the British Anatomy Act of 1832, but sanctioned in the colonies after that date to fulfil the desires of scientific research.’ (Peers 2009: 82)

In the German-speaking world, the long overdue discussion concerning collection, storage, and display of human remains is finally taking place. Increased attention by both the media (Glaubrecht 2011; Kerneck 2012) and scientists (Berner et al. 2011; Fründt 2011) to corpse collectors like the above mentioned Pöch (see also Legassick and Rassool 2002) or the German Amalie Dietrich (1821–91) can be observed. A Working Group on Human Remains has prepared guidelines how to handle human remains collections in museums (German Museums Association 2013). These guidelines follow the example of the British Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums (DCMS 2005). Scientific debates on the restitution of anatomical, archaeological, and ethnographic collections were held at the Museum Weltkulturen REM Mannheim in October 2011 (Wieczorek et al. 2012), at the Vienna Museum Karlsplatz in January 2012, at the Berlin Charité in October 2012

OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 9/5/2016, SPi

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(Stoecker et al. 2013), and at the International Research Institute MORPHOMATA, University of Cologne in November 2013. Every single one of these meetings brought together scientists from the D-A-CH countries (Germany, Austria, and Switzerland). International repatriation of indigenous human remains is not the only aspect to be considered in the changing atmosphere concerning human remains. Austrian legislation does not specifically address the rights of confessions which require unlimited or exclusive burial such as Jews and Muslims. As in other countries, such as the UK (Sayer 2010), in the past this has caused much friction with religious communities. However, changes concerning these problems are also under way. In 2009, Austria’s first Islamic cemetery opened in Vienna. In 2012, another one was established at Altach, in the Federal State of Vorarlberg. In 2010, Austrian Parliament agreed to establish the ‘Fund for the Restoration of the Jewish Cemeteries in Austria’, which will provide financial means to protect and restore more than sixty Jewish cemeteries throughout Austria (BGBl. I Nr. 99/2010). This decision is based on the 2001 ‘Washington Agreement’ between the Austrian and the US government which, in addition to other measures, in Annex A/ section 8 stipulates Austria’s obligation to ‘provide additional support for the restoration and maintenance of Jewish cemeteries, known or unknown, in Austria’ (BGBl. III Nr. 121/2001). Whether in the long run the new climate within the scientific community and the discussion currently taking place in Austria and other central European countries will result in a change in Austrian society and burial legislation remains to be seen. The primary purpose of this contribution was not only to apologize for our behaviour concerning foreign dead bodies, past and present, but also to deliver an explanation by contextualizing it.

L E G A L D O C U ME N T S ( E X I S TI N G L A W S , C U R R E N T A T 30 OC T O B E R 2 0 1 2 : A V A I L A B L E A T https://www.ris.bka.gv.at/Land/) BGBl. III Nr. 121/2001: Bundesgesetzblatt für die Republik Österreich Jahrgang 2001, ausgegeben am 29. Juni 2001, Teil III, 121. Abkommen zwischen der Österreichischen Bundesregierung und der Regierung der Vereinigten Staaten von Amerika zur Regelung von Fragen der Entschädigung und Restitution für Opfer des Nationalsozialismus samt Anhängen. http://www.ris.bka.gv.at/Dokumente/BgblPdf/2001_121_3/2001_121_3.pdf (Accessed 14 December 2015). BGBl. I Nr. 99/2010: Bundesgesetzblatt für die Republik Österreich Jahrgang 2010, ausgegeben am 14. Dezember 2010, Teil I, 99. Bundesgesetz: Einrichtung des Fonds zur Instandsetzung der jüdischen Friedhöfe in Österreich sowie Änderung des Nationalfondsgesetzes.

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http://www.ris.bka.gv.at/Dokumente/BgblAuth/BGBLA_2010_I_99/BGBLA_2010_I_ 99.pdf (Accessed 14 December 2015). LGBl. Nr. 33/1952: Landesgesetzblatt Tirol, Gemeindesanitätsdienstgesetz, II. Hauptstück: Leichen- und Bestattungswesen, §28–§52, Inkrafttreten: 1.Jänner 1953. http://alex.onb.ac.at/cgi-content/alex?aid=lgt&datum=1952&page=116&size=45 (Accessed 25 February 2016). LGBl. Nr. 58/1969: Landesgesetzblatt Vorarlberg, Gesetz über das Leichen- und Bestattungswesen 1969. http://alex.onb.ac.at/cgi-content/alex?aid=lgv&datum=1969&page=217&size=45 (Accessed 25 February 2016). LGBl. Nr. 16/1970: Landesgesetzblatt Burgenland, Gesetz vom 15. Dezember 1969 über das Leichen- und Bestattungswesen im Burgenland (Burgenländisches Leichen- und Bestattungswesengesetz). http://alex.onb.ac.at/cgi-content/alex?aid=lgb&datum=1970&page=61&size=45 (Accessed 25 February 2016). LGBl. Nr. 61/1971: Landesgesetzblatt für Kärnten, Gesetz vom 2. Juli 1971 über das Leichen- und Bestattungswesen (Kärntner Bestattungsgesetz - K-BStG) http://alex.onb.ac.at/cgi-content/alex?aid=lgk&datum=1971&page=193&size=45 (Accessed 25 February 2016) LGBl. Nr. 40/1985: Landesgesetzblatt Oberösterreich, Gesetz zur Regelung des Leichenund Bestattungswesens in Oberösterreich (Oö. Leichenbestattungsgesetz 1985). http://www.ris.bka.gv.at/Dokumente/Lgbl/LGBL_OB_19850419_40/LGBL_OB_ 19850419_40.pdf (Accessed 14 December 2015). LGBl Nr. 84/1986: Landesgesetzblatt Salzburg, Salzburger Leichen- und Bestattungsgesetz 1986; Erfassungsstichtag: 1 April 1989. http://alex.onb.ac.at/cgi-content/alex?aid=lgs&datum=1986&page=155&size=45 (Accessed 25 February 2016). LGBl. Nr. 38/2004: Landesgesetzblatt für Wien Jahrgang 2004, ausgegeben am 17. September 2004, 38. Wiener Leichen- und Bestattungsgesetz—WLBG. https://www.wien.gv.at/recht/landesrecht-wien/landesgesetzblatt/jahrgang/2004/pdf/ lg2004038.pdf (Accessed 14 December 2015). LGBl. 9480/2007: Landesgesetzblatt Niederösterreich, NÖ Bestattungsgesetz vom 29. Dezember 2006, Blatt 1–18. http://www.ris.bka.gv.at/Dokumente/LgblNO/LRNI_2006126/LRNI_2006126.pdf (Accessed 14 December 2015). LGBl. Nr. 78/2010: Landesgesetzblatt Steiermark, Gesetz vom 6. Juli 2010 über die Bestattung von Leichen (Steiermärkisches Leichenbestattungsgesetz 2010). http://www.ris.bka.gv.at/Dokumente/Lgbl/LGBL_ST_20100916_78/LGBL_ST_20100916_ 78.pdf (Accessed 14 December 2015).

A C K NO W L E D G E M E N TS I would like to thank the following institutions and people: Gerhard Trnka from the Department of Prehistory at the University of Vienna for photos and information regarding the garage at the Währinger Park, Karin Derler from Bundesdenkmalamt

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Graz, Michael Brandl, Austrian Academy of Sciences, employees at the cemetery administrations offices of Vienna, Graz, and Salzburg, the anonymous former owner of the Alexander Koller tomb in Graz (the ‘tomb to give away’), and Howard Williams and Melanie Giles, and the three anonymous reviewers for commenting on this chapter.

B I BL I OG R A P H Y Abbie, A. A. 1962. Rudolf Pöch, Oceania, 33, 128–30. Andree-Eysn, M. 1910. Volkskundliches aus dem bayrisch-österreichischen Alpengebiet, Braunschweig: Olms. Berner, M., Lange, B., and Hoffmann, A. 2011. Sensible Sammlungen: Aus dem anthropologischen Depot, Hamburg: Philo Fine Arts. Bauer, W. T. 1991. Wiener Friedhofsführer: Genaue Beschreibung sämtlicher Begräbnisstätten nebst einer Geschichte des Wiener Bestattungswesens, third edn, Vienna: Falter Verlag. Crossland, Z. 2009. Acts of estrangement: The postmortem making of self and other, Archaeological Dialogues, 16, 102–25. DCMS. 2005. Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums, London: Department of Culture, Media and Sport. https://www.britishmuseum.org/pdf/ DCMS%20Guide.pdf (Accessed 31 October 2012). Derler, K. and Urbanek, I. 2002. Planung für die Unendlichkeit: Der Grazer Zentralfriedhof, Graz: Steirische Verlagsgesellschaft. Edgar, H. J. H., Jolie, E. A., Powell, J. F., and Watkins J. E. 2007. Contextual issues in Paleoindian repatriation: Spirit Cave Man as a case study, Journal of Social Archaeology, 7, 101–22. Fforde, C. 2004. Collecting the Dead: Archaeology and the Reburial Issue, London: Duckworth. Fforde, C. 2013. In search of others: The history and legacy of ‘race’ collections, in S. Tarlow and L. Nilsson Stutz (eds)The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Death and Burial, 709–31, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fforde, C., Hubert, J., and Turnbull, P. (eds) 2002. The Dead and their Possessions: The Repatriation in Principle, Policy and Practice, One World Archaeology, 43, London: Routledge. French, S. 1974. The cemetery as cultural institution: The establishment of Mount Auburn and the rural cemetery movement, American Quarterly, 26, 37–59. Fründt, S. 2011. Die Menschen-Sammler: Über den Umgang mit menschlichen Überresten im Übersee-Museum Bremen, Wissenschaftliche Beiträge aus dem Tectum Verlag, Reihe Ethnologie 3. Marburg: Tectum Verlag. German Museums Association 2013. Recommendations for the Care of Human Remains in Museums and Collections. Deutscher Museumsbund e.V. http://www. museumsbund.de/fileadmin/geschaefts/dokumente/Leitfaeden_und_anderes/2013__ Recommendations_for_the_Care_of_Human_Remains.pdf (Accessed 10 May 2013). Glaubrecht, M. 2011. Der Beutezug. Geo, 3, 118–31. Goldstein, L. and Kintigh, K. 1990. Ethics and the reburial controversy, American Antiquity, 55, 585–91. Hope, V. M. 2007. Death in Ancient Rome: A Sourcebook, London: Routledge.

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Huber, E. H. 2002. Wien 18, Währinger Straße—Schubertpark, Fundort Wien. Berichte zur Archäologie, 5, 296–9. Huber, E. H. 2003. Wien 15, Märzpark, Fundort Wien. Berichte zur Archäologie, 6, 259–60. Huber, C. P. and Traunmüller, K. 2003a. Wien 18, Währinger Straße—Schubertpark, Fundort Wien. Berichte zur Archäologie, 6, 262–4. Huber, C. P. and Traunmüller, K. 2003b. Wien 18, Franz-Klein-Gasse—Währinger Park, Fundort Wien. Berichte zur Archäologie, 6, 266–8. Hubert. J. and Fforde, C. 2002. Introduction: The reburial issue in the twenty-first century, in C. Fforde, J. Hubert, and P. Turnbull (eds) The Dead and their Possessions: The Repatriation in Principle, Policy and Practice, One World Archaeology, 43, 1–16, London: Routledge. Jenkins, T. 2011. Contesting Human Remains in Museum Collections: The Crisis of Cultural Authority, London: Routledge. Johnson, T. 1996. Holy fabrications: The catacomb saints and the Counter Reformation in Bavaria, The Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 47, 274–97. Kerneck, B. 2012. Wenn aus Knochen wieder Vorfahren werden, TAZ. Die Tageszeitung, 19 October, 18. King, M. 1981. The Collector Andreas Reischek—A Biography, Auckland: Hodder and Stoughton. Kolig, E. 1996. Umstrittene Würde: Andreas Reischek, der Neuseelandforscher aus dem oberösterreichischen Mühlviertel (1845–1902), Sonderband der Wiener Ethnohistorischen Blätter, 41, 1–153. Koudounaris, P. 2011. The Empire of Death: A Cultural History of Ossuaries and Charnel Houses, London: Thames & Hudson. Koudounaris, P. 2013. Heavenly Bodies: Cult Treasures & Spectacular Saints from the Catacombs, London: Thames & Hudson. Legassick, M. and Rassool, C. 2002. Skeletons in the Cupboard: South African Museums and the Trade in Human Remains, 1907–1917, Cape Town, South African Museum and Kimberley, McGregory Museum. Legner, A. 2003. Kölner Heilige und Heiligtümer: Ein Jahrtausend europäischer Reliquienkultur, Köln: Greven Verlag. Memorandum 2000. Appendix 64. Memorandum submitted by the Australian Government. http://www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm199900/cmselect/cmcumeds/ 371/371ap76.htm (Accessed 13 September 2013). Moshenska, G. 2009. The reburial issue in Britain, Antiquity, 83, 815–20. Neurath-Sippel, U. 2011. Menschenschädel als christliche Reliquien, in A. Wieczorek and W. Rosendahl (eds) Schädelkult: Kopf und Schädel in der Kulturgeschichte des Menschen, Publikationen der Reiss-Engelhorn Museen, 41, 267–73, Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner. Nilsson Stutz, L. 2007. Archaeology, identity, and the right to culture: anthropological perspectives on repatriation, Current Swedish Archaeology, 15, 1–16. Nilsson Stutz, L. 2011. Caught in the middle: an archaeological perspectives on repatriation and reburial, in M. Gabriel and J. Dahl (eds) Utimut: Past Heritage— Future Partnerships. Discussions on Repatriation in the 21st century, 84–98, Copenhagen: International Workgroup for Indigenous Affairs, The Greenland National Museum and Archives.

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Peers, L. 2009. On the treatment of dead enemies: indigenous human remains in Britain in the early twenty-first century, in H. Lambert and M. Macdonald (eds) Social Bodies, 77–99, Oxford: Berghahn Books. Peter, H. 1992. Zur Geschichte der Wiener Polynesiensammlung, in H. Peter (ed.) Polynesier: Vikinger der Südsee. Exhibition Catalogue, 11–50, Vienna: Museum für Völkerkunde. Pöch, R. 1915. Studien an Eingeborenen von Neu-Südwales und an australischen Schädeln, Mitteilungen der Anthropologischen Gesellschaft in Wien, 45, 12–94. Sayer, D. 2010. Ethics and Burial Archaeology, London: Duckworth. Scarre, G. 2012. The repatriation of human remains, in J. O. Young and C. G. Brunk (eds) The Ethics of Cultural Appropriation, 72–92, Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Sörries, R. 2011. Bemalte Totenschädel: Eine bemerkenswerte Form der Memorialkultur in den süddeutschen und westösterreichischen Beinhäusern, in A. Wieczorek and W. Rosendahl (eds) Schädelkult: Kopf und Schädel in der Kulturgeschichte des Menschen, Publikationen der Reiss-Engelhorn Museen, 41, 257–61, Regensburg: Schnell und Steiner. Stoecker, H., T. Schnalke, and A. Winkelmann (eds) 2013. Sammeln, Erforschen, Zurückgeben? Menschliche Gebeine aus der Kolonialzeit in akademischen und musealen Sammlungen, Studien zur Kolonialgeschichte, 5, Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag. Summary of Ancestral Remains. 2011. Summary of Ancestral Remains returned from Overseas. Press Portfolio handed out at the Austrian Academy of Sciences on 30 June 2011, Vienna: Australian Embassy. Szilvássy, J., Spindler P., and Kritscher, H. 1980. Rudolf Pöch—Arzt, Anthropologe und Ethnograph, Annalen des Naturhistorischen Museums Wien, 83, 743–62. Teschler-Nicola, M. 2013. Das forMuse-Projekt und die Beforschung und Restitution überseeischer menschlicher Skelettreste in Wiener Sammlungen, in H. Stoecker, T. Schnalke, and A. Winkelmann (eds) Sammeln, Erforschen, Zurückgeben? Menschliche Gebeine aus der Kolonialzeit in akademischen und musealen Sammlungen, Studien zur Kolonialgeschichte, 5, 259–78, Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag. Turnbull, P. 2002. Indigenous Australian people, their defence of the dead and native title, in C. Fforde, J. Hubert, and P. Turnbull (eds) The Dead and their Possessions: The Repatriation in Principle, Policy and Practice, One World Archaeology, 43, 63–86, London: Routledge. Vienna Central Cemetery 2012. Park of Peace and Power (German: ‘Park der Ruhe und Kraft’ = park of tranquillity and strength [correct English translation]) . http://www. friedhoefewien.at/eportal2/ep/channelView.do/pageTypeId/75473/channelId/-54451 (Accessed 25 February 2016). Wallis, R. J. and Blain, J. 2006. The sanctity of burial: pagan views, ancient and modern. Paper presented at the conference Respect for Ancient British Human Remains: Philosophy and Practice Manchester Museum, 17 November. http:// www.museum.manchester.ac.uk/aboutus/ourpractice/respect/ fileuploadmax10mb,136200,en.pdf (Accessed 30 September 2011). Watkins, J. 2004. Becoming American or becoming Indian? NAGPRA, Kennewick and cultural affiliation, Journal of Social Archaeology, 4, 60–80.

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Weiss-Krejci, E. 2012. Europäische Aspekte der Debatte um die Rückgabe menschlicher Überreste, in A. Wieczorek, W. Rosendahl, and A. Schlothauer (eds) Der Kult um Kopf und Schädel: Interdisziplinäre Betrachtungen zu einem Menschheitsthema, Publikationen der Reiss-Engelhorn-Museen, 53, Mannheimer Geschichtsblätter, Sonderveröffentlichung, 5, 149–54, Heidelberg—Ubstadt—Weiher—Basel: Verlag Regionalkultur. Weiss-Krejci, E. 2013a. Abschied aus dem Knochenkabinett: Repatriierung als Instrument kultureller und nationaler Identitätspolitik am Beispiel österreichischer Restitutionen, in H. Stoecker, T. Schnalke, and A. Winkelmann (eds) Sammeln, Erforschen, Zurückgeben? Menschliche Gebeine aus der Kolonialzeit in akademischen und musealen Sammlungen, Studien zur Kolonialgeschichte, 5, 447–76, Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag. Weiss-Krejci, E. 2013b. The unburied dead, in S. Tarlow and L. Nilsson Stutz (eds) The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Death and Burial, 281–301, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Welch, J. R and Ferguson, T. J. 2007. Putting patria back into repatriation: cultural affiliation assessment of White Mountain Apache tribal lands, Journal of Social Archaeology, 7, 171–98. White, B. 2011. The United Kingdom, in N. Márquez-Grant and L. Fibiger (eds) The Routledge Handbook of Archaeological Human Remains and Legislation: An International Guide to Laws and Practice in the Excavation and Treatment of Archaeological Human Remains, 479–91, London and New York: Routledge. Wieczorek, A., Rosendahl, W., and Schlothauer, A. (eds) 2012. Der Kult um Kopf und Schädel: Interdisziplinäre Betrachtungen zu einem Menschheitsthema, Publikationen der Reiss-Engelhorn-Museen, 53, Mannheimer Geschichtsblätter, Sonderveröffentlichung, 5, Heidelberg—Ubstadt—Weiher—Basel: Verlag Regionalkultur.

17 Digging the Dead in a Digital Media Age Duncan Sayer and Tony Walter

I N T R O D U C TI O N A number of recent events inside and outside of the heritage sector have triggered a lively and largely constructive debate about the excavation, display, and conservation of human remains in the UK (see Jenkins 2008, 2010; Moshenska 2009; Sayer 2009, 2010a; Parker Pearson et al. 2011; Giesen 2013). Two events have been of particular significance: the reburial of human remains prompted by requests to museums from the Pagan community, and independently of these requests the Ministry of Justice decided to revisit its conditions for the excavation of human remains (Parker Pearson et al. 2013). In the short term, these issues seem to have been resolved through open consultation and campaigning by archaeologists. British archaeologists consider that they have public support; public-facing archaeology develops strong links within local communities, the Portable Antiquities Scheme engages members of the public in the discovery of metal objects on a national scale, and TV and Radio programmes regularly include archaeology or excavation as their central theme. There are various ways to engage with archaeology outside of a traditional museum environment: people can shift soil or sit back and read about it in numerous academic and popular books, in magazines, and digitally on the internet. This chapter discusses this new digital environment by describing and analysing three events in British burial archaeology which deliberately sought coverage online and within global media. These are: 1) the burial campaign which was instrumental in raising the profile of the reburial problem in England; 2) the discovery of a cow and woman buried in the same grave in a fifth- and sixth-century cemetery at Oakington, Cambridgeshire; 3) the investigation of King Richard III’s final resting place in the city of Leicester. One of us was instrumental in publicizing the first two events; neither of us was involved in the third. We will refer also to a recent case in East Anglia where negative media publicity came unsought by the archaeologists concerned.

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In the mid-twentieth century, archaeology found a place in mass broadcasting and early shows like Animal, Vegetable and Mineral or Chronicle captured the public imagination (Bailey 2010). However, the media are not just a means to disseminate expertise, they broadcast values which intersect with audiences from a variety of backgrounds creating a mutable discourse that can cause conflict or be appropriated and misappropriated (Brittain and Clack 2007: 12). Hodder (2000, 2003) has shown how work at Çatalhöyük attracted media and political interest in genetic ancestry and related to Turkish ambitions to join the European Union. Çatalhöyük might be an exceptional site, and so is an exceptional case, but similar claims are made in the UK by interested parties like the self-styled Druid King Arthur about remains from Stonehenge (Pope 2013). Recent media coverage of the discovery of Richard III was appropriated by debates and legal challenges concerning reburial: should his remains be reburied in York or Leicester? Perhaps this is because the place of burial matters, but unquestionably the media exposure raised interest in both cities and their respective politicians. For many, media processes seem opaque. Many archaeologists have highlighted the media’s misuse of archaeology while others highlight the stereotyping of archaeology and archaeologists (Holtorf 2007) or describe simplistic dualities, for example, whether televised excavations are entertainment or education (Holtorf 2005; Brittain and Clack 2007: 21). There are thus several options available to archaeologists wishing to engage with the media. Should initial contact be during an excavation, when questions are largely unanswered but when there is the excitement of discovery; or post-excavation when interpretations have been secured and cannot be so easily appropriated? As we shall see, a third option—not engaging the media— also runs a risk, namely of unwanted media coverage, on the media’s rather than the archaeologists’ terms. Media interest can be especially problematic when human remains are concerned; excavating skeletons may induce an emotional response in archaeologist and public alike (Sayer 2010a; Sayer and Sayer this volume). Furthermore, there are often multiple interest groups and stakeholders both within and outside the scientific community, prompting professional anxiety (Sayer 2010b). Several published surveys, conducted by heritage professionals and independent companies, aim to gauge public opinion and provide evidence that burial archaeology has a public mandate (e.g. Kilmister 2003; Carroll 2005; Mills and Tranter 2010; see Swain and Tatham this volume). Framing academic debate in terms of education or entertainment and efforts to gauge public opinion, however, may oversimplify. As we shall demonstrate, ‘public opinion’ is not stable but depends on the specifics of any one excavation and how these are presented by the media. The internet provides anonymous, published feedback that may be useful for establishing public attitudes on specific topics. Like any research method,

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using online fora to ascertain public attitudes has both strengths and weaknesses. The obvious weakness is that those who post comments are not representative of the public as a whole, and worse, the researcher does not usually know in what ways they are not representative. Those who post do so with some idea of presenting themselves to an audience, but so too do respondents to questionnaires and interviews; the perceived audience is just different. More serious is the possibility of a particular—and quite possibly hidden—interest group swamping a site with posts, in order to give a particular impression of ‘public opinion’. There are, however, considerable benefits in using online fora. First, online posts, unlike responses to structured questionnaires, are self-initiated, naturally occurring data—part of people’s lived world. Second, people post comments in response to a particular news story, or event, or museum exhibition; by comparing posts to different archaeological news stories, we can see how ‘attitudes’ are not fixed, but depend on the story being responded to. Posts also comment on other people’s posts, evolving as ongoing conversations or threads. Discussions of a media story that once took place in a pub, living room, or other physical spaces now also take place online, where it becomes more evident to researchers that audiences need not be passive, but can actively rework media stories for political discussion or for sheer fun (Rosen 2012). This process inevitably exaggerates particular themes and omits others, but at least the bias is the public’s rather than the researcher’s (whose questionnaires can also omit key themes). Indeed, it may be that a questionnaire is designed to elicit generalized ‘attitudes to archaeology’: a premise that is fundamentally flawed in that there may be no such thing as a general ‘attitude to archaeology’ outside of the context of specific excavations, exhibitions, and their media coverage. Third, by comparing posts to different newspapers with different readerships, following differently slanted stories and headlines about the same event, one can trace how ‘attitudes’ can vary in response to such factors. In the present study, for example, we relied mainly on the BBC Leicester online news, and the slightly more populist and rightwing Daily Mail online. (Many newspapers have different editorial staff for their online versions, but the Mail online carries similar prejudices to its print sibling.) Fourth, online comments can provide a rich mix of both qualitative and quantitative data. The Mail online and BBC sites are particularly useful here in that they have a system of peer review whereby other readers may click on a link to indicate whether they like or dislike a comment, producing a net numerical positive or negative approval score for each comment. Since many more people rate posts than create posts themselves, this gives a quantitative indication of whether, and by what margin, readers approve or disapprove of a posted comment, and hence whether the comment represents an unusual personal opinion or one shared by a majority of readers. The net score does not, however, tell us how many readers voted for or against; thus a score of –50

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could mean 50 people disapproved, or that 300 approved and 350 disapproved. Fifth, it is reasonable to assume that those who post comments on a national newspaper site do so knowing that this comprises very visible and public behaviour; we therefore consider it ethical to use their posts for research without needing to gain their specific consent (Thomas 1996; Bruckman 2002; Miller 2012).

THE BURIAL CAMPAIGN The reasons for, events surrounding, and results of, the 2011 burial campaign have been described elsewhere (Parker Pearson et al. 2011, 2013 and see Giles, Williams, and Sayer and Sayer this volume) so a brief synopsis will suffice here. In 2007 the Ministry of Justice (MoJ) assumed responsibility for burial legislation and re-examined the condition of the licence it issues for the exhumation of human remains. It now required all archaeological excavated material to be reburied within two months, and then after protest, two years. A number of archaeologists and legal professionals published their concerns about this, but no change was forthcoming (Gallagher and Cosgrove-Gibson 2008; Pitts and Sayer 2010). In 2010, the cremated remains that had been excavated from Stonehenge in 2008 were due for reburial, but analysis of these remains was not complete and so the excavators applied for an extension to their licence, a request which was challenged by a small minority of the British Pagan community. In 2010, Mike Parker Pearson, Mike Pitts, and Duncan Sayer orchestrated a successful campaign to convince the Ministry of Justice to reconsider its position (Parker Pearson et al. 2013). This campaign had many different strands, involving audio media (BBC Radio), TV news (never shown as the MoJ declared its intention to relax the condition), and print/online media as well as hundreds of emails and letters sent to archaeologists, archaeological organizations, and members of parliament. Indeed, at the heart of the matter was a letter written by the trio, signed by forty of the UK’s leading professors of archaeology, and published simultaneously in British Archaeology (issue 117, 2011) and The Guardian (Cunliffe et al. 2011; Sample 2011). The Guardian was selected because it had an active web presence with open access; the paper’s awareness of new media like Twitter and Facebook also meant its online readership was often greater than its circulation. The MoJ immediately published a negative response, also in The Guardian (Djanogly 2011), but after a series of pro-forma letters of protest had been downloaded from the ASDS (Association for the Study of Death and Society) website and sent to the MoJ by hundreds of private individuals, and organizations, it soon responded with a statement to each individual agreeing to relax the conditions of the licence.

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By the end of the week the Guardian article had been shared by 1926 people using social media websites. (This is when an individual who controls a personal page clicks on a link on the article so that others who are connected with them via social media can also see the article, and see that they are following it.) These figures are high for science, and the article reached the top of the most viewed ‘On Science’ articles within The Guardian’s webpages remaining in the top ten for several days. The article was covered by several news websites including: Reuters, Nature, and the Daily Mail. Nature attracted one comment, the Daily Mail, however, attracted thirty-eight comments. The article was titled: ‘Put those bones back! Future of archaeology threatened by law forcing scientists to rebury ancient remains’ and published on 4 February 2011 (Daily Mail Reporter 2011).

Analysis of online comments The Daily Mail is not known for its support of archaeology, reflected perhaps in its headline ‘Put those bones back!’ (Daily Mail Reporter 2011) for both print and online versions of this article. By contrast, the left-leaning broadsheet The Guardian titled their piece ‘Legislation forces archaeologists to rebury finds’ (Sample 2011); given that The Guardian reported on the protest, and the letter was printed elsewhere in that edition of the paper, this is commensurate with the paper’s rational, pro-science, anti-superstition, and secularist stance. This stance does not necessarily precede pro- or antiarchaeological feeling but it may have been evident in this case because of the politics of regulation. After its muted headline, the Daily Mail article was largely neutral, reporting the facts of the protest letter. Online comments to the Mail article, however, can be broadly categorized into three groups: i) politically motivated, ii) anti-archaeology/pro-reburial, and iii) pro-archaeology/ pro-retention. The political posts scored highest in the feedback system with one post receiving the positive score of +125: ‘2008, Then this would have been one of the 3,000+ laws that Blair/Brown [Labour prime ministers] introduced into the UK without much thought or consultation. No wonder Brown cannot be found and Blair needs a 24 hour bodyguard.’ (+125)

The pro-reburial posts all scored negatively and the retention posts scored positively, with an anti-archaeology post, ‘Archaeologist = Grave robber’, receiving a particularly low score of −79. By contrast, a favourable post scored +85: ‘Let it be known. If a part of one of my finger bones is found in ten thousand years time and it is of any interest to anyone then they can have my finger.’ (+85)

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The two positions for and against reburial were equally represented with twelve positive posts and thirteen negative ones but with individual scores ranging between +125 to –85, many more people felt motivated to comment on the posts than post a comment themselves. The reburial position was, however, not always paired with an anti-archaeology position, for example: ‘I love Archaeology, but so much wrong is done in the name of “scientific research” these days that those involved have lost sight of the fact that they are dealing with the remains of fellow human beings. Sometimes it seems like a treasure hunt. Two years is long enough and at least give those dug up in the name of science, the dignity of being put back in the ground for goodness sake!’ (–52)

The pro-retention and political posts were more likely to resort to humour or ridicule ‘Sorry Ken but this law is nuts’ (+28) or: ‘ . . . and they should be given a state burial, and they should be blessed, and we should all worship god, and the graves should be tended, and their religious beliefs should be cross checked before re burial to ensure they are not offended by the location, and each one should go in a gold lined oak casket built using wood available at time of initial burial . . . ’ (+17)

Like some Richard III posts discussed later, one commenter questioned the purpose and relevance of archaeology: ‘At the end of the day—so what. Why dig for them in the first place as with what they do uncover it has no real impact on present day lives. What use is it to anyone to know how they lived, what they ate, how they died etc etc. Ones time is better taken up in trying to live in the present and cope with all this entails.’ (–37)

Errors—perhaps the result of ignorance about the UK’s burial laws—were common on both sides of the debate but most common amongst those in favour of reburial. Most frequent was the assumption that this was a new law, passed in 2008, when in fact it was passed in 1857 and reinterpreted in 2007. The second most common ambiguity amongst the posts in favour of reburial was about ownership or the nature of archaeological projects, for example: ‘These bones don’t belong to these people they didn’t ask to be dug up, they expected to rest in perpetuity, so why disturb them because some people want to examine them’ (–41), or ‘I think it’s quite right that remains are reburied. The scientists can dig people up, but they shouldn’t own them indefinitely’ (–18). And a number of others believed that the remains had to be returned to the same building site they had been excavated from.

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MELTON: AN UNWANTED NEWS STORY These misconceptions are common amongst the anti-archaeological comments and a series of similar posts were placed on another of the Daily Mail’s online articles titled: ‘Scattered around grounds of former psychiatric hospital chapel after workmen dig up “20th century” graves’ (Levy 2011). Online comments were as critical of archaeology as had been the article, contrasting with responses to the ‘put those bones back’ article where the pro-archaeology/retention of human remains camp could be deemed to have ‘won’ the debate with far more positive ratings. The ‘scattered skeletons’ piece reports on a cemetery project in Suffolk that seems to have gone wrong. Reputedly, the archaeologists exposed a series of graves attached to a psychiatric hospital in Melton and then left without lifting the bones or securing the site. Screening proved to be inadequate, resulting in published photographs of the skeletons appearing in the local and national press. In this case, there were thirty-two posts, but many more people rated them and their ratings were overwhelmingly negative toward archaeology, with the second highest score being given to ‘Seems that respect for the dead is dead in Melton, Suffolk’ (+410). A rare pro-archaeology comment, ‘did any of these skeletons or their relatives complain’, received widespread disapproval (–216). It is impossible to say without further investigation whether this project was in breach of its MoJ Licence, but unsurprisingly many posts demonstrated little or no understanding of burial law, exhumation, or archaeological practice. The highest scoring post said: ‘it was a dig carried out by a professional team they were interested to know what was there. I would have thought that the clue was in the fact that it is a graveyard, what did they think they would find?’ (+445).

Several posts assumed that ‘archaeologists are paid by the taxpayer’ or that they would have required an ‘exhumation order’—a feature of modern forensic or crime literature which does not apply to the UK, although a court order may request the exhumation of a corpse. Another post misunderstood deconsecration: ‘If the grounds were deconsecrated in 1998, shouldn’t any human remains on the site have been removed and reburied in consecrated ground elsewhere at that time?’ Some posts were aggressively anti-archaeology: ‘archaeologists Think they are gods, and the only people around who care about history, you only have to watch time team [the UK’s most popular television archaeology series] to see what a load of idiots they are, they use a JCB to get at what they want, never mind about what’s in the first few inches of the ground.’ (–16)

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whereas others seem to imply conspiracy: ‘archaeology is a business it’s not like the time team its seems to me they left them open to destroy the evidence . . . no graves . . . and the builders can do what they want without carrying out a full excavation. archaeologists also have a dismissive attitude to bodies or stiffs as they call them and respect none . . . if it had been roman or neolithic they would be in card board boxes by now stored away . . . to wait for an archaeological report . . . that seldom gets done . . . they dig things up pat each other’s backs then off to the pub . . . job done’ (–3)

However, both of these examples scored negatively indicating that these views were not widely shared by other readers of this article. There is probably more to this case than is reported in this news article, a single archaeological contractor may have been in breach of the licence, but local politics probably underlies this unfortunate situation. The impression from reading these posts is that this was not the correct way to treat the dead. They also seemed to offer the (mild) opinion that archaeologist are generally disrespectful, even if more extreme views did not seem to be sanctioned. For this article, the Daily Mail abridged archaeologists to ‘workmen’ in the headline which seems to have stripped them of a professional or intellectual status and set the tone for the discussion.

OAKINGTON Oakington is a village in Cambridgeshire which was identified as the site of an early Anglo-Saxon cemetery when in 1926 four skeletons were discovered, one with an early medieval shield boss. A series of excavations during the 1990s– 2000s uncovered more than a hundred further burials, but more recent excavations have led to new insights into early Anglo-Saxon mortuary practice of widespread significance (e.g. Sayer and Dickinson 2013; Schiffels et al. 2016). One of the graves excavated during the 2012 field season was exceptional. This consisted of a woman aged 25–35; her costume was fastened by two small silvered disc brooches, and she had also worn a series of bead necklaces and a belt hanger set. This assemblage strongly implied a later fifth-/early sixth-century date, probably close to AD 500. While her costume was comparatively rich, the greater interest was caused by her grave companion: a small cow. This was a unique discovery for the early Anglo-Saxon burial rite and something unknown across Europe. The Oakington project included a strong outreach component initiated 2007–10 during test-pitting exercises and the first research excavations, and extended in 2011–12 (Sayer and Sayer this volume). An innovation for 2012 was funding for a student internship with responsibilities for co-ordinating the

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online presence of the excavation and collecting data about local media organizations that might be interested in the project. The role was taken by a history undergraduate student from Manchester Metropolitan University, and proved extremely helpful to the project directors. The utility of assigning a single student with this specific role was because the directors were responsible for a site team of forty across two large trenches working to a high standard of excavation and recording. Consequently, they had no time to maintain the multiple daily updates required to keep interest in the site’s Facebook and Twitter accounts, especially when challenging discoveries were made: exactly the time, we argue, when communication should be made (cf. Tong et al. 2015). On 23 June 2012, during the site’s annual open day, situated within the busy village open day when fairs and activities were set up adjacent to the main cemetery trench, the woman-and-cow burial was discovered. At first the animal was believed to be a horse, because thirty-three horses have been found with men in early Anglo-Saxon graves (Fern 2005). The village open day was also chosen for the opening of a new playground to which the Parish Council invited the local press; a photographer from Cambridge News attended and took photographs of the ‘horse’ during excavation (Brown 2012). The student updated the Facebook and Twitter websites with images and commentary throughout the day and, under the direction of the site directors, he emailed the local BBC offices and national media. A BBC cameraman arrived the next day, but because of the project policy never to leave skeletons in the ground overnight, the grave had been emptied. The cameraman recorded an interview with site directors, and a short clip was shown in the Cambridge section of the East Anglian regional news. The full footage was shared within the media organization and was picked up by BBC online which published a news article on Monday 25 June at 14.20. Monday is the excavation site’s weekly day off (so that full advantage can be taken of the site by visitors on the weekend), so the BBC journalists discussed the article with the student who described the find as ‘genuinely bizarre’, a phrase which would probably not have been employed by the site directors. The BBC article ran with the headline ‘Bizarre Cow Woman Found’ and was the most read news story on the national BBC website that afternoon, where it was situated on the front page, and in the Cambridgeshire regional news section. For thirty-two hours it remained in the top most-read stories, and was shared by 4165 people on social media sites. Over the next month or so the article was syndicated by over forty global media organizations including ITV (News film and online 26 July), Der Spiegel, the Daily Mail, Discovery News, and The Huffington Post, and it was also covered in local media including BBC Radio Cambridge, Manchester, and Lancashire, and the evening print media in London, Cambridge, Manchester, and Lancashire. By July, the BBC had removed the ‘bizarre’ element of the title from their website independently of any request by the site team.

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Analysis of online comments The Mail on Sunday ran print and online versions of its Oakington article under the headline: ‘Who was she? Mystery found buried beside sacrificial cow in unique discovery’ (Daily Mail Reporter 2012). This story was not one which invited clear debate in the same way as the burial campaign, so the Daily Mail chose to frame the article around mystery. There were thirty-seven comments and again they were rated by other readers. These can be subdivided into two themes: i) humour; ii) questioning/exploring the find. The highest scoring post scored +108 and the most negative received –36. Many of the posts questioned the logic of an association made in the headline, for example: ‘I do ask this in all seriousness, how can we be sure that this was not a deceased cow buried with a sacrificial human . . . ’ (+88). Others extended this scepticism with a humorous element and received the highest approval: ‘Maybe the chap buried his wife with his mother in law?’ (+108), but a post which extended the humour further into sexism scored lowest of all: ‘Who’s to say the woman wasn’t a cow?’ (–36). The first post received a number of responses because it questioned archaeological interpretation: ‘I do ask this in all seriousness, how can we be sure that this was not a deceased cow buried with a sacrificial human? Just because such a thing would be unthinkable today doesn’t mean that it wasn’t 2000 or more years ago. The point was made about the high value of the cow, and rather than implying that the woman must have been important if a cow was sacrificed perhaps the reverse was the case—a village’s most important asset was lost so a human, perhaps one blamed for the demise of the cow, was buried with it. All too often we get reports from archaeologists applying modern thought and ethics to ancient events, then years later almost diametrically opposed interpretations appear when new concepts are applied to the old findings.’ (+88)

This received several responses: ‘if this was the case wouldn’t they eat it anyway since it was their source of food and not bury the animal’ (+24) or ‘Yes I have to agree . . . but if it was the case why would they have left all the jewellery on her.’ (+24) and one which used humour: ‘Perhaps this is evidence of a previously unknown race of super bovines who had the humans hooked on milk and cheese. Maybe the lady was carrying the valuables for the cow as hooves would make such a thing difficult. . . . ’ (+15)

Other posts did not aim to answer queries but to ask them or make statements themselves: ‘she seems to be very tall’ (+8) or ‘Maybe they both died of natural causes. Why do they always assume about “sacrifices” each time they discover a tomb?’ (+61). In this case the reader chose to read sacrifice to mean ritual killing rather than economic sacrifice. A similar comment questioned the

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interpretation of deliberate placement of the bodies: ‘Maybe they both died independently of each other and the other villagers thought “Why dig two holes?”’ (+60) and one might be taken to propose a re-dating of the burial or cite cultural parallels: ‘Brooches, amber beads and keychain—Viking customs . . . ’ (+11). Other posts interpreted the ritual aspect of the burial: ‘Consider this—as the horse is to the hunter, the cow is to the keeper of the hearth. As both were extremely valuable animals perhaps this type of burial was reserved for the very wealthy or highly esteemed individuals with power’ (+28)

And one responder questioned the use of bizarre, possibly influenced by the BBC headline, and appropriated the find for a broader understanding, a common characteristic amongst Pagan writings (after Frazer’s The Golden Bough), indicating that: ‘How is it “bizarre”? All Indo-Europeans honored and respected the cow, a characteristic which survives today among the Brahmins of India. All IndoEuropean mythology includes a divine or cosmic cow-mother among the greatest of beings, often associated with the Milky Way, and by extension, earthly rivers. In Germanic mythology, this is Audhumla; in Celtic, Danu (along with other, minor reflections, such as Boannan etc); in Greek, Hera; and in Egyptian (yes, I do think there is continuity between the Egyptian people and Indo-Europeans), Hathor. As the bull and the stallion were symbols of manhood, so the cow and the mare were symbols of womanhood. I’m not sure why this is so surprising to these researchers. Even though it may be a rare find, it fits in perfectly with what is known of history and culture of Indo-European peoples’ (+1).

This was the second post that sparked debate and others felt the need to respond, for example: ‘It’s “bizarre” because it’s never been found before. Just because it makes sense to you, it doesn’t follow that it did for the people back then. So yes, bizarre.’ (+5). However, the debate also seemed to cause some frustration: ‘ . . . You are the only one actually looking and not pontificating. Your right she does look tall. The size of that thigh bone looks huge.’ (+0) a comment made in response to the earlier description of the skeleton as tall, but posted towards the end of the comments after the second debate. This last exclamation of frustration is interesting because many of the highest scoring comments on this website discussed the archaeological interpretation, or archaeologists, some with more knowledge than others: ‘Firstly: the Saxons weren’t here 2000 years ago, they didn’t arrive until the 5th century, and historians/archaeologists don’t have to make guesses about them because they left a lot of evidence behind, including written records, (eg: the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle). Second: why would some poor woman decide to deck herself out in all her finery, then go into a graveyard to guard a cow during a blizzard?’ (+25)

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The net result is the opening up of a dialogue across the comments that is surprisingly archaeological in its themes and explores topics like: the validity of bovine sacrifice, ritual, and religion, even referring to source material (Anglo-Saxon Chronicles) or describing the physical assets of the burial, for example the individual’s height or date, whereas others preferred a grand narrative of global belief systems. This contrasts to a similar article posted by The Huffington Post: a leftleaning mass market internet news outlet owned by AOL. This article was similar to the one from the BBC website in its title: ‘Cow And Woman Buried Together In “Bizarre” Discovery At Anglo-Saxon Dig In Cambridgeshire’ (Thornhill 2012) and attracted twenty-three comments, most of which consisted of just a few lines, but which had no review system. Many more of these posts picked up on the light-hearted nature of the article (sourced solely from the Manchester Metropolitan University’s press release): ‘who would have thought the co-op were doing funerals back then’ or ‘maybe she should have told the cow to mooove over’ with one having a political bent: ‘D’you reckon in a few hundred years time they’ll find posh boys Cameron and Osbourne [sic] buried together?’ As in the Mail article, sexist humour received criticism. Thus the post, ‘which one was the cow could they tell the difference’, received this reply: ‘Yes. Because, you see, one of them was a human female and the other a domestic bovine. Most people can make distinctions like that.’ More in tone with the campaign coverage reported above, some readers questioned the validity of the research or the story: ‘This is news, does somebody want the cow back?’, with a lone comment questioning the excavation: ‘Does it really matter? These people have disturbed enough graves. RIP.’ or ‘Both fell into the same hole—sorted. Now who do I apply to for the massive grant that will be allocated to “research” this “remarkable find”?’ It is difficult to extract a snapshot of public opinion from these articles. Comments are typically framed by the tone and title of the article they are commenting on. Thus other stories, like the Daily Mail’s 2012 coverage of a rich seventh-century find in Cambridge, may be framed as a question: ‘Is this Britain’s first Christian burial? Anglo Saxon grave reveals 16-year-old girl laid to rest with a gold cross’ (Cohen 2012a). This article received 142 comments and many chose to answer that question, for example: ‘ “Is this Britain’s first Christian burial?”—Quick answer NO—it post-dates the earliest Christian burials in Britain by several hundred years. There were numerous Christians in Roman Britain in the third and fourth centuries’ (+313)

Apparently negative posts like this give a pessimistic impression of the responses to this article, and yet in exactly the same vein as the burial campaign discussed above, many of the posts which question the investigation received negative feedback indicating a more complex situation. Much of

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the rest of the debate, like the Daily Mail coverage of the Oakington cow, included a range of posts that discuss religion from multiple sources, some critical: ‘Find a cross = must be a christian . . . ’(–8), some observational: ‘I’m intrigued by the positioning of her arms. One hand on her pelvis and one across her chest. Any ideas?’ (+6), or topical: ‘She’d never have been allowed to work for British Airways, wearing a cross like that.’ (+52). But what is interesting about this story is that ethically focused posts which described the artefacts, such as ‘Wouldn’t it be right to leave the girls cross with her?’ (+277), did much better than those about the dead, such as ‘for god’s sake leave the dead in their resting places, am I alone to think this is wrong.’ (–21), which might be because the article went into some detail about the artefacts. However, given the effect of the frame an article provides it is important to consider stories from multiple media sources, and within context, so the controversial and high profile excavation which might have found England’s King Richard III provides good evidence for discussion. Subsequent confirmation that the remains were indeed Richard’s, followed in March 2015 by his reburial in Leicester Cathedral, comprises information not known when the initial speculative findings were released, which is the moment in time analysed in the following section.

RICHARD I II On 12 September 2012, the University of Leicester held a press conference which highlighted an already high-profile collaboration between the Richard III Society and University of Leicester Archaeological Services. The three-week long excavation, run by professional archaeologist Richard Buckley alongside academics from the University, had uncovered the remains of an adult male skeleton. This skeleton was striking because of its pathology, arguably consistent with descriptions of Richard III’s life and death. Identified by human osteologist Jo Appleby, the skeleton exhibited characteristics of scoliosis, curving to the upper thoracic region of the lower back leaving the neck unaffected but forcing the right shoulder blade upwards, a feature which may well have been visible in life. Lodged between the second and third thoracic vertebra was a barbed arrow head, and a sizable bladed weapon appears to have inflicted visible trauma at the base of the skull while a small, square-profile, puncture on one side of the skull may well have been caused by a poleaxe (Buckley 2012 et al. 2013). The excavation was on the site of Leicester’s thirteenth-century Greyfriars church that had been demolished during the Dissolution. The site was found within a small car park behind the Leicester social services building, placing the restriction of urban archaeology onto the project. Three trenches were

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located perpendicular to the church and particular elements were located, like the choir within which this single grave was discovered on 4 September 2012 (Buckley et al. 2012). This discovery, along with the possibility of DNA matching the bones with a living descendent of Richard’s, generated enthusiasm and the press conference one week later resulted in enormous excitement within the media including a BBC online article which remained the most read piece on this story, and on the BBC website, for many days after its publication; it was shared 11,676 times on social networking sites. News coverage included a spectrum of British newspapers: The Independent, The Guardian, The Telegraph, the Daily Mail, and TV and radio broadcasts including Sky News, Channel 4, and the BBC. The story was also covered by a similar range of overseas media organizations. By contrast, a BBC News article published before the project started attracted only limited interest and appears not to have been shared on social media sites (Cook 2012). Richard III’s remains are of archaeological interest because he was one of only three English kings whose bones had yet to be located, the others being Henry I (probably under Reading Abbey) and James II whose remains were lost when his coffin, in the Chapel of Saint Edmund in the Church of the English Benedictines in Paris, was raided during the French Revolution (Tatton-Brown 2012). Richard III is also a controversial figure. Depicted by Shakespeare as a child-killer and tyrant with a crooked back, he was killed at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485; reputedly his naked body was paraded through the streets of Leicester before burial. Richard was King for only two years (1483–5) having been Lord Protector on behalf of the twelve-year-old boy Edward V. Edward and his brother Richard were housed in the Tower of London (the royal residence) and disappeared some time after Richard III’s coronation, leading to the controversy of ‘the princes in the tower’. No contemporary images of Richard III survive, but two later portraits are owned by the Society of Antiquaries, London. One of these is believed to be copied from a lifetime portrait and shows no shoulder deformity; the second depicts him holding a broken sword and with a withered left arm and shoulder which it has been claimed alludes to his defeat. It is believed that this second image was altered some time later to make the shoulders seem more even (Catling 2012). Richard III’s life and death continued to provoke controversy through their historic representation—through Shakespeare’s play, and the foundation in 1924 of the Richard III Society which aims to restore a reputation arguably tarnished by the Tudors who defeated him. The Society now has nearly 3500 members (Richard III Society 2011). It is within this context that the archaeological project was conducted, and within which the media coverage and public debate played out in internet fora.

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Analysis of online comments We took two online news sites that are ‘middle-of-the-road’ in terms of being highbrow/lowbrow and analysed comments on their articles: Richard III dig: ‘Strong evidence’ bones are lost king (BBC Leicester) and Have they found Richard III? Archaeologists searching for ‘tyrant king’ under Leicester car park find skeleton with a curved spine and metal ARROW in its back (Daily Mail). Three hundred and eleven comments were posted on the BBC Leicester site on 12 and 13 September (BBC Leicester 2012); 146 comments were posted on the Daily Mail article, all but seven on 12 or 13 September (Cohen 2012b). Comments on the two articles varied from one to five lines long, with a number responding to earlier comments. Each site enabled visitors to rate each comment as positive or negative, so each comment displayed a net score; many comments on the Daily Mail site had net scores of several hundred, whereas on the BBC site net scores rarely exceeded thirty. We did not analyse broadsheet newspapers: the story in The Guardian and Independent attracted rather few comments, while The Daily Telegraph story attracted 359 comments, but not in an easily downloadable form. Two things stand out about the views expressed on these sites concerning archaeology, exhumation, and reburial: i) the views are very diverse, but ii) most of the comments are either explicitly positive about or implicitly accepting of the work of the Leicester archaeologists. On the Mail site, where many more people rated comments then posted comments, the ratings indicate a clear majority favouring the archaeologists’ work. Thus on the Daily Mail site, the most negatively rated post was: ‘Can’t sodding archaeologists leave anything alone. He was laid to rest, he should stay there.’ (–306)

One reply to this post got the highest rating: ‘No he shouldn’t. He was a King of England (and a good one too, for his short reign) and deserves a decent tomb.’ (+628)

The next two most negatively rated posts questioned the excavation’s purpose: ‘But what’s the point?? All this expense, so what’s the point??’ (–282) ‘It could be an important find from the historical viewpoint but what practical purpose has this dig served?’ (–254)

Posts advocating reburial in a place fit for a king were popular, with this being the second most highly rated post (from someone living in Leicestershire): ‘If these bones are the remains of Richard please, please, please either re-bury him where he was known in York Minster or some other church close to his lands. He was known and respected in North Yorkshire and was genuinely mourned there . . . . After a brutal death and centuries of Tudor inspired calumny allow

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this poor man to rest in peace and not be turned into a mere Leicester tourist attraction!’ (+457)

The dominant view on the Daily Mail site, reflected also on the BBC but not so easily demonstrable because of its readers’ relative disinclination to rate comments, is that the excavation is worthwhile and should be followed by Richard being reburied somewhere appropriate to his royal status. However, we cannot take these comments and ratings as a quantitative measure of public support for burial archaeology. This is for two reasons. The first is that, as noted earlier, online responses to news items tend to adopt the frame within which the news item was written. Utopian hopes that the internet would provide a free space for the exploration of non-hegemonic ideas are outweighed by evidence that, at least in the democratic West, conventional news values shape online as much as offline public opinion (Curran et al. 2012). Thus the Leicester story, implicitly accepting the validity of archaeology, receives comments that do likewise, while the 2011 Melton, Suffolk, skeletons story which was highly critical of archaeological practice received comments equally critical of archaeology. Second and more important, however, this particular excavation was organized at the instigation of the Richard III Society. Early debates about reburial of the ancient dead pitted scientific archaeology against the identity politics of aboriginal groups (Fforde 2004), followed by an alliance between post-modern museum curation and the identity politics of Paganism (Jenkins 2008). In contrast, the Leicester ‘find’ resulted from an alliance between archaeology and, not identity politics, but (Gray et al. 2007) modern-day fandom in the form of the Richard III Society—Richard’s fan club. Many of the Society’s 3500 members would quickly have become aware of this news story, and very likely contributed a proportion of the several hundred comments and several thousand ratings. Many comments were consistent with the views of the Society (notably, restoring Richard’s reputation, and burying him in a location suited to a king—specifically York Minster —as befits the last king from the House of York). Many comments, though hazy about DNA matching techniques, debated historical facts and myths in both amateur and professional fashions. Beyond the Richard III Society, through teaching of both history and Shakespeare at school, Richard III’s death and disputed reputation has for some time been part of English popular historical and literary culture. Thus the numbers of Ricardians, those generally fascinated by Richard and specifically wishing to set his historical record straight, extends beyond the membership of the Richard III Society. An archaeological excavation to find the grave of this controversial English king and resolve a few mysteries would be expected to generate considerable interest, interest premised on an acceptance of the practices of excavation and exhumation.

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Ricardians If the comments on all of these websites cannot be used as evidence of generic public support for burial archaeology, the richness of the comments do, however, offer considerable insight into how British people think about archaeology, exhumation, and reburial. In particular, they show that public responses can depend on the very specific context of any particular excavation and its reporting. What Tarlow (2011: 15–17) argued for the early modern period is probably also true today: there are within society various discourses about the dead body, any one of which may be drawn on to make sense of a particular situation or experience. Thus what any one person feels about archaeology, exhumation, and reburial is unlikely to depend on a considered or consistent ethical position; rather, the contextual factors of the case at hand draw forth some discourses more than others. Any one person’s views about the proper treatment of the dead may be more variable and contextual than fixed and principled. We have mentioned the considerable pre-existing interest in Richard III within contemporary England. The possibility of resolving the mystery of where he was buried, not to mention shedding light on precisely how he was killed and the ongoing saga of his posthumous reputation, provided a context for the many plaudits received by the Leicester archaeologists: ‘This is fascinating news. Archeology continues to amaze and excite. History comes alive by this discovery and others. Well done the team.’ ‘a fantastic news story, i for one cant wait to hear the results’ ‘Careful research, careful excavation, careful follow-up. Archaeology as it should be. Loved the cautious excitement of the announcement.’

If the headline had been ‘Bones found in church—could be those of a yeoman’, such praise would not have been heaped upon the archaeological team. In our view, it is the very specific figure of Richard III that generated the interest and fascination and, by implication, the approval of the archaeologists’ work. Acceptance of any dislocation caused by the excavation also derived from its specific context. The car park which was being dug up is normally used by employees of the council’s social services department. Social workers have received a very bad press in the UK over the past two decades, not least in the Daily Mail; their public image as left-wing liberals and child-snatchers is typically placed in opposition to right-wing values, so it is not surprising if those fascinated by the Leicester dig and the light it might shed on royal history had little sympathy for any inconvenience suffered by Leicester’s social workers: ‘The council workers can park in a nearby multistory car park like the rest of us.’

With the excavation and exhumation broadly acceptable, there remained for the online posters the question of where Richard (should the bones turn out to

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be his) be reburied. Few recommended reburial in situ, whether under the existing car park or with the site of discovery turned into a Richard III heritage site. Leicester Cathedral, according to the news story was favoured by both the university archaeologists and the Bishop of Leicester, yet this found very little online support and indeed attracted considerable criticism. Since Richard was a king, and to many Ricardians the last true king of England, many posts suggested Westminster Abbey (housing more English monarchs than any other site) or York Minster (appropriate for a king from the House of York). York was the more popular destination: ‘Why is he being reburied in Leicester? He was only “dumped” there because he was killed in battle there. He is a son of York and should be buried in York Minster as befitting a Yorkist Monarch.’

Of all English counties, Yorkshire is famous for the passionate sense of belonging expressed by many of those born there (despite it not having been a single county for several decades). Some comments implicitly appeal to Yorkshire identity politics, and at this point there is a (modest) similarity with the identity politics of aboriginal claims to human remains—remains should be returned to their homeland, even after the passage of hundreds of years. Thus for some posts, it was less important that Richard be reburied in a cathedral fit for a king than that he return to Yorkshire: ‘Living as I do, not far from Middleham in the Yorkshire Dales, Richard III is still fondly thought of here. He was known as a fair ruler as Warden of the North, and not for being cruel and unjust as he has so often been described. I am thrilled at the prospect of his body being recovered. Please bring him home to Yorkshire if it is him.’ ‘bury him on one of the high peaks of the Yorkshire moors with a monument depicting the White Rose.’

However, most Ricardians are not from Yorkshire, so wanted him buried in a cathedral fit for a king, York Minister being preferred for historical reasons. Richard pre-dated the Reformation so was Catholic, but English kings are buried in what are now Church of England (Protestant) cathedrals and chapels; and monarchs ever since Tudor King Henry VIII have been head of the Church of England. A number of posts suggested Richard should be buried according to the Catholic rite, and that in these more ecumenical times this could be appropriate not only for this fifteenth century monarch but also for twenty-first century religious politics: ‘ . . . .it should be a full Latin mass . . . and as he died in battle, maybe military honours too.’

Others considered it should be not only a Catholic but also a state funeral, which really would bring the British monarchy into the ecumenical twentyfirst century. One post thought:

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‘It would be very interesting to see a proper reconstruction of a funeral of that time.’

This last comment raises intriguing questions about whether a historical re-enactment can be combined with a real funeral.

Those with no interest in Richard III Though for many commenters, ‘the monarch and its history makes for some fascinating reading’, there was a minority view: ‘This royalty stuff really is laughable, isn’t it.’

These minority posts typically got very negatively rated, but the posts are there in some number. Royal history is far from a universal interest in England, and indeed history of any kind failed to interest some posters: ‘Are we that interested? . . . England is always looking backwards now lets move forward into the future and spend money on making it a better future.’

In this view, the Leicester excavation was a waste of time and money: ‘But what’s the point? All this expense, so what’s the point??’

Three observations may be made about this financial criticism of the Leicester excavation. One is that—especially at a time of economic recession and public expenditure cuts—this criticism can be, and often is, made of much ‘ivory tower’ university research in the humanities, and some research in the natural and social sciences too. So it is not a criticism specifically of archaeology. Secondly, it is entirely possible that the same people who criticized the Leicester excavation as a waste of time and money might be positive about some other archaeological excavations whose purpose they approve. One or two critics of pre-twentieth-century excavations were potentially positive about twentieth-century forensic archaeology: ‘archaeologists should be helping society NOW by aiding in the capture of war criminals etc. not digging around trying to get their own name in the history books.’

Our third observation concerns the Research Excellence Framework (REF; www.ref.ac.uk) for assessing the quality of university research, in which British universities are now required to demonstrate the non-academic impact of their research. With the Leicester bones later confirmed as Richard’s and reburied with regal honours in Leicester cathedral, the University of Leicester’s excavation scored very highly according to the REF’s impact measure. Yet online comments indicate that some British citizens consider this a total waste

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of money. Though the REF seems to consider any demonstrable impact as good, some online comments query whether demonstrable impact necessarily equals desirable impact.

THE HILLSBORO UGH REPORT If one contextual factor is the role of Richard III in English historical and literary culture, another is the story that dominated the British news media that day, 12 September 2012, namely the publishing of a report into the Hillsborough Disaster (Hillsborough Independent Panel 2012). Ninety-six Liverpool Football Club fans died from crushing injuries while at a cup semi-final at Sheffield’s Hillsborough Stadium on 15 April 1989. Following what many in Liverpool considered official whitewashing of police complicity in the disaster, eventually, after twenty years, an independent panel was set up to investigate further. On 12 September, the UK news was dominated by publication of the panel’s findings that not only did senior Sheffield police officers’ actions cause the disaster but also they—along with the ambulance service and the coroner—subsequently perverted the course of justice, covering up the police’s criminal negligence and blaming the deaths on the fans: a cover-up missed by earlier, more official, reports into the tragedy. The eruption of this major political scandal on 12 September dominated the news for several days afterwards. The violent deaths of both Richard III and the Hillsborough victims were followed, it seems, by the self-serving rewriting of history by powerful interests who cast blame on the deceased, though Hillsborough is infinitely more sensitive in contemporary England than Richard III because the bereaved are still alive and fighting for justice. One post on the BBC site stood back from the impassioned online debate about where to rebury Richard, commenting ironically: ‘Really important topic, about which nobody who posts will have a real idea or opinion. Hillsborough? Unemployment?’

Another post, perhaps significantly from Bradford, which had also suffered a major soccer stadium disaster, supported this: I’m sure everybody would rather comment on Hillsborough BBC not on Richard III. What’s going on BBC? Bit of a joke isn’t it?

A number of posts, however, defended the Leicester excavation against this particular charge, for example:

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‘Just because one topic is debated doesn’t mean other topics should feel upset. By your logic, why discuss Hillsborough, as you suggest, when we could trump it with Syria. Bonkers logic. If you’re not interested in this topic then walk on by— don’t be a kill joy.’

Another commented, perhaps more sensitively: ‘And, no I don’t want to discuss Hillsboro—it’s far too tragic and serious for me, a stranger, to stick my nose in.’

Our point here is simple: how people respond to an archaeological news story will depend in part on what other news stories dominate on that particular day. Had the main news story on 12 September 2012 concerned celebrity gossip rather than a human tragedy implicating the most powerful institutions in the land, the minority who considered the Richard III story a mindless distraction may have welcomed a bit of serious history as a counterbalance to celebrity froth.

The newspaper in question How people respond to a news story depends not only on the other major news stories of the day, but also on what is normal in the newspaper in question. The Daily Mail is more downmarket than the BBC, reflected very noticeably in their respective online versions. In each case, a news story is flanked in the right-hand margin by trailers for other news items, but whereas the BBC Leicester trailers cover a range of stories, the Mail’s online trailers for the Richard story, numbering around 200 as you scroll down the story and then the comments, all concern celebrity gossip. A few Daily Mail commentators welcomed the Richard III story as a cut above the fare to which they are accustomed: ‘I hope the DM follows up on this story and that it doesn’t simply vanish to make way for silly stories about non-celebrities. DM, we are counting on you to give us the story about the results of the DNA study!’ ‘This is far too important to worry about where the money to do it came from! I just hope that they are going to do a TV doc on it, much more interesting than the usual rubbish that’s on!’

For some readers used to celebrity gossip, the Richard III excavation gripped their imagination at an intellectual level refreshingly above normal. One post, though, loved the story not because it was more high-brow than celebrity gossip, but because it was more interesting than recent political and economic news: ‘ . . . . a fascinating story and far more engaging than Richard Bransons squable [sic] with the DfT, 4G and iPhone launches.’

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By contrast, the online comments on the Leicester excavation story in the leftleaning and potentially republican broadsheet papers The Guardian and The Independent were both less numerous, and displayed relatively little interest in debating Richard’s character or where to rebury him. They were more likely to agree that contemporary social, political, and economic issues (Hillsborough, public expenditure cuts) are both more important and more interesting.

Story genres Many posts enjoyed the Leicester excavation as a great story: ‘I love exciting stories like this. It would be fantastic for this skeleton to be that of Richard III. Looking forward to the results of the DNA test.’

Unlike many archaeological excavations which involve the press only at the end, the Leicester team (like the Oakington team) had a policy of public awareness and press involvement from beginning to end. This allows interim reports with the potential to create considerable interest if there are interesting (Leicester) or mysterious (Oakington) findings that require further detective work to interpret or confirm. One of the biggest science news stories of recent years has been the interim findings from the Large Hadron Collider that its team may possibly have found the Higgs boson particle. The public know what a king is, and what a cow is, but few had ever heard of the Higgs boson, yet its potential discovery was constructed into a high-profile ongoing news story. Partly solved mysteries, and possibly discovered particles or royal bones, can generate news stories as good as, or even better than, mysteries solved and discoveries definitively made; this is because news editors prefer not one-off stories but stories capable of running for a few days or of being picked up again later. The Leicester story, though factual news, fits an established fiction genre: the murder mystery. According to the Richard III Society website, Richard’s character had been deliberately blackened by the Tudors in general and by Shakespeare in particular; interest in questioning this took off in the 1950s: ‘Of most significance was the publication in 1951 of Josephine Tey’s classic crime detective novel The Daughter of Time. This brought the controversy to the attention of a wide reading public.’

This public includes one of the 2012 online posters, who wrote: ‘Josephine Tey wrote a book about a detective in hospital getting a friend to help him research the real story about Richard the Third and coming up with the fact that he was grossley maligned by the Tudors and that in fact he was a very good king, so he needs an honourable reburial’

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The Leicester excavation adds to this detective genre the more recent TV forensics detective story. When a news story seems as good or horrific as the best fiction, audiences can be hooked. The most dramatic example was 9/11, where millions of viewers who watched two planes fly into the Twin Towers felt unable to believe the events they were witnessing, akin to watching a terrifying movie (which is not to say they were not also engaged for other reasons). With the Leicester excavation, it was as though a forensics detective story was being enacted for real, visible to any passer-by or internet surfer. ‘Great story and great detective work.’

Another post compared it to one of the UK’s major television soap operas: ‘This is all very exciting. It’s like a 15th Century episode of Brookside . . . ’

This can create a dilemma for archaeologists. If media reporting of interim finds has the potential to create stories that engage (at least some of ) the public because it seems like a living soap opera or detective story, the public may then expect archaeologists to be charismatic media personalities. But archaeology is no more likely than any other occupation to generate budding media stars, probably less so given the technical, factual manner in which archaeologists are taught to report their findings. One post from a teacher described the video clip of the Leicester excavation’s lead archaeologist addressing the 12 September press conference: ‘Bit disappointed when I shared the clip with my class today. If the DNA analysis shows that it is Richard III’s skeleton and it’s announced to the world’s media, I hope . . . . they get a passionate communicator out front. Not someone who sounds like a Police Inspector reading out the findings of a road traffic accident investigation. Time Team this wasn’t.’

From car park to internet playground: conclusions from Leicester We have not yet mentioned one immediately obvious feature of the Leicester comments: their humour. The posts are full of plays on words, not least connecting archaeological hunches with Richard’s reputed hunchback, along with a few jokes about social services and many about car parks: ‘Ironic . . . Cars are the modern horses, and the monarch who exclaimed “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse” gets a car park built on top of him.’

Other witticisms concerned Richard III being Cockney rhyming slang for ‘turd’, and the sexual connotations of ‘Dick’. Expatriates loved all this: ‘Ah, that British sense of humour, something I do rather miss being over here!’ (Los Angeles)

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‘I’m loving the very English puns too!’ (Sydney, Australia)

Most jokes were enjoyed, though some relating to turds and car parks received heavily negative ratings, notably this one playfully recommending ongoing desecration of Richard’s remains: ‘They could leave him there and use him as a speed hump.’ (–167)

Formal humour and jokes aside, the overall tone of the BBC and Daily Mail posts was good humoured. As one Mail post from the UK commented: ‘wonderful on all counts and i’m delighted that the misery and nastiness we usually find in this comment section have finally up-earthed not only Richard III but our fabulous sense of humour! Three cheers all around!’

There was humour in the Oakington posts (notably, jokes about both cows and women), but the comments on the MoJ story were more consistently serious. Online responses on the Leicester story in the right-wing broadsheet Daily Telegraph included some racist comments followed by some serious putting down of same. This overall tone of humour in the Daily Mail and BBC comments is significant for our analysis. These two sites provided an online playground in which ideas could be freely circulated pretty much without fear of causing offence. This would not have been possible had the story concerned, for example, Hillsborough or the return of aboriginal human remains, stories with serious implications for vulnerable communities of living people. As one post already quoted said of Hillsborough, ‘it’s far too tragic and serious for me, a stranger, to stick my nose in.’ The writer implies that, by contrast, it is fine, safe, and decent for anyone to stick their nose into debating Richard III. So this playful site about a long-dead king allowed the free and unself-conscious expression of diverse attitudes about archaeology, exhumation, and reburial. Analysis of these expressions clearly shows attitudes to be highly contextual, depending on the specifics of the exhumation concerned. There is probably no one thing as a person’s, let alone the public’s, attitude to burial archaeology: it depends significantly on which archaeologists are digging where, for what purpose, what is sitting on top of the remains, how the excavation is reported, where it is reported, and on which day.

DIALOGUES WITH THE INTERNET Internet fora do not provide an unbiased reflection of public opinion, for like any media they reflect the context within which they are presented. The internet discussions cannot be taken to represent ‘the public perspective’ on

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burial archaeology, but they do reflect cyberspace as a new ‘public square’ for the exchange of ideas (Oldenburg 1991; Rheingold 2000) and offer up a number of avenues that can be researched. These include analysis of the context of discussions, which influences greatly the style, nature, and content of online posts. As has often been argued, rather than social media liberating people from the hegemonic social attitudes represented in old media, social attitudes expressed in social media often reflect those in old media (Kenix 2009). In each of our three main cases, media publicity was initiated by archaeologists and the resulting articles were framed either positively or neutrally, leading to online comments and ratings of comments generally positive toward archaeology, with posts advocating reburial or questioning the ethics of excavation tending to receive negative feedback. In all three examples, many more people chose to rate the posts than chose to make them. Some people commented on multiple stories in more than one media outlet; Nikki, Boise, USA (an internet username) appears on several whereas other people seem to have made up names specifically to post on a single issue, for example username: Clarke’s, Kidding??? So each person’s reasons for contributing are different: either a particular story or article inspired action or they were a regular poster to a particular newspaper website. The circumstances behind each post and how people interact with stories must vary considerably (though researching this would require other methods than we have employed here). We must not forget that these are the people who did comment; many more hundreds of people chose to interact with the comments or article using the rating system but many tens of thousands more chose not to. The Guardian and BBC main site do not allow comments or ratings, but the thousands of people who shared the campaign, Oakington, and Richard III stories were further inspired not just to read an article and move on but to share it with others. The numbers of readers that these pieces received is greater still, since to become a BBC most-read article the Richard III and Oakington articles must have been read (or at least the webpage opened) around 500,000 times in just a few hours, and probably many times more than that over the life of the article. Many of the critical comments were based on lack of knowledge about archaeology and burial law: ownership, funding, the nature of consecration, and occasionally, as in the example from Melton, conspiracy. Many of these comments represent a scepticism or suspicion of expert and professional authority manifest within various sectors of Western societies (not least readers of the Daily Mail), so are not directed solely at archaeology but potentially at any university research. Indeed, Jenkins (2010) has argued that the crisis of scientific and professional authority underlies the repatriation of human remains from a number of museums. However, we are encouraged that many comments used the Oakington and Richard III articles to generate

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discussion about the finds, to question the results or their interpretation, and to describe the period, finds, archaeology, history, or context. Posts drew on sources as diverse as high school history, Shakespeare, television archaeology series, historical novels, historical reconstructions, New Age ideas, and, for some, a university degree in archaeology or history, generating a public forum for debate. Sometimes the discussion was amateur, at other times it was quite professional, while on further occasions it drew on source material outside of the articles or presented grand interpretive narratives. That people rated these posts means that many read them and internalized a debate about archaeology. Articles that posed an open mystery, a narrative story, or were part of an ongoing series of articles generated more discussion, and more positive discussion. In this context, the internet can be in turn a playground and a seminar room, a place for fun and for serious debate. Both are equally important because there are various discourses about the dead body, and archaeology, any one of which may be drawn on to make sense of a particular situation or experience. Any one person’s views about the proper treatment of the dead or the appropriateness of archaeology may be more variable and contextual than fixed and principled. These results are similar to those seen by Sayer and Sayer (this volume) in an exploration of visitor reactions, which depend on the context and circumstances of their lives, their experiences, and how the project is presented. In both studies, opinions are mutable and depend on how a project is framed. The opening up of any dialogue, even within an unstructured internet playground, is good news because the experience of debating, either actively by posting or more passively by rating a post, entails active participation in archaeology. Archaeologists who seek new media news coverage must therefore consider carefully how they are going to present their site and findings, whether to wait until they have definitive results, or to go public earlier and present the mystery of discovery and an openness of interpretation that engages and draws people into dialogue. The implications of our chapter for archaeological practice, especially when human remains are likely to be found, are both clear and simple. First, throughout an excavation engage the local community and the mass media. Second, do not be afraid to inform the media of interim results or finds whose meaning is not yet clear. The implications for the ethics of burial archaeology are also clear: there is no ‘public opinion’ concerning general principles of how to deal with human remains. Rather, opinion is highly dependent on context, probably even within any one individual. This is why it is so important for archaeologists to be pro-active in informing the public about the context in which any one excavation takes place, and thus to help frame the archaeological stories that news media run and that readers then pass on to their friends.

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B I BL I OG R A P H Y Bailey, G. 2010. The danger of heritage, British Archaeology, 110, 52–3. BBC Leicester 2012. Richard III dig: ‘Strong evidence’ bones are lost king. BBC Leicester 12 September. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-leicestershire-19561018 (Accessed 29 June 2015). Brittain, M. and Clack, T. 2007. Archaeology and the media, in T. Clack and M. Brittain (eds) Archaeology and the Media, 11–66, Walnut Creek CA, Left Coast Press. Brown, R. 2012. Mystery of Anglo-Saxon woman buried with cow, Cambridge News 25 June. http://www.cambridge-news.co.uk/Slideshow-Mystery-AngloSaxon-womanburied-cow/story-22357368-detail/story.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). Bruckman, A. 2002. Ethical guidelines for research online, http://www.cc.gatech.edu/ ~asb/ethics/ (Accessed 29 June 2015). Buckley, R., Appleby, J., and Foxhall, H. 2012. Richard III: the search for the last Plantagenet King, Current Archaeology, 272, 12–17. Buckley, R., Morris, M., Appleby, J., King, T., O’Sullivan, D., and Foxhall, L. 2013. ‘The king in the car park’: new light on the death and burial of Richard III in the Grey Friars church, Leicester, in 1485, Antiquity, 87, 519–38. Carroll, Q. 2005. Bodies: who wants to rebury old skeletons? British Archaeology, 82. Catling, C. 2012. SALON—the Society of Antiquaries of London Online Newsletter, 284, 15 October. Cohen, T. 2012a. Is this Britain’s first Christian burial? Anglo-Saxon grave reveals 16-year-old girl laid to rest with a gold cross. Mail Online 16 March. http://www. dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2115526/Anglo-Saxon-grave-reveals-16-yearold-girl-laid-rest-gold-cross.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). Cohen, T. 2012b. Have they found Richard III? Archaeologists searching for ‘tyrant king’ under Leicester car park find skeleton with a curved spine and metal ARROW in its back. Mail Online 12 September. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article2202036/Richard-III-remains-Leicester-car-park-believe-archaeologists.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). Cook, J. 2012. Is Richard the Third buried in a car park? http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/ uk-19373639 (Accessed 29 June 2015). Cunliffe, B. et al. 2011. Reburial requirement impedes archaeology, The Guardian 4 February. http://www.theguardian.com/science/2011/feb/04/reburial-requirementimpedes-archaeology (Accessed 29 June 2015). Curran, J., Fenton, N., and Freedman, D. 2012. Misunderstanding the Internet, London: Routledge. Daily Mail Reporter 2011. Put those bones back! Future of archaeology threatened by law forcing scientists to rebury ancient remains. Mail Online 4 February. http:// www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-1353620/Law-requiring-reburial-ancientremains-threatens-future-archaeology.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). Daily Mail Reporter 2012. Who was she? Mystery of bejewelled Anglo-Saxon woman found buried beside sacrificial cow in unique discovery. Mail Online 3 July. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2167864/Archaeologists-discoverextremely-rare-burial-site-Anglo-Saxon-woman-sacrificial-cow.html (Accessed 29 June 2015).

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Djanogly, J. 2011. Flexible reburying, The Guardian 9 February. https://www.theguardian. com/science/2011/feb/09/flexible-reburying-archaeology-heritage (Accessed 26 February 2016). Fern, C. 2005. The archaeological evidence of equestrianism in early Anglo-Saxon England, c. 450–700, in A. Pluskowski (ed.) Just Skin and Bones? New Perspectives on Human-Animal Relations in the Historic Past, 43–71, Oxford: British Archaeological Reports International Series, 1410. Fforde, C. 2004. Collecting the Dead: Archaeology and the Reburial Issue, London: Duckworth. Gallagher, S. and Cosgrove-Gibson, F. 2008. Exhuming justice, New Law Journal, 7304. http://www.newlawjournal.co.uk/nlj/content/exhuming-justice (Accessed 29 June 2015). Giesen, M. (ed.) 2013. Caring for the Dead: Changing Attitudes towards Curation of Human Remain in Great Britain, Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer. Gray, J., Sandvoss, C., and Harrington, C. L. 2007. Fandom: Identities and Communities in a Mediated World, New York: New York University Press. Hillsborough Independent Panel 2012. Hillsborough: The Report of the Hillsborough Independent Panel, London: The Stationery Office. Hodder, I. 2000. Towards Reflexive Methods in Archaeology: the Example at Çatalhöyük, McDonald Institute of Archaeological Research/British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, Monograph 289, Oxford: Oxbow. Hodder, I. 2003. Archaeology, reflexivity and the ‘local’ voice, Anthropological Quarterly, 76(1), 55–69. Holtorf, C. 2005. From Stonehenge to Las Vegas: Archaeology as Popular Culture, Oxford: Altamira Press. Holtorf, C. 2007. An archaeological fashion show. How archaeologists dress and how they are portrayed in the media, in T. Clack and M. Brittain (eds) Archaeology and the Media, 69–88, Walnut Creek CA: Left Coast Press. Jenkins, T. 2008. Dead bodies: the changing treatment of human remains in British museum collections and the challenge to the traditional model of the museum, Mortality, 132, 105–18. Jenkins, T. 2010. Contesting Human Remains in Museum Collections: The Crisis of Cultural Authority, Abingdon: Routledge. Kenix, L. 2009. Blogs as alternative, Journal of Computer-Mediated Communication, 14(4), 790–822. Kilmister, H. 2003. Visitor perceptions of Ancient Egyptian human remains in three United Kingdom museums, Papers from the Institute of Archaeology, 14, 57–69. Available from http://pia-journal.co.uk/articles/abstract/10.5334/pia.202 (Accessed 26 February 2016). Levy, A. 2011. Skeletons scattered around grounds of former psychiatric hospital after workman dig up ‘20th century’ graves. Mail Online 11 March. http://www.dailymail. co.uk/news/article-1364928/Workmen-open-20th-century-graves-leave-skeletonsexposed.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). Miller, D. (ed.) 2012. Digital Anthropology, Oxford, Berg. Mills, S. and Tranter, V. 2010. Research into Issues Surrounding Human Bones in Museums, London: English Heritage.

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Moshenska, G. 2009. The reburial issue in Britain, Antiquity, 83, 815–20. Oldenburg, R. 1991. The Great Good Place, New York: Paragon House. Parker Pearson, M., Pitts, M., and Sayer, D. 2013. Changes in policy for excavating humans remains in England and Wales, in M. Giesen (ed.) Curating Human Remains: Caring for the Dead in the United Kingdom, 147–58, Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer. Parker Pearson, M., Schadla-Hall, T., and Moshenska, G. 2011. Resolving the human remains crisis in British Archaeology, Papers from the Institute of Archaeology, 21, http://www.pia-journal.co.uk/articles/10.5334/pia.369/ (Accessed 29 June 2015). Pitts, M. and Sayer, D. 2010. The human remains crisis, British Archaeology, 115, 34–5 http://www.britarch.ac.uk/ba/ba115/index.shtml (Accessed 29 June 2015). Pope, M. 2013. Natives, British Archaeology, 131, 10. Rheingold, H. 2000. The Virtual Community, Cambridge MA: MIT press. Richard III Society. 2011. The Society: Origins. http://www.richardiii.net/aboutus. php#origins (Accessed 25 February 2016). Rosen, J. 2012. The people formerly known as the audience, in M. Mandiberg (ed.) The social media reader, 13–16, New York: New York University Press. Sample, I. 2011. Legislation forces archaeologist to rebury finds, https://www.theguardian. com/science/2011/feb/04/archaeologists-forced-to-rebury-finds (Accessed 26 February 2016). Sayer, D. 2009. Is there a crisis facing British burial archaeology?, Antiquity, 83, 199–205. Sayer, D. 2010a. Ethics and Burial Archaeology, London: Duckworth. Sayer 2010b. Who’s afraid of the dead: archaeology, modernity and the death taboo, World Archaeology, 42(3), 481–91. Sayer, D. and Dickinson, S. D. 2013. Reconsidering obstetric death and female fertility in Anglo-Saxon England, World Archaeology, 45(2), 285–97. Tarlow, S. 2011. Ritual, Belief and the Dead Body in Early Modern Britain and Ireland, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tatton-Brown, T. 2012. The Archaeology of English Royal Burial: a Neglected Subject? Unpublished paper presented to the Society of Antiquaries on the 17 May 2012. Thomas, J. 1996. Introduction: a debate about the ethics of fair practices for collecting social science data in cyberspace, The Information Society, 12(2), 107–18. Thornhill, T. 2012. Cow and woman buried together in bizarre discovery at Anglo-Saxon dig in Cambridgeshire, The Huffington Post 26 June. http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/ 2012/06/26/cow-and-woman-buried-together-anglo-saxon_n_1626848.html (Accessed 29 June 2015). Tong, J., Evans, S., Williams, H., Edwards, N., and Robinson, G. 2015. Vlog to death: Project Eliseg’s video-blogging, Internet Archaeology, 39. http://intarch.ac.uk/ journal/issue39/3/toc.html (29 June 2015).

18 Writing About Death, Mourning, and Emotion Archaeology, Imagination, and Creativity Trevor Kirk

INTRODUCTION: THE CREATIVE IMAGINATION IN ARCHAEOLOGY Imagination has informed ‘the writing of the past’ since the birth of European antiquarianism. However, the prominence and reputation of the archaeological imagination has fluctuated greatly through time. Both a product of its times and a force for change, the archaeological imagination has been variously central to the discipline, marginalized, and ridiculed. Between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, antiquarians such as John Leland, John Aubrey, and William Stukeley referenced druids, proto-Christianity, and classical Rome to creatively people England’s past, producing past worlds that ‘made sense’ in the context of the nationalist politics and religious mores of the time (Daniel 1981; Piggott 1985; Trigger 1989). By contrast, the tendency towards empirical study squeezed imagination to the margins of mid-twentieth-century processual archaeology (Hodder 1989). This chapter picks up some threads of the story of archaeological imagination as it has been ‘written’ during the last few decades, as well as reflecting on some opportunities for the future, specifically in the study of death, mourning, and emotion. In recent years, many archaeologists have experimented with different styles of writing in an attempt to give faces and voices to people in the past. For example, Mark Edmonds (1999) wrote imaginative vignettes of life in Neolithic Britain, while Ruth Tringham (1991) evoked the drama and emotion surrounding the death of people and the burning of houses in Neolithic south-east Europe. These attempts to ‘people the past’ were, at the time, complemented by multi-vocal narratives that sought to give voice to different contemporary interpreters of the

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past, such as Barbara Bender’s collaborative work on Stonehenge and Leskernick (Bender 1998; Bender et al. 1997). These bodies of work encourage us to think critically about the process of writing the past and the ‘will to truth’ in our stories. We are also invited to ask who is writing, whose voices are heard, what types of language are being used, and to what effect. These genres also question the type of past that we wish to write. Narratives may be variously based on power and politics (Parker Pearson and Richards 1999), emotion and bereavement (Tarlow 1999, 2000, 2012), action and performance (Pearson and Shanks 1991; Shanks 2012), material culture and identity (Thomas 1996). The writing to which I refer is characterized by multi-vocality, creativity, and imagination. In this chapter, I will especially concentrate on creativity and imagination. As Sarah Tarlow has argued, ‘no entire separation of (non-fictional) history from (fictional) story is possible. Academic histories are usually at one end of the continuum of more or less “created” narratives; historical romances and films are at the other. No account of the past is free from creative and imaginative input’ (Tarlow 1999: 179). This chapter examines the potential for interdisciplinary collaboration between archaeologists interested in death, mourning, and emotion, and creative writers (especially poets and short-story writers) who draw on archaeology as a metaphor or who are inspired by their own engagements with the materiality of funerary archaeology, such as monuments, graveyards, memorials, bodies, and material culture. I would especially like to argue that metaphor, memory, emotion, and the dialogue between past and present—themes that are current in many archaeologies of death and mourning—may form common ground for future interdisciplinary work. While seeking common ground, I will also consider the distinctive contribution that archaeologists can make to the debate about writing the past. The advantages and limitations for archaeology of collaboration with creative writers will also be considered. There is a well-established tradition of research on the writing of archaeology. Since the late 1980s, archaeologists inspired by post-structuralism, hermeneutics, and the wider field of literary and social theory, have developed a self-critical awareness that knowledge and narrative are produced in the present (Shanks and Tilley 1987a,b; Hodder 1989; Joyce 2002). The past is written in the present or, perhaps more accurately, texts that ‘stand for the past’ articulate something about the past through the lens of contemporary concepts and language. The vignettes written by Edmonds and others are one manifestation of this self-critical awareness. Other self-reflexive work includes so-called interpretive narrative archaeologies: that is to say, ways of articulating archaeology that are meaningful for a broad audience beyond academia, for example, engaging with archaeology through art, literature, storytelling, theatre, television, film, and re-enactment (Jameson et al. 2003). It is such research on the writing of archaeology and the non-textual representation of the past that form the context for this chapter.

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Our understanding of the process of ‘writing the past’ is also enhanced by critical reflection on the nature of imagination, creativity, and cultural improvisation. Writing on the relationships between creativity and cultural improvisation in anthropological research, Ingold and Hallam (2007) argue that creativity should not be defined solely in terms of innovation or, in their terms, as creativity ‘marking unique moments of radical disjuncture’ (Ingold and Hallam 2007: 2). Rather, creativity also enters deeply into the workings of day-to-day improvisation which ‘is the way we work, not only in the ordinary conduct of our everyday lives, but also in our studied reflections on these lives in fields of art, literature, and science’ (Ingold and Hallam 2007: 1) The ‘improvisational creativity’ advocated by Ingold and Hallam (2007: 3)— honing Lévi-Strauss’s (1966) formulation of ‘the creative mind as a bricoleur that is forever engaged in the novel assembly of structures of thought out of the bits of pieces of old ones’ (Ingold 2007: 46)—is a further reference point for the argument developed in this chapter. That is to say, poetic and other creative works are written and interpreted in the flow of everyday life: they are ‘“always in the making” (Jackson 1996: 4) rather than ready-made’ (Ingold and Hallam 2007: 3).

POETRY AND ARCHAEOLOGY In seeking some common ground for interdisciplinary dialogue, I will begin by considering recent research on the relationship between poetry and archaeology. In relation to death, mourning, and emotion, the work of Christine Finn and others (Stallworthy 1982; Purdy 2002; Finn 2003, 2004; Sanders 2009) on Seamus Heaney’s bog poems is especially relevant. Written in the 1970s, the bog poems allowed Heaney to articulate something, both personal and political, about the modern world—ostensibly sectarian violence in Northern Ireland—through reference to bog bodies and ritual killings in prehistoric northern Europe. Using Heaney’s bog poems as an extended case study, Finn argues that poets and archaeologists are both engaged in a transformative process. According to Finn (2003: 72), poets ‘observe and choose seemingly disparate people, places, and things, essentialize them, and pare and trim and hone the words in the heart, in the head, and on the page’. Poets make visible that which is not immediately obvious. They also, like archaeologists, transform their subject matter by considering the different contexts in which an object, person, or place is situated. Different meanings emerge according to context and intent. For example, inspired by a photograph of Tollund Man, Heaney (1972) writes poetry ‘not to articulate archaeology but to create a metaphor for the Irish Troubles’ (Finn 2003: 73). Heaney has been criticized for aestheticizing

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death and for mythologizing the past, as he collapses time and speaks of human universals that link the prehistoric past to the late twentieth century (Lloyd 1995; Purdy 2002). For all that, Heaney renders the past meaningful in the modern world. Less contentiously, the same transformative process can be seen at work in the inspiration that David Constantine takes from a prehistoric tomb on the Isles of Scilly, an inspiration that allows him to say something about the relationship between the living and the dead in the modern world. Writing a highly personal account of visiting an entrance grave on Samson Hill, Bryher, Constantine uses the metaphor of journey by boat to say something about himself and his ideas about death, the living, and the dead. The tomb is boat-shaped in plan (as noted by archaeologists such as Paul Ashbee and Charles Thomas) and sits on a headland looking out to sea, as though setting sail out to sea. Constantine writes: ‘Of course, it is comforting to think of the dead sailing into an afterlife . . . Consolatory, for the living, to wish the dead bon voyage. But in a sense we go with them, we ride upon them, they are a vessel for us. That would be a good, perhaps the best, aspiration in life: to become a vessel in death, a ship, for our loved ones to fare forward in . . . The dead themselves, of their own volition, are going nowhere. So it is easy to reverse the conceit . . . . And say that we, the living, are the vessel, we carry the dead forward, we continue them, they live on in the shape of the life we make.’ (Constantine 2006: 116)

Constantine takes inspiration from archaeology to say something about his perceptions of life and death rather than using the evidence to ‘recreate’ prehistoric life experiences and world-views. It is important to note that neither Heaney nor Constantine claim to say anything about the past as it was. Rather, the process is, as Finn suggests, one of transformation, as archaeological sites and finds stimulate reflection on key contemporary issues. At one level, archaeologists may find this process disturbingly non-archaeological. By that I mean that poets and other creative writers do not always seek to say something about people in the past. Indeed, a feeling for the lives and emotions of people in the past—an agenda dear to archaeologists—recedes into the background to be replaced by a set of presentist concerns, be they political, psychological, emotional, or otherwise. But it is not always true that creative writers uncritically appropriate the past, or that they are unaware of the self-critical reflections of archaeologists as they mediate the relationship between past lives and modern interpretation. For example, Heaney’s Tollund Man evokes the experiences of the once-living man, as well as modern processes of archaeological recovery and public display of the ancient body. Heaney writes: Some day I will go to Aarhus1 To see his peat-brown head, The mild pods of his eye-lids, His pointed skin cap.

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Trevor Kirk In the flat country nearby Where they dug him out, His last gruel of winter seeds Caked in his stomach, Naked except for The cap, noose and girdle, I will stand a long time.

Heaney shows considerable respect for archaeological detail. He also captures something of the emotion and possible horrors of the past. In Punishment Heaney (1975a) writes of the Windeby girl: I can see her drowned body in the bog, the weighing stone, the floating rods and boughs ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... Her shaved head like a stubble of black corn, her blindfold a soiled bandage, her noose a ring

Similarly, in Strange Fruit: (Heaney 1975b) Her broken nose is dark as a turf clod, Her eyeholes blank as pools in the old workings. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... .... Murdered, forgotten, nameless, terrible Beheaded girl . . . . . .

Heaney’s subsequent forging of links between the lives and experiences of people in the distant past and those in the present need not be seen as uncritical presentism; but rather as a creative evocation of archaeology in the context of the modern world. The aim is not to misappropriate the past, to take it out of context, to disrespect the uniqueness of past people’s lives. To the contrary, the aim is to lend a sense of meaning and direction to the past, to make it relevant for today. As Finn has suggested ‘both the archaeologist and the poet [are] mediators of sorts. In the manner of an archaeologist, Heaney, the poet, digs down through layers of personal memory to bring some “thing” to the light . . . .[.] . . . the bog bodies helped him articulate personal feelings about the atrocities in Ireland . . . , while his use of such ancient motifs gives the objects a new audience, outside archaeology, and in the realm of literature’ (Finn 2003: 73). The ‘post-modern’ turn has led archaeologists and poets/writers to be sensitive to ambiguity, fragmentation, and plurality of meaning. Meanings

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are not fixed; encounters with the past are plural and dynamic, they have diverse contexts and consequences, shifting form and content through time. I am reminded of Chris Tilley’s thoughts on rhizome writing in archaeology. He writes: ‘The key point is to give up the attempt to mimic the past in discourse but to produce texts that trace multiple connections between fragments of the past as constituted in the present. Rhizomic discourse on the past continually resituates and rearticulates the fragments weaving together fresh threads of connections rather than being bound by preordained categories that block thought’ (Tilley 1993: 20).

UNIFIED IN O UR DIFFERENCES If we are seeking common ground on which to base interdisciplinary work, then I suggest that the workings of metaphor are fundamentally important. Heaney and others use the metaphor of digging to articulate the way that poets sift through layers of personal and cultural memory. I take digging in this sense to be a self-critical awareness of the historical, political, emotional, and material circumstances of life; to be an awareness of what is, and of the possibilities of what may be. As Jon Stallworthy (1982) has argued: ‘The pen cuts back into the poet’s memory.’ So digging is also memory-work, it is drawing on the past—on personal and cultural memories—to make sense of the world. The metaphor of fieldwork may also help us to think about memory-work in archaeology and creative writing. That is to say, fieldwork is the process of selection and recovery. As Christine Finn has noted: ‘Processes, and the products of those processes, change over time but retain an ability to derive a sense both from their original context and from the context of the archaeologist or poet’ (Finn 2003: 76). Fieldwork and selection are therefore potential ways of thinking about dialectics of past and present in both archaeology and creative writing. Finn returns to Tollund Man as an example of the mediation of meaning through time as Tollund Man becomes, on his discovery, an ‘archaeological artefact’ and, subsequently, a corpse (through autopsy), a museum display, a ‘named’ person in Glob’s (1969) publication The Bog People, and, through Heaney’s poetry, a metaphor for sectarian killing. As Finn notes: ‘Heaney has resurrected the “it” of the Tollund Man—the body is in the present—through the process of poetic metaphor. The same could be argued of the archaeological process, in which the body is brought to light as exposed, analyzed, and displayed’ (Finn 2003: 80). Both creative writers and archaeologists transform the past through their fieldwork, digging, and memory-work.

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There is a substantial body of literature on the use of metaphor in the writing of archaeology. Tilley and others have argued that metaphor underpins all human meaning and is therefore, by definition, central to all forms of narrative. We have seen how Tollund Man has come to ‘stand for’ many different things in the sixty-five years or so since his discovery by peat-cutters: archaeological artefact, human body, medical specimen, museum display, person, allegory for modern events. The metaphors that are chosen, by archaeologists and by poets, are those that emerge from memory-work, fieldwork, and digging. It is our responsibility to explain why these particular metaphors are relevant and worthy of discussion. For example, why do so many archaeologies of death continue to privilege the politics of ritual? Renato Rosaldo’s comments about the study of death in anthropology possibly still apply to many archaeological narratives: ‘Guided by their emphasis on self-contained entities, ethnographies written in accord with classic norms consider death under the rubric of ritual rather than bereavement . . . Ritual itself is defined by its formality and routine; under such descriptions, it more nearly resembles a recipe, a fixed program, or a book of etiquette than an open-ended human process . . . . Ethnographies that in this manner eliminate intense emotions not only distort their descriptions but also remove potentially key variables from their explanations.’ (Rosaldo 2004: 172)

Sarah Tarlow (2000) views emotion as an essential aspect of human life that must be woven into archaeological narratives. If this is the case, then what kinds of writing might best capture the aesthetics of feeling and emotion? In anthropology, Renato Rosaldo has famously and very movingly used personal experience to bridge over to a world of experience not familiar to a Western audience (namely the role of rage in Ilongot grieving). The process of interpretation is confidently grounded in Rosaldo’s personal experience and the dangers of doing so are acknowledged in a straightforward way. Rosaldo writes: ‘My use of personal experience serves as a vehicle for making the quality and intensity of the rage in Ilongot grief more readily accessible to readers than certain more detached modes of composition. At the same time, by invoking personal experience as an analytical category one risks easy dismissal’ (Rosaldo 2004: 172). Rosaldo is grappling to say something about emotional states that are not familiar to us—emotions are not portrayed as universal—yet the point of entry into this other world is familiarity through personal experience. There are parallels here with archaeologists’ and poets’ efforts to bridge gaps of otherness, between cultures, between the past and the present. The archaeology and anthropology of emotion is clearly a broad church spanning many different discursive fields and narrative styles, from the scientific ‘objectivity’ of neuro-evolutionary perspectives that present emotions as universal biological phenomena (Panksepp and Biven 2012) to Rosaldo’s attempts to capture in words the visceral, emotional experiences of individuals.

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Midway along the spectrum, and mindful of the difficulty of accessing individuals’ emotional experiences in the past, Tarlow (2012) suggests that the ‘social emotional values’ of past societies might be the most appropriate level of analysis in future archaeologies of emotion. While beyond the scope of this chapter, critical analysis of the roots and influences of different fields of discourse—from scientific ‘objectivity’ to analysis of value-systems to emotive personal experience—is a potential topic for future research in the archaeology of emotion. Some archaeologists, such as Bender (1998), Tringham (1991), and Joyce (2002), are already celebrating in their archaeological writing what Mikhail Bakhtin (1981) calls heteroglossia and polyphony: the diversity of language forms and voices using those language forms in the modern world. For the purposes of this chapter, welcoming poetic, creative, and imaginative writing into archaeological discourse is simply part of that ongoing process of the opening up of dialogue between different voices. In suggesting that creative writers share some common goals and interpretive problems with archaeologists, I am aware of the danger of apparently privileging a distinctive form of modern Western discourse. It is for that reason that I suggest that collaboration with writers is just one possible component of the development of interpretive narrative archaeologies in the sense explored by Jameson, Finn, and others (Jameson et al. 2003; Finn 2004). I acknowledge that the poet and creative writer do not always seek to write history or prehistory, to say something about the past as it was. But that is all to the good. That is why they are poets and we are archaeologists. Our goals may vary in emphasis, but for all that there is perhaps sufficient common ground for a productive dialogue between us. If we are seriously committed to multi-vocality, if we truly wish to listen to different contemporary engagements with what we call archaeological evidence, then we and creative writers share enough common ground to engage in meaningful dialogue about the nature of memory, metaphor, emotion, and the dialectics of past and present. We often find ourselves searching for an original archaeological contribution to interdisciplinary collaboration. Perhaps here we have a case in which archaeologists are developing subtle and nuanced approaches to dialectics of past and present from which poets and creative writers would benefit. The tendency of poets and writers to see direct parallels between past and present might be reeled in and realigned through dialogue with archaeologists and an appreciation of recent archaeological research on memory-work and the transformative process that links past and present. I feel that poets and writers often break down the dialectic of past and present, skewing the story in favour of the present, telling stories that are about personal and societal experience today, and using the past as a mirror to the present, the past and present sharing essential and universal characteristics. Perhaps we, as archaeologists, can for once play a role in helping other areas of scholarship on the road to maturity.

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Towards the end of writing this chapter, I read Andrew Fleming’s (2006) critique of the ‘hyper-interpretive’ writing of Mark Edmonds (1999). While Fleming’s paper is on post-processual landscape archaeology, some of the points that he raises relate to my argument here. For example, Fleming argues that in seeking to follow Barbara Bender in ‘going beyond the evidence’ (Bender 1998: 7), Edmonds and others risk undervaluing the importance of empirical data. For example, Edmonds’s (1999) chapter on ‘Attending to the dead’ includes a vignette which imagines how archaeologically known practices, such as feasting and the reworking of monuments, might have been experienced by real people: ‘By the fourth day, all had gathered. There was food and drink in great abundance and near fifty mouths to make light work of it. Roasting pits were lit and animals slaughtered: the clearing was alive with talk and activity. Work began around the tomb, the different families labouring side by side. They cut back the scrub and restored the flanking ditches, clearing the ground in readiness for the ceremony. Upcast from the ditches was pitched onto the mound, fresh stone, fresh earth, old shards of pottery and bone.’ (Edmonds 1999: 76)

However, going ‘beyond the data’ does not mean ignoring the data. As Bender (1998: 7) herself notes ‘we still want to work back and forward between our interpretations, our imaginings, and the material remains’. To use imagination in archaeological research is not to say that empirical data is set aside and that our narratives are pure fiction that does not seek to draw upon the materiality of the past. I am not sure that I can agree with Fleming’s suggestion that ‘The more imaginative the text—the looser its connection with data and argument . . . ’ (Fleming 2006: 275). The key here is our different understandings of the term ‘imaginative’. For Fleming, it is a term that connotes complete fictionalization of the past; for me it is part of the creative mechanism whereby we may write about a past, yet do so through close consideration of archaeological data. As some of Fleming’s own writing shows, imagination and empirical rigour are not mutually exclusive. Fleming also begs questions about the status of Edmonds’s vignette narratives. Fleming argues that, in common with Tilley’s (1994, 2004) phenomenological project, Edmonds ‘attempts to evoke past mind-sets, to get closer to the people of the remote past than has previously been attempted by archaeologists’ (Fleming 2006: 271). As Brück (2005) has argued, the universalizing essentialism in Tilley’s phenomenology is indeed problematic. However, do Edmonds and others really argue that their narratives represent the past as it was? I think there is much awareness of the status of archaeological narratives as allegorical statements, as fusions of past and present horizons, as standing for the past rather than representing the past itself, as statements that tally with and work through empirical evidence but which seek to say something relevant for today.

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Conversely, evocative and imaginative writing can be used to champion some dominant contemporary themes at the expense of others. For example, writing about the British Neolithic, Alasdair Whittle (2003: xiii) has offered us: ‘People . . . sweating after carrying a body some distance. The corpse is pale and the sun brings out the smells of death. The light is good enough for the bodies of people previously interred to be glimpsed by those close enough, and if permitted, to peer into chambers: a mixture of whole skeletons, ligaments and disarranged bones, skulls and longbones prominent, suggesting the gradual melting of the human form back into the mass of waiting ancestral remains.’

This is an evocative narrative, but I wonder if it is genuinely producing any new understanding of the past. Is Whittle presenting more than a ‘smellovision’ version of a conventional archaeological narrative that foregrounds Neolithic power relations, differential access to place and knowledge, and the dissolution of bodies and identity in the British Earlier Neolithic? As Tarlow (1999) has suggested, the narratives of power and ritual, whilst important, can overshadow and swamp other vital aspects of the human condition, such as emotion, grieving, and mourning.

FINAL THOUG HTS AND FUTURE DIRECTION S I began this chapter by noting that imagination has been a feature of archaeological and antiquarian writing since the sixteenth century, with the form and prominence of archaeological imagination being informed by—and in some sense contributing to—the intellectual, cultural, political, and religious mores of the times. Several recent works on archaeological imagination (Wallace 2004; Sanders 2009; Shanks 2012) include historiographical analyses that significantly add to our understanding of the processes that drive the writing of different archaeologies, both now and in the past. While beyond the scope of this chapter, the argument that I have developed here supports further detailed historiographical studies of the archaeological imagination in different times and places. Such future work would also begin to address some of the unanswered (and in some cases unasked) questions in this chapter. For example, as a prehistorian I have favoured works—both archaeological and poetic—that are concerned with death, metaphor, and transformation in a limited range of prehistoric contexts. However, it is not simply a matter of considering the ways in which historical archaeology fuels the creative imagination; indeed, there is already a growing body of literature on this theme (Hines 2004; Wallace 2004; Shanks 2012). Future research could productively also consider the act of excavating human remains (papers in Hodder 2000 offer some

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routes into this theme), as well as the ways in which we experience bodies and the paraphernalia of death in museums (helpful leads being offered by Sanders 2009). In the meantime, this chapter is an appeal to openly assess the nature of creative imagination in archaeologies of death but, by extension, also in our wider engagement with the archaeological past.

ENDNOTE 1. Heaney knew that Tollund Man is displayed in Silkeborg but deliberately wrote that he would go to Aarhus because Aarhus better fits the metre of the poem. Grauballe Man is displayed in Moesgård Museum, Aarhus (see Nordström this volume and Nilsson Stutz this volume).

BIBLOIOGRAPHY Bakhtin, M. M. 1981. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays by M.M. Bakhtin, translated by Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist, Austin: University of Texas Press. Bender, B. 1998. Stonehenge. Making Space, Oxford: Berg. Bender, B., Hamilton, S., and Tilley, C. 1997. Leskernick: stone worlds, nested landscapes, alternative narratives, Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, 63, 147–78. Brück, J. 2005. Experiencing the past? The development of a phenomenological archaeology in British prehistory, Archaeological Dialogues, 12(1), 45–72. Constantine, D. 2006. Surviving: burial chambers, Samson Hill, Bryher, the Isles of Scilly, in D. W. Davies (ed.) Megalith, 113, Llandysul: Gomer Press. Daniel, G. 1981. Towards a History of Archaeology, London: Thames and Hudson. Edmonds, M. 1999. Ancestral Geographies of the Neolithic, London: Routledge. Finn, C. 2003. Poetry and archaeology: the transformative process, in J. Jameson, J. E. Ehrenhard, and C. Finn (eds) Ancient Muses: Archaeology and the Arts, 72–81, Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press. Finn, C. 2004. Past Poetic. Archaeology in the Poetry of W.B. Yeats and Seamus Heaney, London: Duckworth. Fleming, A. 2006. Post-processual landscape archaeology: a critique, Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 16(3), 267–80. Glob, P. V. 1969. The Bog People. Iron-Age Man Preserved, London: Faber and Faber. Heaney, S. 1972. Tollund Man, in S. Heaney, Wintering Out, 31–2, London: Faber and Faber. Heaney, S. 1975a. Punishment, in S. Heaney, North, 71–2, London: Faber and Faber. Heaney, S. 1975b. Strange Fruit, in S. Heaney, North, 32, London: Faber and Faber. Hines, J. 2004. Voices in the Past. English Literature and Archaeology, Cambridge: D.S. Brewer. Hodder, I. 1989. Writing archaeology, Antiquity, 63, 268–74. Hodder, I. (ed.) 2000. Towards Reflexive Method in Archaeology: The Example at Çatalhöyük, Cambridge, McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research and British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara.

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Ingold, T. 2007. Introduction (Modes of Creativity in Life and Art), in E. Hallam and T. Ingold (eds) Creativity and Cultural Improvisation, 45–54, Oxford: Berg. Ingold, T. and Hallam, E. 2007. Creativity and cultural improvisation: an introduction, in Hallam, E. and Ingold, T. (eds) Creativity and Cultural Improvisation, 1–24, Oxford: Berg. Jackson, M. 1996. Things As They Are: New Directions in Phenomenological Anthropology, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Jameson, J., Ehrenhard, J. E., and Finn, C. (eds) 2003. Ancient Muses: Archaeology and the Arts, Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press. Joyce, R. 2002. The Languages of Archaeology: Dialogue, Narrative, and Writing, Oxford: Blackwell. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1966. The Savage Mind, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lloyd, D. 1995. Pap for the dispossessed [Heaney and the Postcolonial Moment], in R. F. Garratt (ed.) Critical Essays on Seamus Heaney, 121–38, New York: G.K. Hall. Panksepp, J. and Biven, L. 2012. The Archaeology of Mind: Neuroevolutionary Origins of Human Emotions, New York: W.W. Norton. Parker Pearson, M. and Richards, C. (eds) 1999. Architecture and Order. Approaches to Social Space, London: Routledge. Piggott, S. 1985. William Stukeley: An Eighteenth-Century Antiquary, New York: Thames and Hudson. Purdy, A. 2002. The bog body as mnemotope: nationalist archaeologies in Heaney and Tournier, Style, 36(1), 93–110. Pearson, M. and Shanks, M. 1991. Theatre/Archaeology, London: Routledge. Rosaldo, R. 2004. Grief and a headhunter’s rage, in N. Scheper-Hughes and P. I. Bourgois (eds) Violence in War and Peace, 150–6, Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Sanders, K. 2009. Bodies in the Bog and the Archaeological Imagination, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Shanks, M. 2012. The Archaeological Imagination, Walnut Creek CA: Left Coast Press. Shanks, M. and Tilley, C. 1987a. Social Theory and Archaeology, Cambridge: Polity Press. Shanks, M. and Tilley, C. 1987b. Re-Constructing Archaeology. Theory and Practice, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stallworthy, J. 1982. W. B. Yeats and Seamus Heaney: the poet as archaeologist, The Review of English Studies, 32(130), 158–74. Tarlow, S. 1999. Bereavement and Commemoration: An Archaeology of Mortality, London: Blackwell. Tarlow, S. 2000. Emotion in archaeology, Current Anthropology, 41(5), 713–45. Tarlow, S. 2012. The archaeology of emotion and affect, Annual Review of Anthropology, 41, 169–85. Thomas, J. 1996. Time, Culture and Identity. An Interpretative Archaeology, London: Routledge. Tilley, C. 1993. Introduction: interpretation and a poetics of the past, in C. Tilley (ed.) Interpretative Archaeology, 1–27, Oxford: Berg. Tilley, C. 1994. A Phenomenology of Landscape: Places, Paths and Monuments, Oxford: Berg. Tilley, C. 2004. The Materiality of Stone: Explorations in Landscape Phenomenology, Oxford: Berg. Trigger, B. 1989. A History of Archaeological Thought, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Tringham, R. 1991. Households with faces: the challenge of gender in prehistoric architectural remains, in J. Gero. and M. Conkey (eds) Engendering Archaeology: Women in Prehistory, 93–131, Oxford: Blackwell. Wallace, J. 2004. Digging the Dirt: The Archaeological Imagination, London: Duckworth. Whittle, A. 2003. The Archaeology of People: Dimensions of Neolithic Life, London: Routledge.

19 Reconstructing Death The Chariot Burials of Iron Age East Yorkshire Melanie Giles

I N T R O D U C TI O N Visitors to the Hull and East Riding Museum used to reach the climax of the Iron Age exhibition, Celtic World, by coming face-to-face with the extraordinary funerary offerings from three chariot burials at Wetwang Slack (Dent 1985). Now removed for urgent conservation, the iron swords from two male burials, their scabbards decorated with intricate, incised Celtic art, and the corroded iron mirror and sealed bronze container from the female burial, were displayed in Perspex cases. Beads of red glass ‘enamel’ adorned both swords and box, and a slender iron pin shone with a thin strip of glowing gold, entwined around a coral bead. These artefacts are marvellous testimonies to Iron Age craft skill, speaking of the repertoire of decorated objects through which power amongst these communities was underpinned and reproduced (Giles 2008). Behind these cases, setting the scene for these personal possessions or funerary gifts, is an oversized image—now the focus of that section of the museum: a reproduction of Peter Connolly’s impressive and moving reconstruction of a chariot burial (Fig. 19.1), loosely modelled on the Kirkburn K5 inhumation (see Stead 1991) and painted in the late 1980s. The image shows a tableau of mourners surrounding a grave, in which has been interred the body of an adult male (Fig. 19.1). He is lying over the wheels of a dismantled chariot, with a shield placed over his chest, and forequarters of pig lain on top. The box of the chariot (still attached to the pole shaft) is being lowered over the body like a coffin, before the grave is back-filled. The participants in this ceremony are predominantly male, with one woman at the edge in an apparent state of grief: two others are in the background, one keeping a pair of children at a distance from the proceedings. Two ponies are being led away from the scene, tossing their heads as if perturbed by the event.

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Fig. 19.1 Peter Connolly’s reconstruction of an Iron Age chariot burial (© akg-images/ Peter Connolly)

Such images have a powerful, instantaneous impact: ‘act[ing] at a distance, across the gallery, in a way a block of text cannot’ (James 1999a: 121). They remind us that far from being an end point, the gallery is a space of archaeological interpretation: a mutual product of analysis and creative imagination (James 1999a: 130; Swogger 2000). When such displays address issues of death and burial, they not only help humanize but even ‘sacralize’ the past (Swain 2007 cited in Williams 2009: 192). Aesthetically, Connolly’s image is impressive, based on established archaeological detail. There is a sense of drama and choreography, of emotion amongst both human and animal participants, and discussion or debate going on between a younger and more senior male figure. The landscape context and chalky gravel bedrock are based accurately on the local Wolds landscape and environmental evidence from the excavation of these cemeteries. Yet there are also aspects that we would now criticize: the image’s use of tartan-style clothing and limed hair—contemporary visual cues for ‘Celtic’ people—drawn from modern cultural stereotypes rather than explicit evidence from these burials. The swords are shown as if worn at the waist, improbably hung from their mid-scabbard suspension loop: an unlikely arrangement which was debated by Stead (1991: 68), who used the archaeological evidence to suggest they were generally worn across the back. The men have short, limed hair and

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Fig. 19.2 Reconstruction of Worsley Man (Courtesy of Manchester Museum, The University of Manchester: © Manchester Museum)

neatly trimmed beards, greatly resembling the visage of Lindow Man or Worsley Man—late Iron Age or early Roman bog bodies from Britain who were the subject of facial reconstructions in the late 1980s—their appearance perhaps based as much on contemporary male archaeologists rather than notions of Iron Age hairstyles or beards (Fig. 19.2)! Meanwhile the role of women and children is marginalized, suggesting that this particular rite of passage was predominantly the purview of adult men. In addition, there are few elderly figures, perhaps implying a curtailed lifespan in these agricultural communities. There is then, a sense of conformity to various stereotypes of Iron Age society, which does little to disrupt or challenge the viewer’s expectations. Whilst this lack of marginalized identity groups (children, women, and the elderly) is symptomatic of wider archaeological research and discourse (Moore and Scott 1997; Gilchrist 1999; Stig Sørensen 2000), the danger here is that such images are often the most accessible archaeological product consumed by a public audience, with a currency that long outlasts the original discovery. Their reach and impact should not be underestimated. In fairness to the Hull and East Riding Museum, Connolly’s image is counterbalanced earlier in the exhibition by a three-dimensional diorama featuring a female leader, arriving in a chariot, adorned with a sword. However, in both cases, in terms of dress and motif, this is a ‘familiar’ Iron Age (Hill 1989), for consumption by a 1980s–1990s audience.

RECONSTRUCTING I RON AGE LIFE AND DEATH Considering the period and cultural context in which Connolly’s image was commissioned, we should not be too critical: each era has its own visual discourse or language, in which the expectations of both specialists and the general public are framed, and within which artists and illustrators must work (James 1999a: 121). It is still, after all, one of the rare instances in which death

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in the Iron Age has been visually represented (see below). Although a reconstruction of the Llyn Cerrig Bach chariot, commissioned by Cyril Fox in the mid-twentieth century, also incorporated data from chariots found in burials (Jody Joy, pers. comm.; see Aldhouse Green 1996, fig. 75), the final threedimensional model further distances the viewer from the funerary context in which these objects are often found. The general rarity of funerary images, even in ‘popular’ Iron Age books, may reflect the perceived paucity of burial evidence from this period, and the unsuitability of some rites—such as excarnation—for illustration (James 1996: 34). Yet it may also be part of a wider trend in academia that devalues visualization as an archaeological tool (James 1996: 24; Perry 2009: 391, 2012: 2). Part of the problem for some scholars is a legacy of reconstruction images that portray the human past as ‘static, timeless, uncomplicated or easily knowable’ (Perry 2009: 392): used to perpetuate rather than disrupt stereotypes. Illustrating the Iron Age involves some particular risks. The iconic visual shorthand for the Celts consists of a series of motifs (limed or red hair, blue woad-based body art, tartan-style clothing), drawn from reports by classical authors, for which firm archaeological evidence in Britain is often lacking (James 1996: 38). In addition, romanticized tropes of vigour and artistic dynamism, valour and passion, and a close-to-nature spiritualism continue to dominate both static and moving images relating to the Iron Age (Piccini 1996). Such portrayals have been used (consciously or not) to support the notion of a unified Celtic ‘people’ or at least shared ‘spirit’ or cultural style, in both positive and negative terms (see critiques by Merriman 1987; Chapman 1992; James 1999b; Collis 2003; Morse 2005). Ironically, this has enabled Celts to be utilized either as a symbol of European unity or the marginalized ‘Other’ at the fringe of the West: separate and diverse (Collis 1996: 172). More recently, such ideas have permeated Celtic visitor centres and heritage sites, reinforcing what Gruffudd et al. (1999: 720) have called ‘nostalgic nationalisms’ and ‘self-affirming discourses of race’. Both the politics and poetics of representing such cultures matters (Lidchi 1997), not least because of the way in which the Iron Age is often drawn upon by contemporary communities who identify themselves as ‘Celtic’ (James 1999b). Common themes for reconstructions include chariots in full flight (illustrated in another image by Peter Connolly, as well as in Cunliffe 1995: plate 13), armed fighters (such as the tattooed sling-shot throwers at Maiden Castle: Cunliffe 1995: fig. 71), or the helmet-clad warrior figure at the Andover Museum of the Iron Age (Cunliffe 1995: fig. 7)—images which owe a debt to the Gaulish warrior motif featured in nineteenth-century art (Champion 1997)—and feasting scenes (as in the all-male, wine-drenched event depicted in Cunliffe 1995: plate 7). Yet there is also a repertoire of contrastive images focusing on life in the roundhouse (Cunliffe 1995: fig. 21; Davison 2001: 14) and various aspects of agriculture or craft production (e.g. Cunliffe 1995: figs 29 and 30, plate 6;

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Davison 2001: 14–17). Whilst these can feed into the image of a pastoral, domesticated Iron Age criticized by Hill (1989), when used well they can prompt us to think more critically about relations between people, land, craftwork, and technology, as well as animal life. The work of Judith Dobie is exemplary here, conjuring a diverse community in which men and women are mutually involved in these tasks (e.g. Cunliffe 1995: figs 85, 86 and Davison 2001: 15). Peter Connolly’s image of an Iron Age noble couple was also designed to convey the intimate relationship between husband and wife, though even this was interpreted by some viewers as representing an unequal power dynamic on the basis of difference in height and adornment (James 1999a: 123). This example reminds us that archaeologists can never fully control the dissemination and reading of such images (Williams 2009: 174). In this case, the response probably reflected wider academic dissatisfaction with how gender, age, and status is all too often uncritically represented in images of the past. This problem is inherent in one of the earliest pairs of visualizations based on the Iron Age—Amédée Forestier’s Glastonbury Lake Village images— produced for the Illustrated London Evening News (11 December 1911). These pictures illustrated the return of a wildfowl-hunting party to a jetty, and an interior roundhouse scene. As Phillips (2005: 83–5) has astutely argued, whilst setting a new standard (incorporating specific finds, architectural and environmental evidence from the site), they are not only replete with Celtic visual icons (including a display of severed heads!) but naturalize Edwardian social relations, specifically a two-tier hierarchy of nobles and servants, within a patriarchal household. Apart from a babe-in-arms and a bearded senior male, children and the elderly are once more scarce. In contrast, the figural diorama produced as part of the Festival of Britain (1951) celebrations (curated at the Jewry Wall Museum, Leicester: Fig. 19.3), portrays the nuclear family of father, mother, and two children (plus dog), bedecked with some of the finest Iron Age artefacts known at the time, including torcs, and a bronze ‘bucket’ (Laura Hadland, pers. comm.). In both of these cases, stylized norms about domestic and social life have been transferred from the present to the past: naturalizing the character of contemporary family and class relations. In contrast, the stereotype of Iron Age society commonly found in modern academic texts or museum settings is well illustrated by Simon James (1993: fig. 53). James visualizes the classical authors’ descriptions of a patriarchal and hierarchical society in which women are literally marginalized or kept in the background, and in which children and infants, as well as the elderly, are more or less non-existent. Men are depicted as specialists in art and craftwork, or as full-time warriors. Yet aspects of this portrayal do not ring true with the diversity of demographic profiles and burial evidence we have for regions such as East Yorkshire (see Giles 2012). One of the most compelling types of images of the Iron Age used both in textbooks and museum displays are those drawn from experimental

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Fig. 19.3 The Iron Age family, Festival of Britain diorama (© Jewry Wall Museum, Leicester Arts and Museums Service)

reconstructions. These range from aspects of agricultural and domestic life (such as the Butser Ancient Farm Project) to individual artefacts such as the Llyn Cerrig Bach slave chain (which adorned the necks of student volunteers for research undertaken by Miranda Aldhouse Green: see Aldhouse Green 2004) or the Wetwang Village chariot (reconstructed for a Meet the Ancestors television episode and driven through the streets of London by Mike Loades: Jody Joy, pers. comm.) These lively, photo-realistic images of Iron Age life provoke the imagination and have been complemented by televisual reconstructions of the moments of death preceding bog body burials. Yet the more formal rites of inhumation, cremation, or excarnation have yet—as far as I am aware—to be reconstructed in this manner. The few graphic visualizations that do depict death in the Iron Age also tend to draw on the same body of stereotypes. An image of excarnation (Cunliffe 1995: fig. 84) opts for the moment of ‘laying out’ the dead (so no unpleasant decomposition needs to be shown), surrounded by an all-male ensemble of adult mourners, accompanied by two younger boys. Groves of trees overshadow totemic carved figures, pots, and baskets full of offerings. Meanwhile, the reconstruction by Peter Froste of a late Iron Age/early Roman cremation burial at Stanway (first published in Crummy 1993: fig. 1, and again in Crummy et. al. 2007) is replete with a male druidic figure presiding over the event. There is a strong sense of performance surrounding the interment of cremated remains, including an eye-catching tableau of grave goods laid out

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for the mourners. However, men with moustaches once more dominate the scene, children are rare, and the chequered clothing alludes to the indigenous ‘Celtic’ nature of the rite, balanced against evidence for Roman influences in the accompanying grave-goods. A similar image provides the frontispiece for the Folly Lane report, illustrating pre-cremation rites in the funerary shaft (Pearson, in Niblett 1999). Lime-haired, tattooed, bare-chested men in tartan trousers, drink the health of the recently deceased individual laid out in his finery on a couch. Two female figures (one young, one old) stand more passively by, holding vessels, though another may be depicted intoning rites or loudly grieving in the corner of the scene. This paucity of images of Iron Age burials and mortuary rites more generally, is in sharp contrast to visualizations for other periods, especially the early Bronze Age or early medieval era. Perhaps this is because of the relative attraction of these furnished inhumations, in contrast to the plurality of funerary strategies employed in the last millennium BC, many of which are difficult or too contentious to illustrate. Such mortuary rites do include formal inhumations (in regions such as East Yorkshire and late Iron Age Dorset) but also cremations like Stanway (from late Iron Age south-east Britain), cist burials (in the Atlantic zone), excarnation (Wessex and other regions), and even the ‘mummified’ remains of bog bodies (northern Britain, Scotland, and Ireland). We have to remember that the primary purpose of such images is often for consumption within a public context: in Britain in particular, a lack of familiarity with the process of death and decomposition inhibits the portrayal of the more graphic aspects of these rites. Images of burials are traditionally used to humanize skeletonized remains, evoking both the place and full wealth of a burial (which may include organic materials of which only a few tantalizing traces might remain). They can also be used to depict the intimate family and wider community of the living, who might mourn the deceased. These motivations should apply equally to representations of the Iron Age. An additional reason why museums and publications might favour depictions of life rather than death is the risk of straying into the debated field of emotions which we cannot assume were universals in the past (see Parker Pearson 1999; Tarlow 1999). Yet as Williams argues, suggesting burial displays are of pure educational and scientific value, is to seemingly offer ‘engagement with death and mortality without mourning’ (2010: 45). Exhibiting the dead is emotive: the sanitized control offered by a display case does not neutralize these encounters. The labels associated with Lindow Man (British Museum) or the Irish bog bodies (National Museum of Ireland), for example, do not shy away from the violence and suffering associated with their death. Inevitably, people are prompted to react: reflecting upon their response as well as imagining emotions in the past. As archaeologists we need to critically consider the role and consequences of such displays, for the way in which we frame these ‘stories’ (both textually and visually) matters. People

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may identify with such events or be shocked and appalled by them. Ultimately it is in this interpretive struggle that the ‘difference’ of the past is preserved.

THEORI ZING THE VISUALIZATION OF DEATH AND BURIAL In order to understand why such images of the dead are so rare in the UK, we need to further theorize the relationship between mortality, burial, and representation. The creation of any such image has to face the problem of contemporary society’s difficult relationship with death (at least in the UK), and the common perception of a corpse as a feared phenomenon: Kristeva’s ‘abject’ (see Nilsson Stutz 2001: 58). Should we therefore avoid such a contentious subject matter? At its crux, this article argues that if we do so, we risk making the ancient dead ‘unvisible’ to us, through a failure of representation (see Scarry 1985: 22). Moreover, skilful and sensitive visualizations of ancient death can be part of a strategic attempt to create a public arena in which mortality can be encountered and debated, to the benefit of future generations (Giles 2009, 2013). Whatever our issues, it is clear that many past cultures had no such qualms in depicting death. Whether we are dealing with the visceral worm-infested momento mori of medieval funerary sculpture (Binski 1996), the tenderly plastered skulls of the Neolithic Near East (Croucher 2012), or the dead-eyed and straight-mouthed decapitated heads on Iron Age stone sculpture and La Tène metalwork (Armit 2012), different societies developed their own iconographic grammars for representing the deceased. Such images help us to unpick the historical and ideological conventions which govern these visual lexicons, whether they were deployed in memory of respected relatives or reviled foes. Yet the current problem of visualizing the dead is not simply a matter of cultural sensibilities or historical taste, as discussed above: there are deeper issues at play here. Representations are outcomes of the work to produce and circulate meaning within a culture (Hall 1997). Yet events which take place outside of language, and are defined by their deeply embodied, ‘extreme materiality’, tend to ‘resist representation’ (Scarry 1994: 11). The foci of Scarry’s work are the experiences of pain and labour, but we can consider death as perhaps the most ‘unknowable’ and resistant event in the human life cycle, which makes it unsusceptible to representation. Like pain, it poses serious questions about how we represent an interiorized experience through the external surface of a body, and like work, it demands that we sever what is in fact a moment (‘death as an event’) from the longer process of dying and the post-mortem process of burial and mourning. Scarry argues that the most successful representations of

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work tend to blur the boundary between human body, tools, materials, and tasks: creating a relational unity of what archaeologists might now term an ‘entangled assemblage’. Whether this is a character in a novel by Hardy or a peasant bent double under a load in a Millet painting, Scarry argues that labour is most persuasively represented when these bodies are depicted in gestural flows of action: capturing the embodied materiality and ongoing rhythm of work (1994: 57 and 68). In contrast, the dead can be characterized by their inaction: the stilled or quieted body severed from its work and relations—whether that is a graphic moment of sudden death or the composed and framed body prepared for a funeral. Nevertheless, in such images we might seek to depict how that relational assemblage is created around the corpse through the gestures and exchanges of the living. Whilst this provides us with a model of how we might depict bodies in death, any single image risks being (in Edwards’ words) a ‘visual incision’ in time and space (2001: 3). Molyneux describes this as the ‘inertia’ of a picture (1997) and it was this effect of photographs—rupturing experience, cutting it out of its lived context—that Berger and Mohr tackled in their ground-breaking photo-essay, ‘If Each Time . . . ’, in the volume Another Way of Telling (1982). One of the other strategies we might therefore use is a short sequence or pair of images which explicitly conjure the notion of death as a process. We now take it as axiomatic that the medium we use plays a constituent role in encoding the ‘reality’ it seeks to represent: layered with ideological meanings which will be culturally and historically contingent (Alvarado et al. 2001: 3). In other words, the medium will be part of the message. So, the use of oil or gouache may conjure a sense of quality, authority, and timelessness because it alludes subconsciously to art historical uses of this medium. Digitized imagery conveys an aura of accuracy and attentiveness to detail: Bradford University’s ‘Digitised Diseases’ project (http://www.digitiseddiseases.org/alpha/) offers a pioneering visual resource for medical and historical scholars to analyse causes of ancient pain and mortality in close detail, but this means individual bones are divorced from the biography of the deceased and their funerary rite. Meanwhile, the British Museum’s Ancient Lives, New Discoveries exhibition (building on its ‘Virtual Autopsy’ media resource and prior exhibition: Mummy: the Inside Story) has championed the value of non-invasive CT scanning and high-resolution X-ray imaging as a mode not just of analysis but as an exhibitionary tool. In this gallery, it is not the actual face from the past which forms the locus of engagement but rather the 3-D ‘layers’ of bone, tissue, and flesh which comprise the corpse, and its wrappings, offerings, and casings (Taylor and Antoinne 2014). Drawn from medical visualization (Antoine and Ambers 2014: 26) such images of the dead appear more neutral in their composition and thus authoritative, yet they may also be perceived as lacking the creative, aesthetic, and personable dimensions of other media. Meanwhile, photo-montages, pencil sketches, or graphic artwork foreground

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their creative and provisional, interpretive dimension: these images are contemporary products of the moment, and often appear more ‘open’ to the possibility of ‘re-vision’. In theorizing the relationship between death and its representation, I have suggested the root of the issue may lie not only in contemporary distantiation from death in the UK but a deeper problem with representing the most unknowable event of the human condition. Yet I have also suggested ways in which this might be attempted in terms of image content, framing, and medium. In the next section, I will evaluate how these ideas relate to existing images of the ancient dead.

A CRITICAL A RCHAEOLOGY OF FUNERARY REPRESENTATION Sadly, critical archaeological literature on the portrayal of the dead is virtually non-existent, and usually extends only so far as debates over authenticity or artistic merit (Williams 2009: 175). Even in guidance documentation, the use of images of human remains or their visualization is rarely discussed (Antoine 2014: 7). In contrast, there is now a good range of publications debating our professional mandate for displaying human remains and how the public respond to such exhibitions (see Swain 2002; Carroll 2005; Goodnow 2006; Lohman 2006; Cleal 2008; Thackray and Payne 2008; Williams 2010). A notable exception is the work of Howard Williams (2009, 2010), who has extensively reviewed the portrayal of the Anglo-Saxon dead in both museums and publications. He identifies several trends in the illustration of the dead: a preference for the visualization of the remarkable or exceptional over the standard or mundane (Williams 2009: 172); for illustration of the ‘living dead’ (costumed and portrayed as alive, or at least, only recently deceased: Williams 2009: 182); and for static ‘snapshot’ images (often in aerial mode or from a privileged vantage point in the proceedings). Whilst such illustrations help humanize the past and celebrate its most spectacular mortuary performances (such as the Sutton Hoo ship burial: Williams 2009: 188–90), they are at the expense of appreciating the most common rites or plurality of practices which might actually characterize the period (Williams 2009: 188–90). Nevertheless, there are some laudable recent examples that manage to challenge reconstruction conventions and portray death in a thoughtful manner. Victor Ambrus’s portfolio of work (developed over a long period of time for the programme Time Team) has captured a vast array of different Anglo-Saxon funerals, and uses black-and-white shading to illustrate

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speculative aspects of a mortuary scene (clothing, hair, organic remains) whilst more solid evidence such as grave goods are illustrated in blocked colour (Williams 2009: 185). Williams’s own Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain (2006) is illustrated by three black-and-white visualizations by Aaron Watson. All three feature funerary ‘scenes’ rather than grave reconstructions, situating the burial within the social context in which it was created (Williams 2009: 186). The captions elaborate the innovative aspects of these images. The first features the preparing and dressing of the dead, employing the viewer’s perspective as that of one of the mourners, whose outstretched hands cup a delicate brooch with which to adorn the corpse before burial (Williams 2006: fig. 2.1). Within the house in which the deceased is laid, relatives look on respectfully, whilst a larger crowd—gathered outside—crane for a better view, emphasizing the public nature of these events (Williams 2006: 47). The second image illustrates a cremation pyre, where the mourners are partly obscured by the fury of the flames (Williams 2006: fig. 3.1). This visualization conveys the dramatic and sensorial experience of this rite, and emphasizes the theme of corporeal dissolution. The final image depicts a funeral party gathered around an ancient prehistoric monument, in which one of their own dead is being interred (Williams 2006: fig. 6.4). Riders on horseback brave a rain-lashed downland landscape: overseeing an inhumation, which is the focus again of a mass gathering. The performative nature of the rite is conveyed in the use of contrastive figures (some intent on the proceedings, others gossiping in the margins) and the atmosphere is conjured using the grainy effects of weather to shroud the event. In contrast to the photo-realistic style of Watson’s images, two recent Iron Age examples utilize a more cartoon-based or manga-influenced, graphic novel style to convey the very violent deaths of two ‘bog bodies’. Niels Bach’s illustrations for Tollund Man (published on the Silkeborg Museum website: http://www.tollundman.dk/illustrationer.asp) depict both the moment of discovery and removal of the body from site, as well as a hypothetical sequence depicting his last meal, hanging, and burial in the bog. As part of a wider cycle of images on Iron Age life and death (which include depictions of peat cutting, ploughing, family life, warfare, and a visceral cremation scene), a good sense of context is conjured for the sequence of events that preceded the death (Fischer 2008). In contrast to the colour palette employed by Bach, Aoife Patterson’s cycle of striking black-and-white images on the death of Lindow Man (Fig. 19.4), make dramatic use of sparse colour to identify the victim and enhance the moment of violent bloodshed and deposition. What is interesting about both of artists’ responses to violent killing and deposition is the strategic use of a ‘graphic’ style. They can be framed within the growing use of comics to illustrate archaeology (Swogger 2012) and of archaeology as a source of inspiration for graphic novels. This form of artwork has the ability to use sequential media to convey complex narratives

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Fig. 19.4 The death of Lindow Man (© Aoife Patterson: selected from a sequence of 10 images)

and bridge gaps in communication with diverse (especially young) audiences (Williams 2009: 199) as in ‘The Killing of the Ice Man’ designed by Alex Maleev (with Ariel Furlong) for National Geographic (November 2011, see Swogger 2011). In a review of this commission by Juan Velasco (Art Director for National Geographic), he justifies Maleev’s style of representation because of its many qualities: ‘cinematic composition . . . mastery of the human figure, and the edgy, dark, textured scene’ which enabled them to approach this individual’s dying moments as a ‘true “noir” graphic novel’. Working with Maleev on the final arrangement and composition of his artwork, he strongly advocates the use of an image sequence to tell the story, since ‘the panelled scenes and rhythmic composition’ created the ‘motion and drama’ needed to tell such a story (Velasco 2012). The images by both Bach and Patterson, like those of Maleev, are stark, conjuring a sense of distance—even myth—relating to these traumatic deaths, whilst also drawing on their narrative power to unfold a complex story. In each case, a topic normally considered too gruesome for illustration has arguably been sensitively negotiated through an appropriate medium, and the image sequences challenge the viewer to engage in the wider explanation of these apparently barbaric events (see Giles 2009).

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VISUALIZATION AS A COLLABORATIVE RESEARCH PROCESS What is evident from the above examples is that visualization is an interpretive process, involving critical engagement between fragmentary evidence, the archaeological imagination, and the skilled choice of illustrative medium and technology (James 1999a: 117–18). Such images have cultural lives (Molyneux 1997): they are powerful, and can actively shape arguments about the human past, rather than merely illustrating events (Moser 1992). They can even become icons that define the period in question (Williams 2009: 174), persisting long after the ideas represented in them have fallen out of favour (a property of imagery described by Molyneux as historical ‘inertia’, 1997: 6). Even those intended for public consumption can be strategically used as tools of enquiry (Perry 2011), positing alternate scenarios or interpretations (James 1996). This is to argue for the dialogic potential even of factual-based imagery (see Roberts 1998). When used critically in this way, they help reveal the open-ended process of archaeological interpretation (and see arguments on the literary dimensions of this issue in Kirk, this volume). The medium utilized by Bach and Patterson also helps acknowledge visualizations as ‘tentative’ artworks (James 1996: 25): ‘shifty, constructed, expressive modes of engagement’ (Perry 2009: 397). We should no longer think of these images simply as an end point: the glossy front cover for a book or museum poster (James 1996: 25). The explicit foregrounding of the context and purpose of their production—the specificity of authorship, the historicity of image making—is vital in producing the ‘productive tension’ (James 1996: 398) which will move visualization away from a mere illustration of evidence, and position it firmly within the research process. It restores to such work an ‘interruptive’ potential (Roberts 1998). There are promising signs: visualization artists have received a higher public profile, for example in television programmes, such as Victor Ambrus of Time Team or Jane Brayne of Meet the Ancestors. Used to illustrate either the moment of burial or a reconstruction of how the deceased might have looked in life, it shows illustrators actively engaged in the interpretive process. Such artists are increasingly disseminating the corpus of their work—including sketch drawings, plans, and explicit discussion of their research—as with Peter Dunn’s (2012) article on illustrating Stonehenge, or the archive of images by Niels Bach on the Silkeborg website. This increases awareness of the dialectical and reflexive process of visualization, and is an important part of the ‘enskillment’ or ‘education of attention’ of both public and professionals alike (Perry 2009: 397). In the case of the latter, the role of the VIA (Visualisation in Archaeology) Workshops (2008–9) and Conferences (2010), funded by English Heritage, have proved pivotal.

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THE I RON AGE CHARIOT BURIALS OF EAST YORKSHIRE Embracing the potential of this revitalized field of visualization, a new image was commissioned by the author, from the illustrator Aaron Watson (funded through a research grant from the University of Manchester). As an archaeologist working on the chariot burials from East Yorkshire, I wanted to redress the issues identified with Peter Connolly’s illustration discussed at the beginning of the paper, whilst also building on its strengths. The image is intended for use in teaching (both on Iron Age funerary rites as well as issues relating to the representation of the past), and for publication in a monograph (Giles 2012). We also anticipated that it could be utilized by heritage professionals in a museum setting.

Context and content By way of contrast, I selected a female chariot burial: WS454 (Chariot Burial no. 2, Dent 1985). Whilst this is clearly a ‘spectacular’ and rare example (as opposed to the majority rite of the time), it was anticipated that the contrast in gender would help highlight different themes. The grave contained the crouched inhumation of a woman in her senior years: her joints show considerable wear even though her teeth are in good condition (perhaps suggesting a privileged diet, Sarah King pers. comm.). Her body was laid over the wheels of her chariot, which had been disassembled at the graveside (Fig. 19.5). Archaeologists have debated whether the corpse was laid within the box of the chariot, or if this was lowered over the body, once placed in the grave (Giles 2012): in many cases, the order is unclear but the intent to impressively ‘frame’ the body is evident. The landscape context (often missing from burial illustrations, Williams 2009: 198) was accurately reconstructed using a digital terrain model of the valley system and its associated earthworks (see Miller and Richards 1995, or Gillings 1999 for the further potential of such visualization tools). Environmental evidence suggests this was a dry, grazed, short-turf downland (Stead 1991: 150), to which we have added some smaller scrub woodland to indicate the barrow mounds were perhaps set aside from very active browsing by flocks or herds. Whilst this burial did not contain the weaponry associated with the two neighbouring male chariot burials, it did include a range of impressive objects including an iron mirror, a sealed bronze container decorated with red glass and inscribed Celtic art, as well as a diminutive iron pin, decorated with coral and a slip of gold. I have argued elsewhere that these artefacts may be conceptualized as objects of authority, wielded by skilled women as part of

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Fig. 19.5 Wetwang Slack chariot burial 2 (Dent 1985) also known as WS454 (based on Dent 1985: 89, fig.3 and drawn by J. Wright)

their repertoire of power (Giles 2008). In particular, objects such as the mirror might have been sacred artefacts, designed for catoptromancy (divination with mirrors) rather than being objects of vanity (see Giles and Joy 2007; Joy 2010: 49–50). Similarly, the sealed bronze box drew attention to its unknown contents by virtue of its decoration, and may have been thought to withhold an ephemeral force or spirit (Giles 2012). Her horse gear was also decorated with coral studs on the terrets and La Tène influenced bronze cast terminals on the horse bits. The image depicts the mourners creating this assemblage of body, possessions, and offerings, as a key moment in the funeral process: one which also brings into view the personal relations being performed and commemorated through the arena of the grave (Fig. 19.6).

Peopling the image We deliberately selected a perspective ‘on the ground’, at eye-level, to enhance the audience’s feeling of involvement and inclusion in the event (see James 1996: 23). This required us to make some specific choices about the social

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Fig. 19.6 The Wetwang Slack female chariot burial no. 2 (WS454)—visualization by Aaron Watson (from Giles 2012, fig. 6.7)

identities and relations depicted in the image: indeed, one of our objectives was to challenge societal stereotypes critiqued above, specifically relating to gender, age, and role. This immediately made the image more open to critique than an uninhabited landscape, dwelling, or artefact (James 1996: 33). Yet a delicate balance needed to be struck here between making people in the past recognizable (producing a strong sense of identification in the viewer: undermining and challenging notions of a barbaric prehistoric past, James 1999a: 120) whilst ensuring it was not ‘too familiar’, denying its ‘otherness’: a particular risk with the ‘Celtic’ Iron Age (see Hill 1989). A challenging image needs to create enough resonance with prior understandings to be comprehensible in some way, whilst also doing the work of novel interpretation, to shift the audience’s expectations. We tried to achieve this by creating a distinctive aesthetic of dress and appearance, based in part on the depiction of late Iron Age figurines from East Yorkshire (Stead 1988; Giles 2007: fig. 1). These chalk carvings have been found in the ditches surrounding ‘ladder’ enclosures, which appear to be constructed at the end of the square barrow burial rite, c. first century BC and were used throughout the first century AD (see Giles 2007). They might thus be considered slightly later than the rite we are seeking to depict, but aspects of their appearance suggest continuity in dress and accoutrements which legitimate their use as ‘Iron Age’ images. The carvings place great emphasis on the texture and pattern of clothing, aspects such as hems, belts, and collars, as well as hair. Importantly, they also generally depict swords

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Fig. 19.7 The North Grimston anthropoid hilt (© Hull and East Riding Museum: Hull Museums)

being worn along the back: the position in which they are often found in weapons graves (Stead 1988, 1991). An anthropoid hilted sword from North Grimston (Stead 1979: frontispiece, 2006: 71–3), broadly contemporary with the chariot burials (Jay et al. 2012) depicts an individual with combed or ridged hair, providing further inspiration for hairstyles (Fig. 19.7). Whilst the illustration of dreadlocks or braids risks relegating this image to a ‘New Age’-style reconstruction of the Iron Age, it is in keeping with other representations of human hair from the era, as on the Welwyn masks, for example (Jody Joy, pers. comm.) and importantly, provides an explicit contrast to the limed hair used in Connolly’s image. The discovery of small suites of beads, along with other miniature decorative items, in the neck/head region of several adult women, suggests that these were hair ornaments, earrings, or pendants (Giles 2012). We have thus added a few glass beads to the braids of the Wetwang woman, to evoke one of the other ways in which these communities adorned the female body. Bystanders are depicted in other elements of dress known from the adjacent cemeteries, such as the chainmail shirt from Kirkburn (Stead 1991: 54–5), and clothing distinguished by its patterned weave, as suggested in a fragment of textile from Burton Fleming (Stead 1991: 121). In Aaron Watson’s visualization, people are depicted as highly sophisticated and well equipped, with extraordinary pieces of craftwork and clothing: challenging some classical authors’ negative portrayal of these societies.

Technology and style The technology used to produce this image is clearly central to its affect (Williams 2009: 205). It was composed as a piece of digital art, combined with a more hand crafted approach using drawings and sketches, producing a final three-dimensional, layered computer model which could be rotated to

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produce different perspectives. Underlying this was the digital terrain model of the landscape and CAD graphics of the grave pit, earthwork, and chariot wheels, based on accurate dimensions from the archaeological archive. Individual mourners were based in many cases on real-world models, and a research visit to the Hull and East Riding Museum enabled Aaron Watson to take digital images of the objects from the grave. Whilst this proved a pivotal step in his appreciation of these artefacts and their connections with people, their current state of decay and patina meant that they could not be simply imported into the image: aspects of surface appearance and qualities such as colour and reflection needed to be re-imagined as they might have appeared at the time. The ‘graphic novel’ style selected by Watson for this image deliberately foregrounds its contemporary production: it is an image of its own time, refuting the illusion of timelessness and authority striven for by many oil or watercolour reconstructions (see James 1999a: 119). It was a deliberate departure from Connolly’s style and palette, aimed to ‘jolt’ an audience and get them to question what they were seeing. Watson’s two-fold illustration also tries something new: managing a shift in perspective that allows the viewer first to assume the view of a more distant bystander, before becoming a participant in the proceedings themselves. In contrast to the sequential narratives advocated above, the moment in time within this image is the same: what changes are the views you have, as well as your imagined role and responsibility towards the dead. The aim was to prompt the viewer to think about the performative qualities of the burial, and how your view, experience and memory of these events might be qualitatively different, depending on your standing and relationships within this community. Yet we also hoped this two-fold image would conjure the sense of an unfolding series of events, some of which were staged and premeditated, other aspects of which were more improvised and of-the-moment (Williams 2009: 198). Thus the woman proffering the canister or box shies away from the surface of the mirror plate, whilst the elder female (envisaged as a close relative and of equivalent standing, age, and gender to the deceased), who is supporting the grieving young man, is confidently framed in its reflection in the second image. Some people appear distressed or moved, while others are more composed. There are women and men shown in positions of ritual authority, and children and infants are not just present but are being presented to the deceased. Even the unborn are involved, as the more elderly figures are counterbalanced by a younger, pregnant woman. The image is deliberately invested with ‘questions’ in this way . . . prompting an audience to rethink their image of Iron Age society and further interrogate what is going on (Watson 2012). Part of the task of this visualization then, was to understand prior codes of archaeological representation—particularly of women but also the very young and old—and in exposing this, seek to challenge

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and rupture it (Pollock 2001: 85–6). The two-fold perspective also undermines the sense there was one authoritative view of the proceedings: one memory of them. Different gifts (mirror, box, and remains of a pig) are being proffered by both men and women who are poised with their gifts or her belongings—ready to arrange them around the body. Others (such as the tiny pin) have already been concealed on the corpse. Meanwhile, the rest of the horse gear and the box of the chariot have yet to enter the frame of the event. In contrast to the timing of Connolly’s image then, we are not witnessing the final moment of concealment of the corpse from view, the end-point: we are in the midst of it.

CO NCLUSION In the collaboration discussed above, what proved vital was the time given to both researching and producing the final image (see James 1999a: 118) and the mutual process of collaboration between archaeologist and illustrator (Perry 2011: 5). Even during the production of typical finds illustrations, this is an invaluable process (Nylund 2009), yet it is rare for project budgets to include time and costs for such purposes. This is usually because visualizations are tacked onto the end of a research project as a final outcome or mode of dissemination (Perry 2011: 6). In addition, there is rarely scope for revision of an image, partly due to the use of traditional art techniques. In contrast, during the year in which this image was produced, it was provisionally presented to students and professionals, in teaching workshops and at conferences (including the IfA Annual Conference 2010 and VIA Conference 2011). Many students and professional archaeologists were positive about the overall style of the image, perhaps predisposed to graphic-novel-style art. They felt the image more fairly represented the Iron Age community, although some pointed out that men still seemed to occupy central roles in the ritual. Some felt that the ‘New Age’ elements of peoples’ appearance were overplayed, the image was too ‘colourful’, and that we had improvised too freely with aspects of dress. Older audiences have tended to harken back to the watercolour or gouache style images of Connolly as preferable: perceiving them to be less controversial, more familiar, and ‘truer’ to the historical sources (which, as this article has sought to convey, are also problematic). In response, we slightly shifted perspective to give equal footing to the senior female mourner and male ritual specialist, toned down the colour saturation, changed the ‘blond’ hair colour of the deceased, and dulled the shine on objects such as the mirror and box. The digital technology used by Aaron Watson enabled these changes to be made more easily than traditional paint media. In reporting on this consultation, and the feedback we received from the provisional version of the image, we aim also to address one of the key neglected stages in image

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production (James 1999a: 122). We anticipate that this will be part of an ongoing dialogue which will produce further revisions or new images. We hope, however, that the image presented here has some of the interruptive, interpretive potential envisaged by Perry: to ‘initiate critique, to jar superficial interpretation, to provoke response’ (2009: 399). It is certainly designed to stimulate debate over how we display and represent the dead, and the process of dying, burial, and remembrance. Inevitably, our image, as with Peter Connolly’s, is a reflection of contemporary archaeological paradigms as well as the technology available at any point in time (Williams 2009: 196). Yet it intends to make a constructive contribution to the broader project of archaeology: to explore how different kinds of communities have dealt with issues of identity and mortality, and to prompt us to think again about these issues in our own lives.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This paper was prompted by the challenge set out by Howard Williams for comparative studies of the representation of death and burial (2009: 205) and it has greatly benefited from shared discussions on these themes, arising through the production of this edited volume. Thanks foremost to Aaron Watson for such a productive and enjoyable collaboration. Also to John Dent for his generosity in discussing the Wetwang Slack chariot burials and permission to redraw Fig. 4, and to Jo Wright for producing this illustration. Paula Gentil (curator of the Hull and East Riding Museum) kindly facilitated access to the associated finds as well as the diorama from the Celtic World exhibition, whilst Caroline Rhodes granted permission for image use. Image information on the Jewry Wall Iron Age family as well as permission to use this image, was provided courtesy of Laura Hadland (Jewry Wall Museum, Leicester Arts and Museums Service). Simon James also provided expert advice and chaired the VIA 2010 session in which a provisional version of this paper was presented. All errors and omissions remain the responsibility of the author.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Aldhouse Green, M. 1996. Celtic Art, London: George Weidenfeld and Nicholson Ltd. Aldhouse Green, M. 2004. Chaining and shaming: images of defeat, from Llyn Cerrig Bach to Sarmitzegetusa, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 23(3), 319–40. Alvarado, M., Buscombe, E., and Collins, R. (eds) 2001. Representation and Photography. A Screen Education Reader, Basingstoke: Palgrave. Antoine, D. 2014. Curating human remains in museum collections: broader considerations and a British Museum perspective, in A. Fletcher, D. Antoine, and J. D. Hill

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20 Reflections on Intersections of Mortuary Archaeology and Contemporary Society Lynne Goldstein

I N T R O D U C TI O N Growing up in my family, we were taught that education was the solution (or one of the most important solutions) to many problems. So, it is not so surprising that I once believed something that many still believe—that education about archaeology will result in better public understanding of what we do, and some level of agreement vis-à-vis the value of archaeology. After experiencing that this long-held belief (or perhaps more accurately, hope) was not always true, I realized the obvious fact that someone can be educated on a topic and still disagree with you. Education does not guarantee agreement with the educator (see Goldstein and Kintigh 1990 for another discussion of this point regarding human remains and mortuary sites). In other words, there is not a single truth, especially on this topic. This is certainly not to argue against education, it is just a reminder about realities. For this volume, Giles and Williams invited eighteen papers from archaeologists who have struggled with a wide range of topics associated with the intersection of mortuary archaeology, public archaeology, and contemporary society. This intersection provides the space and the opportunity for examination of problems and issues that are often not raised in discussions of archaeology or public archaeology or contemporary society alone. The breadth, depth, and diversity of perspectives presented in this volume are both fascinating and enlightening. The chapters are often self-reflexive and attempt to be fair, looking at multiple sides of very complex issues. Museums, governments, news media, and other archaeologists would be wise to carefully read these papers. As an American archaeologist who conducts archaeology in the USA, I find the case studies especially important and relevant since most of the examples are not constrained by the kinds of post-colonial circumstances

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that exist in the USA and countries like Australia (this is not to say that there are not other constraints in the case studies). At a minimum, these papers represent a different set of perspectives on problems with which all archaeologists and museum professionals have struggled. The volume is unusual because the authors do not simply state their opinions and present certain facts; they use a variety of tools to try to determine what happened, how public opinion may be measured, and how decisions are made. As I read these chapters, I found myself creating lists of over-arching themes. After I read the next chapter, I would revise my list. Eventually, I decided to focus my comments as follows: 1) excavations of mortuary sites and issues of accessibility and changing perspectives; 2) exhibits of mortuary archaeology and their accessibility (or lack of accessibility) by the public; 3) opinion about archaeology in general and mortuary archaeology in particular, as well as how that opinion is measured; and 4) reinterpretation and/or reanalysis of sites and exhibits and how that reanalysis or reinterpretation is achieved. There is obvious overlap between these topics and chapters often cross more than one topic. The large number of chapters and space limitations make extensive discussion of each chapter impossible, so I have tended to highlight those topics and chapters that resonate with my own experiences and observations.

EXCA VATIONS AND ACCESSIBILITY There are many ways that the general public accesses archaeology, but one of the most popular and effective ways is by visiting an ongoing archaeological excavation. For many mortuary archaeologists, the decision to be made is whether or not to allow such visits, how often, whether special visiting days should be created, and whether volunteers are accepted. These decisions are often further constrained by laws governing the excavation of human remains. One case study in this volume struggles directly with problems resulting from a new interpretation of British law, and other authors directly or indirectly comment on the consequences of the law’s interpretation, or public misunderstanding of the law. According to this new interpretation, physical screens/ barriers are required at all mortuary site excavations, thereby blocking or at least seriously constraining public accessibility and education. This has not only resulted in fewer opportunities for public education and involvement, but it has also increased suspicion of archaeologists and archaeological work— they appear to be ‘hiding something’ behind those screens. Sayer and Sayer (Chapter 7) illustrate why a ‘one-size-fits-all’ approach is problematic by using their experience with the Oakington project. Their chapter goes beyond a focus on why constraining access is problematic;

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they look more positively on why mortuary site excavation in particular should directly engage with the community. The Oakington project managed to obtain permission to excavate an Anglo-Saxon cemetery without the required screens, and Sayer and Sayer carefully investigate how the public engaged with the human remains. In discussing the issue of screening cemetery excavations and other similar policies, they note that the desire to be socially correct has often resulted in our inadvertently imposing modern values onto past peoples. Because of the specific history of burial excavation and curation issues in the USA, it is rare to see open discussion and debate about these topics; sensitivities tend to be very high on all sides. Native Americans and Native Alaskans have often argued that non-Native cemeteries are not excavated or at least not treated in the same way as Native cemeteries. While their argument is accurate to an extent, a number of cemeteries of non-Natives have been excavated, analysed, and either curated or reburied. Broadening the debate about reburial, screening, etc. in the USA leads to suspicion by tribes and others that archaeologists are trying to minimize the Native situation. Final decisions about excavation and analysis may be the same in the USA as in some of the European cases, but it is always useful to highlight different and opposing views and discuss them openly and carefully. However, such discussion requires that all parties are sincere and willing to trust each other, and that can be a very high bar to achieve, especially in North America. Nonetheless, I appreciate the outline of competing issues and the extent of discussions in Sayer and Sayer (Chapter 7), Rajala (Chapter 4), Pearson and Jeffs (Chapter 5), and Brown (Chapter 6) in terms of excavation of mortuary sites. Pearson and Jeffs’ work at the liberated African graveyard cemetery on St Helena provides a fascinating case study. The circumstances of the Liberated Africans and the slave history of the island is interesting in itself, but equally interesting is the way in which current island citizens reacted to the project. How can contemporary groups appropriately incorporate and appreciate their heritage when this island played both a positive and a longer negative role in slavery? How does the archaeologist negotiate among and between the relevant groups? Most archaeologists will appreciate Pearson and Jeffs’ observation that archaeological training tends to focus on the technical and, in most cases, does not include training for situations in which attitudes and belief systems differ significantly from the archaeologists’. While some may argue that a benefit of having archaeology as part of anthropology in North America is students’ introduction to such situations and the range of anthropological issues, it is rare that archaeologists are specifically trained to handle these often difficult or awkward negotiations. They may appreciate the issues in the abstract, but may have no way of knowing what to do in the specific instance. More focused training of several different sorts may be in order as we consider appropriate training for future archaeologists in such situations.

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Particularly notable in terms of negotiating complex and competing issues is Brown’s chapter (Chapter 6) on excavation of First World War cemeteries. The diversity of views from a range of stakeholders forces one to think carefully before accepting any particular decision about these cemeteries as definitive. Considering the hundreds of thousands of deaths from the war, and the many tens of thousands whose location is still unknown, it becomes apparent that a focus on First World War dead could easily be a career research focus, with interesting research questions, as well as considerable opportunities for ongoing engagement with many different publics. Brown’s subsequent use of the notion of ‘tribe’ as appropriate for the actions of the military is important because it contextualizes the broader perspective of the specific problems he faced. In a case somewhat structurally analogous but on a much smaller scale, the nineteenth-century historic military burials (a subsection of 58 individuals of the larger cemetery of over 1400 individuals) from the Alameda-Stone cemetery in Tucson, Arizona (Goldstein and Anyon 2012; McClelland and CerezoRomán, Chapter 3) were similarly treated as part of a tribe. The US military went to great lengths to make sure that contemporary military personnel and the general public understood that: 1) all branches of the military were part of the tribe (approximately 3000 individuals attended the military reburial ceremonies), 2) no matter where, no matter how long, the US military will always return military personnel back home (a position that has been used by US President Obama in regard to current war dead and captive military personnel), and 3) within the contemporary military cemetery, the military created a special ‘historic cemetery’ for any military individuals who were deliberately or inadvertently excavated from historic military cemeteries or other contexts. Brown has found that excavations of any military cemeteries or military graves within other cemeteries or other contexts require additional delicate negotiations due to the place of wars in national histories, and it has also been my experience that everyone has claims (or sees themselves as having claims) on these individuals. That these claims are there even when the specific identity of individuals is unknown is especially powerful; in this context, it is all about the promise, association, and allegiance of military individuals to their country, and vice versa. I have directed a number of mortuary excavations in very public places, and I find myself sensitive and sympathetic to the group of studies focused on mortuary excavation and treatment of historic cemeteries in particular. In the 1990s, I directed excavations at an historic Russian cemetery in northern California (Goldstein 2012). The multi-ethnic cemetery was associated with the 1812–41 Russian settlement of Fort Ross, and is located within Fort Ross State Historic Park, directly adjacent to the area’s major roadway. The park has an interpretive centre that highlights the site’s history, including the various groups who occupied the area over time and at the same time. Over

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the three years we excavated the site, visitors to our excavations—whether Russian, Native American, Native Alaskan, descendants of early California settlers, archaeologists, or general public—were impressed and pleased with the research and were very interested in what we could learn from the graves. One group of re-enactors especially wanted to know details of how clothing was constructed. It had never occurred to me that I might be able to provide new knowledge in this area, but indeed we did document a unique way that the Russians used to attach buttons (Goldstein 1993). One of our more consistent and annoying problems, however, was with a small group of local citizens loosely associated with the park. They argued that any archaeological excavation of human remains was wrong and disrespectful, and several members of this group refused to visit the site at all, would not allow their children to visit, spread negative stories about us in the community, and rarely spoke to us directly. However, every day at 4 p.m., one member of the group would drive by the site in his truck and scream ‘Gravediggers!’ at the crew. In some respects, this negative local response to our cemetery excavations was not surprising; at the time, the Fort Ross cemetery excavations were the first non-cultural resource management excavations of burials that had been allowed in the state of California in about twenty-five years. We convinced Native Americans, Native Alaskans, two branches of the Russian Orthodox Church, many offices in California State Parks, the Sonoma County Coroner, and the State of California that excavating the cemetery would actually help to preserve it since so little was known about it (it took approximately 18 months to receive permission to excavate from all of the stakeholder groups). The California public, however, had been trained over a number of years that mortuary excavations should only be undertaken if absolutely and directly threatened, and not otherwise. I tried to gently point out to the local group that they were being disrespectful to both the living and the dead because the descendants of the Russians, Native Alaskans, and the Native American groups who were buried in the cemetery thought the project was useful and significant for them. Indeed, before we identified the cemetery area and its boundaries, sheep had been grazing on the graves (markers were disturbed or gone) and the harsh environmental setting had destroyed much of the cemetery below ground. Descendant groups and California State Parks officials agreed that the state had not been paying proper respect to the site. Although very different in nature, in several ways my experience mirrors some of the public responses documented by Simpson and Sayer at Oakington, as well as some of the experiences outlined by Exell (Chapter 11) at the Manchester Museum, Jenkins (Chapter 12) who examines using the dead to fight the battles of the living, and Nordström (Chapter 10) who examines how particular individuals from the past are given new identities via excavation, display, and reinterpretation.

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Anthony (Chapter 2) excavates a relatively recent cemetery, and when I first read Anthony’s chapter, I was taken aback by her discussion of ‘archaeological investigations of death in modernity’. It is very common for North American historical archaeologists to look at sites in the nineteenth century, and even into the twentieth century. Reading further, it was clear that Anthony’s work at Assistens was similar to my work in California at Fort Ross, particularly in terms of the politics and complexities of studying death in modernity. While one assumption may be that these modern cemeteries are complex because of living descendants, there are other issues involved. Some of the problems associated with modern cemeteries likely have more to do with the continued use of the cemetery and the role of the dead in the process of creating histories or narratives about the past and the present, as well as the past in the present. Archaeologists sometimes make the assumption that the experience of excavating burials in field contexts is similar everywhere, but the chapters discussed above demonstrate the variability that exists. In particular, it is useful to recognize how that variability can impact excavations and interpretations, as well as impact the actions of the institutions and stakeholders who are associated directly and indirectly with the project.

E X H I B I T S A N D DI S P L A Y S By their very nature, museum displays limit and simplify the past, both in terms of interpretation and the nature of the archaeological record. This is perhaps more true when displaying mortuary data than many other sorts of archaeological data because of the interference of our modern views of death. Several chapters in this volume use case studies to examine what is presented in displays, how mortuary ritual is conveyed, and who makes or influences decisions on exhibitions. Nordström (Chapter 10) agrees with Williams (2010) about the need for focus on the bigger picture. That bigger picture can be posed in several ways: Williams (2010), in relation to his specific research, suggests we ask ‘What do the early medieval dead ever do for us?’ and that question can be broadened to ‘How does knowing about this part of the past help us?’ and ‘What can we learn from the past that may be useful to us?’ Some authors make the point that broader questions have often been forgotten in the design of displays. On a broad scale, Swain (Chapter 8) outlines an overview of museum practices regarding the display of human remains. This perspective is important so that one does not make the false assumption that every country does what our own particular country does; different historical and cultural conditions shape such decisions. In her review, Swain is both historic and geographic in scope, noting place-specific cultural and political perspectives that

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contribute to approaches to display. Several of her conclusions provide a framework for the discussion that follows. Swain’s analysis indicates that in North America, Africa, Australia, and New Zealand, museum displays of human remains are effectively nonexistent because of the impact of Indigenous perspectives, historical and colonial abuses, and politicization. However, in the rest of the world, there is more variability: 1) in Europe, displays of human remains are widespread, although the institutions sponsoring the displays are increasingly aware of ethical considerations; 2) in China, displays of well-preserved human remains are often presented as examples of scientific wonder; 3) in South America, the approach is similar to Europe, but with displays suggesting a more regional and personalized relationship with the dead; and 4) in India, South-east Asia, and Japan, historical, cultural, and religious circumstances dictate very little display of human remains. Swain’s analysis provides an important reminder about the place-specific impact of culture, religion, and history on the treatment and display of human remains. In every specific case, researchers need to examine and understand the history of how the current situation came to be. Jenkins (Chapter 12) focuses on the Lindow Man exhibit in the Manchester Museum, and in discussing the social construction of repatriation, she notes that those she terms ‘actors within’ (curators, directors, and policy makers) are often the strongest voices for repatriation and alternative interpretation. Particularly interesting is Jenkins’ portrayal of some museums as having a ‘crisis of cultural authority,’ which she sees as being part of an overall attempt to re-legitimize museum institutions by involving new communities and voices, whether or not these groups have equal, or in some cases any, standing. In developing her argument about the social construction of repatriation, Jenkins notes that the completed exhibit provides a focus for the participants’ interests that are influenced by current-day preoccupations, including identity, multiculturalism, and environmentalism. Interpretations of Lindow Man’s actual activities are largely missing from the exhibit, presumably so as not to offend any one group. Jenkins makes an excellent case for the use of human remains as objects of currency. Such actions may not be inherently bad or wrong, but if museums are going to do this, they should do it transparently and consciously. Another important point made by Jenkins, and to my knowledge ignored by most scholars, is that campaigns to influence museums and other institutions are effective because the context they want to influence is open and unstable (emphasis added). In Jenkins’ construct, museums’ approach of minimizing researcher/scientific interpretations and elevating stakeholder interpretations represent the ‘therapeutic model’. At a minimum, it is an attempt by museums to make their institutions more ‘relevant and current’ without considering the effect on science and contributions to knowledge. It takes strong leadership to clearly state and act on the institution’s

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principles and values, and museums are under so many different pressures that it is not surprising that they are ‘open and unstable.’ Nordström (Chapter 10) examines three mortuary displays in Sweden, Denmark, and Norway. Nordström takes what she terms a ‘biographical approach’ to human remains in museums, and in particular, she is interested in why some displayed individuals from the past become famous and effectively ‘immortal’, while others are forgotten. This is not a question I had considered, but her analysis highlights several interesting points. One prime example of Nordström’s famous individuals on display is Ötzi, the Iceman, who is known to almost everyone in the world and is still famous decades after his discovery. Nordström points out that the ancient dead have become everything but dead objects. One way to see such displays is as representative of post-modern museum culture that provides multiple narratives of meaning and interpretation. However, Nordström also observes that being a famous display and being considered an important find often depends on being found at the right time by the right archaeologist. In her analysis, she demonstrates how interpretations change over time and do not necessarily change the individual’s fame. The more attention we focus on these individuals, the more immortal they become. Nordström’s research suggests that over time, a number of these individuals have been used to shape our grand narratives about humanity. She sees our relationship with these past individuals as representative of entanglements, in Hodder’s (2012) sense of the term. Interestingly, these individuals also change through time as new science emerges, or new finds that elucidate contextual information, or as ideas about the past and present shift focus. Death is unavoidable, yet these individuals remain immortal and fascinating. At one level, they force us to define who we are and allow us to get deeper perspectives on our own culture. The details in some of the author observations make even a knowledgeable reader stop and rethink interpretive exhibitions. As one example, Williams (Chapter 14) notes that virtually none of the European museum exhibits that he documented showed the process of cremation, if they showed cremated bone at all. Above and beyond archaeologists’, osteologists’, and museums’ historic dismissal of cremation as an important mortuary practice, I had not consciously recognized that museums do not mention, let alone interpret, the process(es) by which cremation occurs. The visitor may see a pile of burned bones (in an out-of-the-way case), but that visitor will not be told how the bones came to be burned, or the possible meaning of burning. Given that cremation today is done for very different reasons (e.g. many see it as efficient and environmentally sound) than cremation in the past (past cremations often had a significant performative component), this lack of interpretation is a significant omission and a missed opportunity for public education. In the USA, virtually no institution exhibits human bones in any condition, with the rare exception of a single bone exhibiting a disease or fracture. That is

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probably why I, as a North American, had not noticed Williams’s crucial point about cremation exhibits—I had been so pleased and/or surprised to see any human bone in a museum display that I did not further contextualize exhibits I viewed. While Williams’s focus is on the issue of display of cremated human remains, I think his point can be made for many museum exhibits; museums often try so hard to please stakeholders that they fail to appropriately interpret and provide context for the materials they display, and similarly, they are concerned with today’s context while ignoring the context of the past. To my knowledge, there have not been a large number of detailed studies of the role of various stakeholders in the process of exhibiting mortuary practices, and some chapters focus on this absence as an issue, collecting data that highlight many of the problems and concerns. Authors are generally careful to gather and present data that allow the reader to come to his/her own conclusions. Additionally, biases in the data and in the collection methods are recognized and outlined. The chapters discussing various aspects of the Manchester Museum controversy (Swain Chapter 8; Exell Chapter 11; Jenkins Chapter 12) are perhaps the most clear in this regard. While most of the problems that arose in the Manchester case are not necessarily unusual in contemporary museums, the examples cited seem to represent a decision about display of human remains that came top-down, and resulted in unanticipated consequences. Reading Exell’s (Chapter 11) account of the shrouding of the Egyptian mummies at the Manchester Museum was especially surprising and can certainly be framed as an overreaction or inappropriate reaction to sensitivity in other cultural contexts. Exell argues that changes in what is appropriate for an exhibit result (deliberately and/or inadvertently) in changing the role of specialist curators in relation to public communications. Similar to several of Jenkins’ concerns, Exell demonstrates that what happened at the Manchester Museum was directly the result of individual agendas, combined with the cultural climate at the time. Although Exell focuses on personal and individual decisions, she attributes the decisions made at the Museum to overarching ‘post-modern exhibitionary discourse’. Continuing on the theme of framing the discourse as having developed from a post-colonial critique of the ‘role of science in the politics of oppression’, Nilsson Stutz (Chapter 13) compares the USA as representative of a post-colonial example, and Scandinavia as representative of a post-nationalist example in which human remains are exhibited without contestation. Nilsson Stutz argues that the different political landscape and history results in almost opposite reactions to displays of human remains in each country. Somewhat similar to Exell and Jenkins, Nilsson Stutz concludes with the observation that both case studies represent examples of cultural practice and political process deeply rooted in cultural concerns. However, she also makes the important point that because these situations are in flux, decisions made in one context may not be either relevant or transferrable to the other.

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In an analysis of the variability in English Heritage’s displays of mortuary remains, Tatham (Chapter 9) looks at three sites and the reasons behind the differences in how human remains are displayed in each. For any site, there are many different stories that can be told, and the reasoning behind the selection of stories underpins many of the discussions in this section in general and in this chapter in particular. English Heritage did not engage the public in the planning of these exhibitions, but all three new exhibitions turned out to be popular and represent attempts to engage and educate the public once the exhibits opened. Tatham makes the point that because the public funds English Heritage, the exhibits and interpretations should be open to criticism and challenge. Limiting the public to input after exhibition decisions are made can ultimately impede attempts to be innovative, responsive, and engaging. Although Tatham’s point is an important one, I think one can also see this particular case as an example of Jenkins’ point about strength of leadership. McClelland and Cerezo-Román (Chapter 3) write the only Americanfocused contribution; their chapter takes a very different perspective than others in this volume. In particular, they discuss the shift in views about bodies by stakeholders, archaeologists, and osteologists, suggesting that osteologists now participate in embodiment and re-embodiment of bodies, conferring personhood on what was once only considered an object of study. Their example is the historic (c. 1860–80) Alameda-Stone cemetery excavations and reburials in Tucson, Arizona, and the processes of personhood and re-embodiment as the individuals were excavated and reburied and memorialized. The displays they cite are at the site of the reburial, in a modern Tucson cemetery. I am extremely familiar with the Alameda-Stone project since I served as an overall project consultant from the project’s beginning, and I wrote parts of the initial report (Heilen and Gray 2010) and parts or all of five of the eight chapters in the published volume (Heilen 2012). While I agree with McClelland and Cerezo-Román’s premise, I think several observations may help to better contextualize the project, even though it may also add one or more layers of complexity. The authors note that parts of the cemetery had accidentally been found at several times since the cemetery closed, with a large number of human remains recovered in 1953. That find was mitigated by a group of University of Arizona anthropology students, and the interesting thing about changing values is how the find was used. In the Arizona Daily Star of 23 February 1955, a local construction company, Hunziker Construction, used the excavation in an advertisement. The ad noted that: ‘…in the interest of science, we [Hunziker] proceeded a scoop and a skeleton at a time until all the scientific information had been gathered’ (Fig. 20.1). The number of stakeholders involved in the Alameda-Stone cemetery project was large, multi-ethnic, and diverse, and several groups had conflicting

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Fig. 20.1 Advertisement from the late 1950s Tucson Citizen newspaper for the Hunzicker Construction Company. [Image courtesy of SRI, Inc and Alameda-Stone Cemetery project—see Goldstein and Anyon 2012]

desires. It is important to note that the project was not conducted under the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA), because that law applies only to Native American, Native Alaskan, and Native Hawaiian groups. Instead, the work was conducted under a direct court order that outlined procedures to be taken in the consultation, excavation, analysis, and reburial of the human remains. There was, in fact, little divergence from what might have been required under NAGPRA, and the native tribes were involved in and agreed with the decisions made. In fact, this was the most transparent and culturally sensitive large-scale cemetery project of which I am aware. The citizens of Arizona are unusually aware and proud of archaeology in their state, and although the project was costly and received considerable publicity, there were no complaints officially registered. One additional comment I wish to make about the Alameda-Stone cemetery concerns the reburial location. As McClelland and Cerezo-Román note, the cemetery in which the majority of individuals were reburied is in a remote location at the edge of Tucson. The reasons for this location add another layer of complexity and construction of personhood. The cemetery is owned by the Catholic Church, but includes separate sections for a number of different religions and groups. More centrally located cemeteries are nearly full, and this

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cemetery is trying to convince people to buy plots in this more distant location. Their success has been variable. However, the project needed a place to rebury the individuals from the Alameda-Stone cemetery and the majority of the individuals in the cemetery were Hispanic Catholics, so it made sense to place them in a Catholic-owned cemetery. The cemetery, Pima County, and various stakeholders developed a plan that would honour the past citizens of Tucson and would be a special place for contemporary citizens. This ‘garden of the ancestors’ (the name may have been subsequently changed) was seen as an important memorial that would draw increased interest in and use of the cemetery and eventually benefit both the past and the present. If successful, it would bring the idea of constructing group identities in the present closer to fruition.

P U B LI C O P I N I O N AN D H O W TO M E A SU R E IT Outreach has become an important measure for professional archaeologists and public institutions that display archaeological information. Institutions want to document that the research conducted is of some value to the public, and that the public has access to information. Such documentation of outreach makes institutions appear relevant and responsive in an increasingly sceptical world. Larger questions include how one measures outreach and how one collects a relatively unbiased view of public opinion. Many museums use surveys. Although surveys can be helpful, many biases are inherent in them (not the least of which is the problem of only surveying people who visit museums), and chapters here look at alternative ways to measure opinion and/ or to take those biases into account. When a contemporary archaeologist excavates a mortuary site, it is often in the context of a cultural resources management project. In such contexts, the archaeologists often assist in locating or ‘clearing’ space by identifying the extent and nature of burials present and removing those burials. However, such work can also provide larger value in mourning and commemoration of the death in the contemporary context (Williams and Williams 2007). Communication and engagement with the public and various stakeholders is required to maintain, create, and explain the value of heritage, and many descendants, whether close or more tangential, appreciate the knowledge and can subsequently close that chapter of their lives or history. By using a cross-disciplinary methodology of questionnaires, interviews, and conversations, Sayer and Sayer’s two-year research at Oakington revealed the complexity and multi-staged relationships between people and human remains. This may seem an obvious finding, but a variety of heritage professionals and other stakeholders have repeatedly made claims suggesting near

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universal responses in this relationship. Sayer and Sayer were able to document a real (generally positive) change in attitude as the archaeological work progressed. It would be fascinating to conduct similar studies in similar contexts in very different regions of the world. Importantly, Sayer and Sayer documented the nuances and variability in the public’s views, trying to highlight the importance of this variability. Rajala (Chapter 4) also conducted a survey, but in her case she focused on a group of twenty central Italian archaeologists. In 2003, she surveyed these archaeologists regarding their attitudes towards their research and objects of study. She found what she describes as core attitudes towards the dead and the ancestors at the time of the survey: 1) the objectification of human remains and 2) negation of any ancestral significance of those remains. Rajala places these attitudes in their cultural context, suggesting that these come as a result of the Second World War and post-war rejection of the concept of nation. This link is interesting because archaeologists often fail to associate their perspectives with broader contemporary or historic events in society, even though we know that such events have major impact on our research and interpretations. Related to Rajala’s conclusions is Weiss-Krejci’s (Chapter 16) examination of why a cemetery in Austria was allowed to wash away. Her quest to understand why Austrians act as they do in response to human remains led her to research the issue in several different ways, including the number of repatriations that have been accomplished by various countries. Weiss-Krejci found that there had been a significant number of repatriations from England and Scotland, but very few from Austria or the rest of continental Europe. She outlines possible explanations for this discrepancy, but, in her mind, none of these explanations really account for the slow progress in repatriation of human remains. Weiss-Krejci’s proceeds to contextualize approaches toward dead bodies in Austria and the general German-speaking world, in an attempt to tease apart a better explanation of Austrian attitudes toward human remains. One key point of her discussion is that attitudes toward the dead in continental Europe are different than much of the rest of the world. People still actively use ossuaries, and charnel houses and relic bones in and around churches are both common and easily accessible. One is not buried ‘in perpetuity’. She suggests that, from the Austrian perspective, repatriation claims most likely arise from British and other traditions of restricting disturbance of the dead. However, she also notes that in Britain, non-disturbance was largely restricted to the British, but not those in the colonial context who were socially stigmatized, enemies, or ‘primitive’. Things are changing in repatriation in the German-speaking world, and it will be interesting to see whether and how such shifts are reflected in changes in the society, and vice versa. Related to the previous section of this chapter, do museums in Austria and the broader

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German world represent similar attitudes to those Weiss-Krejci documents for cemeteries and reburials? Do they miss or ignore the same kinds of things that Williams reports for his European museum sample? How do they present the process of cremation or funerals? Sayer and Walter’s work (Chapter 17) is especially noteworthy in regard to measuring public opinion since they employed an unusual evaluation method. Using three stories of archaeological mortuary excavation, they look at newspaper websites from two different points on the political spectrum to examine online readers’ responses to stories about these excavations. Sayer and Walters make it clear that one particular way of measuring opinion will never be sufficient, and that major biases are inherent in every measure. However, I think that this innovative approach, in combination with other methods, should provide a better idea of the range and nuances in public opinion about archaeology. Similarly, the other analyses in this section measure opinion in different ways that also provide insights into behaviour and attitudes. Finally, as Nordström observes, the role of media cannot be overstated. Media play an important role in highlighting particular exhibits, sites, and stories, and it is difficult, if not impossible, to control the direction and nature of their attention. The media also want to tell good stories.

RE INTERPRETATION AND/OR REANALYSIS It is a given that we are never done learning or interpreting—as we collect and analyse more data, our interpretations will change. As we develop new analytic techniques, we will learn even more about the specific past. Every so often, exhibits and public materials must be updated, broadened, changed. Unfortunately, this process is not always clear and it varies from institution to institution. Who makes the decisions? Who has veto power, and who has input? What aspects of the culture are portrayed and what is ignored? How does reinterpretation accommodate the previous interpretation, or does it even mention previous views? Several authors evaluate exhibits that have been updated. They compare before and after, pointing out potentially important things that have been overlooked, ignored, or relegated to a corner. Especially useful are the analyses of why and how such decisions may have been made. These are not simply finger-pointing exercises, but instead careful and nuanced looks at specific and general cultural influences on decision-making. If archaeologists are going to have a positive influence on such decisions, they must know and understand how decisions are made. Not surprisingly, many chapters in this volume examine the role of nonarchaeologists in the intersection of mortuary archaeology and contemporary

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society. Reflecting on archaeology’s past, it is hard to believe that some archaeologists once saw themselves, their research, and their field as existing outside politics, even though any time government funding and/or support is involved, politics and political decisions are present. A significant part of reinterpretation involves the role of non-archaeologists, and authors detail the many ways in which this happens, the many different kinds of people who are involved, and the results and/or impact such involvement may have. Involvement is not inherently nefarious or negative or positive, but awareness of the involvement is crucial. For example, in examining the intersection of mortuary archaeology and contemporary Pagan groups, Rathouse (Chapter 15) presents a multi-threaded ethnographic examination of contemporary Pagan culture, showing that interest in mortuary archaeology may be for spiritual, political, and ethical reasons. His work causes one to realize that archaeologists may need education and appreciation of variability almost as much as the groups protesting what we do. Rathouse points out the many different ways and reasons Pagan groups use the archaeological record and interpretations. Similarly, prompted by items from a local cemetery found in a riverbed, Weiss-Krejci (Chapter 16) discovered in her analysis of modern Austrian mortuary history that the issues of reburial and repatriation are ones that seem outside the range of normal Austrian approaches to the dead. In several earlier sections of this chapter, I discussed various authors’ analyses of reinterpretation of human remains and museum displays. A particularly strong example of such analysis is Nordström’s examination of how reinterpretation is accomplished, the role of stereotypes, what kinds of meaning may be behind various pushes toward new views, and how some new interpretations never move beyond some old assumptions. Nordström’s example of the Mesolithic grave from Bäckaskog in southern Sweden provides excellent evidence of all of these points. The original frail young man or dwarf reluctantly began to be understood to be a woman, but that was a problem because people were not ready to accept that a woman could hunt. Eventually, that acceptance came and the exhibition and reinterpretation came with it and is still continuing. The individual is still seen as being first and foremost a woman, and is often now used as an example of the typical Stone Age woman, regardless of anything else that we may learn about her. The public engages with the dead through more than bones and artefacts. Two of the chapters in this volume tackle particularly interesting examples of the reconstruction process, incorporating another set of perspectives to the intersection of archaeology, public archaeology, and contemporary society. These perspectives often have the greatest direct impact on the general public and what people learn from museum displays. Kirk (Chapter 18) urges archaeologists to make contributions to writing pasts that are characterized by multi-vocality, creativity, and imagination. He argues that such writing must also be grounded in the materiality of

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archaeological data. As Kirk quotes Tarlow (1999: 179), ‘No account of the past is free from creative and imaginative input.’ Kirk notes that some archaeologists think that imagination and creativity are potentially a bad or negative thing that may distort interpretations of the past, but this is not necessarily the case. Indeed, Kirk suggests that memory, metaphor, emotion, and dialogue between the past and the present could form the basis for future interdisciplinary work. Kirk notes that both poets and archaeologists transform their subject matter by considering different contexts. According to context and intent, different meanings emerge; meanings are not fixed. In essence, Kirk is calling for archaeologists to use language to open a dialogue between different voices, but he also asks that archaeologists not forget about the data that help craft those meanings. Imagination does not always mean fiction. It is very appealing and easy to agree with Kirk’s call to archaeologists; at some level, we would all like to be that person who writes with creativity and imagination, all the while incorporating data, collaborating with others, and maintaining multi-vocality about interpretations of the past. I wonder, however, how soon we reach the place where we are asking every archaeologist to take on more than one person can manage? Is there a way to compromise and still achieve the goal? All archaeologists should and could ‘assess the nature of creative imagination’ in our wider engagement with the archaeological past, but I doubt that all of us can do so effectively. Nonetheless, it is easy and useful to be inspired by Kirk’s call to action. The final chapter in the volume is by Giles (Chapter 19) and examines reconstructing the Iron Age chariot burials of East Yorkshire. Giles outlines various problems with illustrators’ reconstructions of the past. Particularly important is her idea that artist and archaeologist need to collaborate during the full process of creation, installation, evaluation, and reinterpretation. In the process of collaboration, Giles was careful to try and address many of the biases and problems she had earlier outlined. One example of her efforts is the fact that the image she collaborated on and helped to produce is not the end of the burial event, but rather the middle of the ritual. Giles’s work with an illustrator on reinterpretations of the chariot burials is impressive, and takes best advantage of both the skills of the archaeologist and those of the illustrator. Although Giles’s final result is remarkable and really should be seen as a visualization rather than a reconstruction, one wonders how such long-term, intensive collaborations can be developed when places like the Manchester Museum and other museums are increasingly eliminating the expertise of curators and archaeologists in developing exhibits. How can the kinds of work proposed by Giles, Kirk, Nordström, Rathouse, and others be incorporated into interpretations and exhibits of mortuary archaeology when money is increasingly tight, people are much more hurried, politics is

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always present, and few people have longevity in their professional positions? A single archaeologist can manage to hold onto and incorporate many ideas and people into a project, but their ability to influence museum exhibits and displays is often a much more problematic endeavour.

CONCLUDING COMMENTS The chapters in this volume demonstrate that local context is critical not only in archaeological and mortuary interpretation, but also in public, religious, political, and government responses. Although I have personally been involved in such issues for more than thirty-five years, these chapters expanded my view, in part because the perspectives and examples allowed me to see some situations in a new light. The diversity in topics and approaches (everything from excavation to observation to display to protest to ethnography to writing and drawing about death) suggests that archaeology may have finally moved beyond old habits of complaining that things are not right, to working toward understanding why particular positions are taken and what we can do to affect constructive and productive change. While the chapters in this volume focus on burials or mortuary sites or mortuary exhibits, the volume is really about the intersection of these topics, and how archaeologists might best evaluate and negotiate that intersected space, while paying proper attention and respect to the archaeological data. At the beginning of this chapter, I outlined what I saw as four themes of this volume: 1) mortuary site excavations and issues of accessibility and changing perspectives; 2) exhibits of mortuary archaeology and their accessibility (or lack of accessibility) by the public; 3) opinion about archaeology in general and mortuary archaeology in particular, as well as how that opinion is measured; and 4) reinterpretation and/or reanalysis of sites and exhibits and how that reanalysis or reinterpretation is achieved. Associated with each of these themes is a set of chapters that address the theme from a different perspective with a different data set. Beyond this classification, however, is an important and much broader set of lessons and observations. Bones are powerful symbols that live on long after the individual is gone. These powerful symbols may have several meanings that change over time, including the present. Bones are used and reused in a number of different ways by different groups for different purposes. Because of these changing meanings, context takes on even great significance, and stakeholder groups become larger and more diverse. The discussion in this volume about excavations of mortuary sites was not simply about specific laws or debates between groups. Instead, authors

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productively focused on how archaeologists can deal with the intersection of laws and interests and ethics and the general public and various stakeholders. Discussions about exhibits of human remains noted the need for a bigger picture on such exhibits, an acknowledgement of variability in practice, the nature of the social construction of repatriation, and crises of cultural authority with open and unstable contexts. Further, exhibits tend to show end results and rarely focus on the process of how these activities or results happened. Measuring opinion about mortuary sites and exhibits must include recognition of mourning and commemoration of the death in the contemporary context. It also must include education and engaging the public. Opinions on these complex topics cannot be calculated via one survey: the biases and problems demand that a variety of approaches and techniques be employed. In terms of reinterpretation and reanalysis, key questions include who makes the decisions and how are these decisions made? There are a variety of ways to approach reinterpretation, and authors demonstrate that the group that might be undertaking the reinterpretation will not be successful without the continued input and expertise of the archaeologist. To put it simply, although this volume focuses on intersections, it is perhaps more accurately about entanglements (see Hodder, 2012 but also Thomas, 1991). Material objects have a social life, but human remains have both a social life and power in the past, in the present, and in the past in the present. The authors in this volume provide examples and suggestions for archaeologists negotiating those intersections and entanglements. How does one negotiate the entanglements that live in those intersections between heritage and the archaeology of death? The stage cannot be ‘us vs them’, but is actually a complicated, diverse, multi-layered, multi-vocal space that requires time, research, training, and flexibility to navigate. We may likely have to reconsider how we train the archaeologists of the future to make this transition successful. As seen in this volume, archaeologists have matured concerning their roles and interpretations, understanding that they must be ready to take on these challenges, moving beyond excavation and particular interpretations of slices of time. Archaeology is a far more difficult task than it has ever been because we must do everything we have always done, plus a whole lot more, with many more people and conflicting and intersecting interests. We have to learn how best to interpret the processes and performative aspects of past mortuary practices as well as their end results, and thus in turn we must learn how to better translate those processes and performances into interesting and insightful displays. Ultimately, a more mature and complex approach will result in more accurate archaeological interpretations and more satisfying interactions in those interpretations.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I sincerely thank Howard Williams and Melanie Giles for the opportunity to write this commentary. I thoroughly enjoyed reading all of the chapters, and learned a lot from them. I also acquired an even better idea of what the dead and displays of the dead can tell us about the present.

B I BL I OG R A P H Y Goldstein, L. 1993. Fort Ross clothing: new data from old sources, in J. Middleton (ed.) Clothing at Fort Ross and in Colonial Russian America: A New Look, 104–10, Fort Ross CA: Fort Ross Interpretive Association. Goldstein, L. 2012. The cemetery at Fort Ross: what does it tell us about those who lived here?, Proceedings of the Society for California Archaeology, 26, 234–42. Goldstein, L. and Anyon, R. 2012. Cemeteries, consultation, repatriation, reburial, and sacred spaces today, in M. Heilen (ed.) Uncovering Identity in Mortuary Analysis: Community-Sensitive Methods for Identifying Group Affiliation in Historical Cemeteries, 251–63, Walnut Creek CA: Left Coast Press. Goldstein, L. and Kintigh, K. 1990. Ethics and the reburial controversy, Antiquity, 55, 585–91. Heilen, M. (ed.) 2012. Uncovering Identity in Mortuary Analysis: Community-Sensitive Methods for Identifying Group Affiliation in Historical Cemeteries, Walnut Creek CA: Left Coast Press. Heilen, M. and Gray, M. A. (eds) 2010. Deathways and Lifeways in the American Southwest: Tucson’s Historic Alameda-Stone Cemetery and the Transformation of a Remote Outpost into an Urban City, Volume I: Context and Synthesis from the Joint Courts Complex Archaeological Project, Tucson, Arizona, Technical Report 10–95, Tucson AZ: Statistical Research, Inc. Hodder, I. 2012. Entangled: An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans and Things, Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Thomas, N. 1991. Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Culture, and Colonialism in the Pacific, Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Williams, H. and Williams, E. 2007. Digging the dead: archaeological practice as mortuary commemoration, Public Archaeology, 6(1), 47–63.

Index Tables and figures are indicated by an italic t and f following the page number. Aburrow, Yvonne 340 see also Pagans for Archaeology (PfA), Facebook Adelsö, Lake Mälaren (Sweden), cremation burial 316 t, 323 African Burial Ground (NYABG), New York 108–9 Africans 108–9, 435 see also St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean), Liberated African graveyard excavation Alameda-Stone Cemetery, Tucson, Arizona (USA) 436, 442–4, 443 f early history (19C) 47–9, 48 f abandonment and redevelopment (20C) 50–1 excavations (21C): biological profiling 53–5 consultations 51–2 reburials 55–60, 56 f, 58 f, 59 f, 60 f Alder Hey Children’s Hospital, Liverpool, organ scandal 173, 259 Aldous, Anna 200–1 Alexander Keiller Museum, Avebury (Wilts) 199–200, 339–40 see also Stonehenge (Wilts), burial campaign All Cannings (Wilts), long barrow 336 All Faiths Memorial Park, Tucson, Arizona (USA) 52, 57–60, 58 f, 59 f, 60 f Ambrus, Victor 418–19, 421 see also Time Team (C4 TV) American Museum of Natural History, New York (USA) 273, 281, 285, 288 ‘Ancestor’ veneration, Paganism 334–5, 336 Anciens Combattants (Veterans Affairs) 115, 121, 128 Ancient Lives, New Discoveries, exhibition 417 Ancient Worlds gallery, Manchester Museum (University of Manchester) 176, 234, 244, 245 Anglo-Saxon, cemeteries, see Edix Hill, Barrington (Cambs), early AngloSaxon cemetery; Oakington (Cambs), early Anglo-Saxon cemetery

animists 334, 336–7 see also Paganism, contemporary Annalistes 69, 70 Anthony, Sian 21–35, 438 antiquarians 396 Appleby, Jo 379 Archaeologist, The, articles 200–1 Arizona Daily Star 49, 442 Arizona State Museum, Tucson (USA) 50 Arizona, University of (USA) 40, 50, 442 Arkælogi Haderslev, see Museum Sønderjylland (Denmark) artists and illustrators 207, 208 see also reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials Åsa (Norwegian queen) 220, 221, 222 Asru, Egyptian mummy 242, 242 f Assistens cemetery, Copenhagen (Denmark) 21–2 categorizing the dead 30–2 ethical clearance 29–30 excavating the recent dead 22–5, 26 f, 34–5, 438 keeping a low profile 25–7, 26 f reburial and respect 27–9 relevance of project 32–5 Association for the Study of Death and Society (ASDS) 370 Association of Polytheistic Traditions 241 Aubrey Holes, Stonehenge (Wilts), see Stonehenge (Wilts), burial campaign Auchy-les-Mines (France) 122, 123 Australian Museum, Sydney (Australia) 179 Australian Traditional Owners 346 f Australian War Graves (AWG) 115, 116, 127 Austria, attitudes towards the dead 358–61, 359 f burial legislation 349–50, 349 f discarded cemetery remains 345–6 display of human remains 350, 351 f ossuaries 351–2, 352 f, 359–60 dissolution of cemeteries 356, 357–8, 358 f federal states 349 f grave plot usage rights 352, 353, 353 f expiration of usage rights 353–4, 354 f

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Austria, attitudes towards the dead (cont.) termination of plots 355, 357 f ‘tomb to give away’ 355, 356 f Islamic and Jewish cemeteries 361 repatriation of human remains 346–8, 346 f Austrian Academy of Sciences, Vienna (Austria) 346, 346 f Avebury (Wilts), see ‘Charlie’, Windmill Hill, Avebury (Wilts) Avebury Museum, see Alexander Keiller Museum, Avebury (Wilts) AWG (Australian War Graves), see Australian War Graves (AWG) Bach, Neils 419, 420, 421 Bäckaskog Woman 209–12, 211 f, 212 f, 447 Bakhtin, Mikhail 403 Bankälla (Sweden), see children from Bankälla (Barnen från Bankälla), display Banning, Jeremy 132 barriers, excavating without 434–5 see also excavations, social impact of Barton-upon-Humber (Lincs), see St Peter’s Church, Barton-upon-Humber (Lincs) Battle of Bosworth (1485) 380 Battle of Fromelles (1916), see Great War (1914–18), casualties Battle of Lund (1676), human remains 279 Battle of Towton (1471), human remains 130 Bauman, Zygmunt 206, 207–8 BBC Leicester, online news 381 BBC News, online 336, 375, 380, 382, 390, 391 BDO (British Druid Order) 336, 338, 339 ‘Bedlam’, see St Bethlehem’s, London, excavation Bender, Barbara 144, 397, 403, 404 Benjamin, Walter 208 Besterman, Tristram 2, 240 Bienkowski, Piotr 240, 241, 243, 244, 247, 255, 262 bin Laden, Osama 251 Birka (Sweden), cremation graves 275, 297 Blair, Tony (British Prime Minister) 173, 371 boat-graves, Vendel period 315 t, 317, 321, 322–3, 322 f Body Worlds, exhibition 30, 173, 178, 207, 282, 288 Boezinghe (Belgium) 116, 132 bog bodies 253–4 see also Grauballe Man (Denmark), bog body; Heaney, Seamus (bog poems); Lindow Man (Cheshire), bog body; Tollund Man (Denmark), bog body;

Weerdinge couple (Netherlands), bog bodies; Worsley Man Bog Bodies Research Project, National Museum of Ireland 216 Bolzen museum (Italy) 205 Bonn Square, Oxford (redevelopment 2008) 143 Booth, Kevin 193, 194 Boxed Fabulous Coffins from UK and Ghana, exhibition 207 Bradford, University of (Yorks) 417 Brayne, Jane 421 see also Meet the Ancestors (BBC TV) Brewer, Janice (Governor of Arizona) 55, 56–7 British Anatomy Act (1832) 360 British Archaeology, articles 4, 147, 200, 261, 370 British Druid Order (BDO) 336, 338, 339 British Museum, London 2, 5, 6, 176, 417 Sutton Hoo 8–9 Brøgger, Anton Wilhelm 220–1 Broughton, J. E. 5 Brown, Martin 113–36, 436 Brown, Nimue (aka Bryn Colvin, Brynneth N. Colvin) 334–5 Browne, Sir Thomas, Urne Buriall (1658) 295 Buckley, Richard 379 Buikstra, Jane 47 Buried Bones, exhibition, visitor comments 200–1 Buried Lives (2007), exhibition, see St Peter’s Church, Barton-upon-Humber (Lincs) CAHR (church archive of human remains) 193 California (USA), see Fort Ross, California (USA) Cambridge News 375 Cambridgeshire 140, 171 see also Oakington (Cambs), early AngloSaxon cemetery Carlos Museum, Emory University, Atlanta (USA) 273, 282 Carver, Martin 9 Castilla, Americo 179 Çatalhöyük, Konya Plain, Anatolia (Turkey) 368 Celtic World, exhibition, see reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials Celts, see reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials Cerezo-Román, Jessica 39–61, 442, 443 Chadwick, Susan 258 Chapman, Malcolm 241, 243, 244

Index chariot burials, see reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials ‘Charlie’, Windmill Hill, Avebury (Wilts) 6, 199–200, 261, 293, 339–40 charnel houses 351–2, 352 f, 360 children from Bankälla (Barnen från Bankälla), display 315 t, 319–20 Christ Church, Spitalfields, London 23 Christenson, Andrew L. 236 Chuquicamata (Chile), mine 281–2 church archive of human remains (CAHR) 193 claimsmakers, see under human remains debate Clegg, Margaret 2, 3, 11 CoBDO (Council of British Druid Orders) 199–200, 260, 339 Colchester Castle Museum (Essex) 303–8, 304–5 t, 306–7 f, 308 f ‘columbarium’ 304 t, 306 f, 307 Colvin, Bryn (aka Nimue Brown, Brynneth N. Colvin) 334–5 Colwell-Chanthaphonh, Chip 286 Commonwealth and Australian War Graves 127 Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) 114, 115, 116, 124–5 Conklin, Beth A. 41 Connolly, Peter 409–11, 410 f, 413 see also reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials Constantine, David (poet) 399 Cooper, Michael T. 334 Copenhagen (Denmark), see Assistens cemetery, Copenhagen (Denmark); National Museum of Denmark, Copenhagen (Denmark) Copford church (Essex) 305 Copper Man, The, exhibition 281–2 Council of British Druid Orders (CoBDO) 199–200, 260, 339 ‘covering the mummies’, Manchester Museum 241–4, 242 f, 245–6 cow, as grave companion 374, 375 media interest in 375–9 see also Oakington (Cambs), early AngloSaxon cemetery ‘Cranium af Jude’, see Dombrowsky, Levin creative writing 396–8, 405–6 interdisciplinary collaboration 401–5 poetry and archaeology 398–401 see also narratives, archaeological cremation, museum displays: cremation overlooked 293–8, 323–6 typology of displays 298–9, 299 t

455

Colchester Castle Museum (CM) 303–8, 304–5 t, 306–7 f, 308 f Historiska Museet (HM) 313, 315–16 t, 316–23, 319 f, 321 f, 322 f Hjemsted Oldtidsparken (HO) 299–303, 300 t, 302–3 f Museum Sønderjylland (MS) 309–13, 310–12 t, 313 f, 314 f Croce, Benedetto 76, 79, 82 CT scanning 176, 417 Current Archaeology, article 140 CWGC (Commonwealth War Graves Commission) 114, 115, 116, 124–5 Daily Mail online news, see excavations, and digital media Davies, Paul 260, 261, 263–4, 339–40 Dawson, Warren Royal 171 DCMS (Department of Culture, Media and Sport), guidance 1–2, 173, 196–7, 200, 246 De Grey Mausoleum, Flitton (Beds) 186–9, 187–8 f Dead to Rights, campaign group 339 Dejonckheere, Marc, Kruisweg (2006) 116, 124, 132 Delrue, Michel 121–2 dental analysis, biological profiling 53–4 Department of Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS) 1–2, 173, 196–7, 200, 246 DIG, York (Yorks), exhibition 195 Diggers, De (of Ieper) 124, 131 Digging for Dreams, exhibition 175 ‘Digitised Diseases’ project, Bradford University 417 dioramas 294, 309, 411, 413, 414 f ‘Disa’, the girl from Birka 275 display of human remains, see museum practice, display of human remains displays, indigenous peoples 179–80, 181 see also repatriation, human remains Dombrowsky, Levin 278, 279 Druid Network (TDN) 240, 338 Druids, see British Druid Order (BDO); Council of British Druid Orders (CoBDO); Davies, Paul; Paganism, contemporary Druids’ Voice, The (CoBDO), articles 260, 339 Edgeworth, Matthew 71 Edinburgh, University of, repatriations 348 Edix Hill, Barrington (Cambs), early AngloSaxon cemetery 140, 141 f Edmonds, Mark 396, 397, 404 Edward V 380

456

Index

Eggenburg ossuary (Austria) 352, 352 f Egyptian mummies, displays 169, 171, 175–6, 282–3, 283 f ‘covering the mummies’ 241–4, 242 f, 245–6, 441 Egyptian Pharaoh (letter to Sinuhe) 337 Egyptmanchester blog 242–3 Egyptology 176, 241, 242, 245, 283 Ejsbøl, South Jutland (Denmark) 309 Eliasson, Olafur 208 Englezos, Lambis 124, 126 English Heritage, display practices 184–6, 442 Avebury reburial request 339–40 consultation and guidelines 199–202 De Grey Mausoleum, Flitton (Beds) 186–9, 187–8 f Lullingstone Roman Villa (Kent) 190–2, 191–2 f St Peter’s Church, Barton-upon-Humber (Lincs) 193 the exhibition 194–9, 196 f, 198 f the ossuary 193–4 English Heritage, Outreach and Education 197 ‘entanglement’, Ian Hodder 228, 440 Erlandsen, Archbishop Jakob (d. 1274) 276, 277, 279 f, 280 f ethnoarchaeological investigation, see mentalities, funerary archaeologists (Italy) ethnographies of archaeology 70, 71 Etruscans 79, 84 excavations, and accessibility 434–8 see also barriers, excavating without excavations, and digital media 367–70 internet fora and public opinion 390–2 Melton (Suffolk) online 373–4, 382 Oakington (Cambs) 374–5 online comments analysis 376–9 see also Oakington (Cambs), early AngloSaxon cemetery Richard III 379–80 online comments analysis 381–2 Hillsborough Disaster/Report 386–7 humour 389–90 news genres 387–9 non-Ricardians 385–6 Ricardians 383–5 Stonehenge burial campaign 370–1 online comments analysis 371–2 excavations, of the recent dead, see Assistens cemetery, Copenhagen (Denmark) excavations, social impact of 158–60 modern death culture 139–44, 141 f Oakington (Cambs) early Anglo-Saxon cemetery: excavations 141 f, 146–7, 153 f, 374, 375

community involvement 154–5 media interest 375–9 social impact research 158–60 feedback form 161–2 methodology 148–50 observational results 152–4, 153 f, 156–7 questionnaire results 150–2 social value of archaeology 144–6 Exell, Karen 233–47, 437, 441 exhibitions and human remains, reinterpretations 446–9 exhibitions, the museum process 234–5 exhibits and displays, discussion 438–44 Facebook 206, 261–2, 340, 370, 375 Facilis, Marcus Favonius 304 t, 307, 308 f Fadlan, Ibn 219, 316 t, 323 Fallen, the, see Great War (1914–18), casualties fascism 78–9, 271 Federal Pathology Anatomy Museum, Vienna (Austria) 346 f see also repatriation, human remains Festival of Britain, diorama 413, 414 f see also dioramas Field Museum of Natural History, Chicago (USA) 282, 283, 286 figurines, Iron Age, chalk 424, 425 Finn, Christine 398, 399, 400, 401 First World War, see Great War (1914–18), casualties Fleming, Andrew 404 Flinders Petrie, Sir William Matthew, see Petrie, Sir William Matthew Flinders (1853–1942) Flitton (Beds), see De Grey Mausoleum, Flitton (Beds) Folly Lane report, frontispiece 415 Food Gallery, Science Museum, London 236 fora, internet 369, 380, 390–2 see also GWF (Great War Forum) Forestier, Amédée, Glastonbury Lake Village images 413 Forntider (Prehistories), exhibition 274–5, 315–16 t, 316–23, 319 f, 321 f, 322 f Fort Ross, California (USA) 436–7, 438 Fortes, Meyer 41 forums, public 145, 392 see also fora, internet Foucault, Michel 237, 288 Fromelles (France), see Great War (1914–18), casualties Froste, Peter 414–15 funerary archaeology, interviews (Italy), see mentalities, funerary archaeologists (Italy)

Index Gabriachbach stream, Styria (Austria) 345–6 Gaddafi, Muammar (Colonel) 251 garden cemeteries, see Assistens cemetery, Copenhagen ( Denmark) Gebelein Man (‘Ginger’), natural mummy 6, 295 gender, disbelief, see Bäckaskog Woman ‘George’, Lullingstone Roman Villa (Kent) 190, 191 f German Museums Association, guidelines 360 ‘Ghostdance shirt’ 2 Giddens, Anthony 142 Giesen, Myra 3 Giles, Melanie 1–14, 409–28, 448 Gillespie, Susan D. 41 ‘Ginger’ (Gebelein Man), natural mummy 6, 295 Girton College, Cambridge University 169 Glastonbury Lake Village images 413 Glob, Peter Vilhelm 214, 215, 218 The Bog People: Iron-Age Man Preserved (1969) 213, 401 Gloucester Cathedral, audio guides 189 Gokstad ship, see Viking ship burials (Norway) Goldstein, Lynne 53, 145, 433–50 Fort Ross, California (USA) 436–7, 438 Göring, Hermann 251 Gramsci, Antonio 82 Grant, Angela 336–7 Grauballe Man (Denmark), bog body 214, 215–17, 216 f, 217 f, 218 see also bog bodies Graz, Styria (Austria) 345–6 Graz Central Cemetery, Graz (Austria) 353 f, 354 f, 355, 356, 356 f, 359 f Great War (1914–18), casualties 113–15, 134–5 ownership and claim 115–16 archaeologists 122–4 bereaved families 124–7 the casualty himself 133 landowners 121–2 the military ‘tribe’ 116–18, 119–21 German casualties 118–19, 121 the wider community 127, 131–3 Great War Forum (GWF) posts 128–31 Grey, Henry, First Duke of Kent 186, 188 f Grey, Henry, Sixth Earl of Kent 186, 187 f Greyfriars church, Leicester (Leics) 379–80 ‘Gruft abzugeben’ (‘Tomb to give away’) 355, 356 f Guardian, The 370, 371, 380, 381, 388, 391

457

Guidance for the Care of Human Remains in Museums (DCMS 2005) 1–2, 173, 196–7, 200, 246 Gustafson, Gabriel 219–20 GWF (Great War Forum) 127, 128–31 HAD (Honouring the Ancient Dead): contesting heritage 336–7, 339 human remains debate: claimsmakers influence 260, 261, 262, 263–4, 265 ‘covering the mummies’ 243 Lindow Man 255, 258 setting up 240–1, 253 Haderslev (Denmark), see Museum Sønderjylland (Denmark) Hagens, Gunther von, Body Worlds, exhibition 30, 173, 178, 207, 282, 288 Hallam, Elizabeth 252, 398 Hallstatt ossuary (Austria) 351, 352 f ‘Hammelev-graven - Danmarks ældste gravefund’, display 309, 310 t, 312, 313 f Hammer, Olav 334 Harvey, Graham 334 Hasslöv cemetery, Halland (Sweden) 315 t, 318, 319, 319 f Heaney, Seamus (bog poems) 218, 398–9, 399–400, 401 Punishment (1975) 400 Strange Fruit (1975) 400 Tollund Man (1972) 398, 399–400, 406 Heath, Private, 3rd Australian Division 132–3 Hejll, Lena 275, 280 heritage, contested, see Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD), contesting heritage; Paganism, contemporary, contesting heritage Hermione Grammatike, mummy 169 Hillsborough Report, online debate 386–7 Historic England and the English Heritage Trust, see English Heritage, display practices Historiska Museet, see Swedish History Museum (Historiska Museet), Stockholm (Sweden) Hjemsted Oldtidsparken (Denmark) 299–303, 300 t, 302–3 f Hodder, Ian 228, 368 Holck, Per 222 Holtorf, Cornelius 71, 145–6 Hones, Private Jakob (d. 1915) 118, 122, 125, 133 Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD): contesting heritage 336–7, 339 human remains debate:

458

Index

Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD) (cont.) claimsmakers influence 260, 261, 262, 263–4, 265 ‘covering the mummies’ 243 Lindow Man 255, 258 setting up 240–1, 253 Howard, John (Australian PM) 173 Huffington Post, The 375, 378 Hull and East Riding Museum (Yorks), chariot burials, see reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials human remains, cremated, see cremation, museum displays human remains debate: background 259 Pagan claimsmakers 253, 260 response of museum sector 261–5 dead bodies as symbols 251–3 Lindow Man at Manchester: A Bog Body Mystery exhibition 254–5, 257–9 consultations 255–7 see also Manchester Museum (University of Manchester), human remains debate human remains display, global practice 178–82, 439 Human Remains in Museums, Guidance for the Care of (DCMS 2005) 1–2, 173, 196–7, 200, 246 human remains, indigenous peoples, see displays, indigenous peoples; repatriation, human remains; Sámi (indigenous Scandinavians) Human Remains Panel, Manchester Museum 243, 244, 246 human remains, repatriation, see repatriation, human remains Human Tissue Act (2004) 2, 173 Hunan Provincial Museum, Changsha (China) 180–1 Hunterian Museum, Glasgow 244 Hunziker Construction Company (USA) 442, 443 f see also Alameda-Stone Cemetery, Tucson, Arizona (USA) Hutton, Ronald 334, 337 Huyssen, Andreas 208 Iceman (Ötzi), natural mummy 178, 205–6, 420, 440 ICOM (International Council of Museums) 140, 289 identity, see personhood Ieper (Belgium) 119, 126, 131, 132 Ilongot (Ibilao tribe), grief 402

Images of the Afterlife, exhibition 283 Imperial War Graves Commission, see Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) In Flanders Fields Museum, Ieper (Belgium) 132 Ingold, Tim 398 International Council of Museums (ICOM) 140, 289 International Slavery Museum, Liverpool 108 internet fora 369, 380, 390–2 see also GWF (Great War Forum) internet posts, see Egyptmanchester blog; excavations, and digital media interviews, see Leighton, Mary; mentalities, funerary archaeologists (Italy); museum practice, Scandinavia and USA, transatlantic comparison; Oakington (Cambs), early AngloSaxon cemetery; St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean), Liberated African graveyard excavation, data gathering Iron Age, see reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials Iron Age, chalk figurines 424, 425 Italy, funerary archaeologists, see mentalities, funerary archaeologists (Italy) Jackson, Andrew (President USA), slave quarters 145 James II 380 James, Simon 413 Jamestown, St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean), see St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean), Liberated African graveyard excavation Jamestown, Virginia (USA), see Written in Bone: Forensic Files of the 17thCentury Chesapeake, exhibition JCCC (Joint Casualty and Compassionate Centre) 115 Jeffs, Ben 97–112, 435 Jenkins, Tiffany 238–9, 251–65, 339, 348, 439 Johnson, Matthew 70 Joint Casualty and Compassionate Centre (JCCC) 115 Jorvik Viking Centre, York (Yorks) 174–5 see also DIG, York (Yorks), exhibition Keegan, John 117 Keiller Museum, see Alexander Keiller Museum, Avebury (Wilts) Kellehear, Allan 142 Kennewick Man (USA) 235 kinship, fictive 116–21

Index Kirchdorf, the Tyrol (Austria) 352 f Kirk, Trevor 396–406, 447–8 Koller, Gustav 355, 356 f Körperwelten, see von Hagens, Gunther, Body Worlds, exhibition Kristeva, Julia 148, 160, 416 Kruisweg, Flemish poetry, see Dejonckheere, Marc, Kruisweg (2006) Kulturen in Lund museum (Sweden) 178, 273, 288 Archbishop Jacob Erlandsen (d. 1274) 276–7, 279 f, 280 f Levin Dombrowsky 278, 279 Metropolis Daniae exhibition 276, 277 f, 278 f Wonderous Horrendous Human Being Who has the Right to Live?, exhibition 277, 278 Kvissleby, Norrland (Sweden), cremation burial 315 t, 320, 321 ‘Lady of the marquis of Dai’ 180–1 ‘Lake Mungo Woman’ (Australia) 179–80 Lamkin, Todd 282, 283 Latour, Bruno 234, 236 Leach, Sir Edmund R. 236–7 Leicester (Leics), University of, see Richard III Leicester Cathedral (Leics), see Richard III Leicester City Museums (Leics) 262 Leighton, Mary 69, 75–6, 84, 91 Lenin, Vladimir Ilich 252 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 398 Lewis, James R. 334 Lexden Tumulus (Essex), burial mound 304 t, 307 f Liberated African, graveyard, see St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean), Liberated African graveyard excavation Lindow Man (Cheshire), bog body 6, 176, 239 f visualization 419, 420 f see also bog bodies Lindow Man at Manchester Museum (University of Manchester): A Bog Body Mystery exhibition 254–5, 257–9 consultations 255–7 Lindow Man, human remains debate 238–41, 239 f literature, see creative writing Liverpool Football Club, see Hillsborough Report, online debate Liverpool Street station (Crossrail), London, excavation 140, 142 Llyn Cerrig Bach (Anglesey) 412, 414 London Bodies (1999), exhibition 171, 176–7 Long Wolf, Native American 338 Lullingstone Roman Villa (Kent) 190–2, 191–2 f Lund (Sweden), see Kulturen in Lund museum (Sweden)

459

MA (Museums Association) 263, 264 McClelland, John 39–61, 442, 443 MacDonald, Sharon 236 McGimsey III, Charles R. 144 Machin, Rebecca 236 McManners, John 207 Magliocco, Sabina 337 Mail on Sunday, see excavations, and digital media Maleev, Alex 420 Malmö (Sweden), Jewish congregation 278 Manchester Museum (University of Manchester), human remains debate: authorship and authority 234–8, 244–5 ‘covering the mummies’ 241–4, 242 f, 245–6 Human Remains Panel 243, 244, 246 Lindow Man 238–41, 239 f see also human remains debate Marrs, Garland 50 Marxists, in archaeology 82, 82 f, 83, 89, 90 Märzpark (formerly Schmelz Cemetery), Vienna (Austria) 357, 358 Mather, Private Alan James (d. 1917) 118, 122–3, 125, 126, 133 Matland, Susan 276 Mauss, Marcel 40, 41 Mawangdui Tomb, Hunan Provincial Museum, Changsha (China) 180–1 media, see Facebook; TV programmes, influence of; Twitter media, and excavations, see excavations, and digital media mediators, archaeologists as 12, 40, 400 Meet the Ancestors (BBC TV) 175, 414, 421 Melton (Suffolk) 373–4, 382 memory-work, see creative writing; narratives, archaeological mentalities, funerary archaeologists (Italy) 68–9 archaeological schools 71 attitudes towards the dead 75–8, 77 f, 89–90 the deceased as ancestors 78–9 discussion and outcomes 80–4, 80 f, 81 f, 82 f, 89–90 ethnography and mentality 70–1 problems facing funerary archaeologists 79, 80 f the research design 72–3 interviewees 73–5, 74 f, 91 questions 72, 84–8 Merriman, Nick 240, 243, 244 metaphors, use of 397, 398, 399, 401–2 Metropolis Daniae, exhibition 276, 277 f, 278 f

460

Index

Metroselskabet, Copenhagen Metro, see Assistens cemetery, Copenhagen (Denmark) Middle Passages Ceremonies and Port Markers Project (USA), website comment 109 military ‘tribe’, fictive kinship 116–21 Ministry of Justice (MoJ) 4, 140, 370 Missing, the, see Great War (1914–18), casualties Moesgård Museum, Aarhus (Denmark) 216, 217 f, 294, 406 MoJ (Ministry of Justice) 4, 140, 370 Mol, Annemarie 46 ‘morbid curiosity’ 140, 142–3, 185, 199 Morgan, Lynn M. 41 Morgan, Michelle 281 Mosse, George L. 119 mummies, Egyptian, see Egyptian mummies, displays Mummy: The Inside Story (2004), exhibition 176 Museum of Cultural History, Lund (Sweden), see Kulturen in Lund museum (Sweden) Museum of Cultural History, Oslo (Norway) 272, 275–6 see also Viking ship burials (Norway), Viking Ship Museum exhibition Museum of Ethnology, Vienna (Austria) 347 Museum of High Altitude Archaeology, Argentina (South America) 179 Museum of London 29–30, 171, 176–8 Museum of Southern Jutland, see Museum Sønderjylland (Denmark) museum practice, display of human remains 169 current context 172–4 exhibit settings 174–6 global display practice 178–82, 439 historical context 170–2 Museum of London experience 176–8 museum practice, Scandinavia and USA 268–9 historical background 269–72 transatlantic comparison 272–3 the politics 287–8 Scandinavian viewpoint 273–80, 277 f, 278 f, 279 f, 280 f United States viewpoint 281–7, 283 f, 284 f, 285 f, 286 f museum practice, the exhibition process 234–5 Museum Sønderjylland (Denmark) 309–13, 310–12 t, 313 f, 314 f Museums Association (MA) 263, 264

NAGPRA (Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act) 39, 42, 46, 180, 270, 281, 443 narratives, archaeological: naming the dead 5–7 plural identities 7–10 telling tales 10–13 see also creative writing Næss, Ellen Maire 226 National Cemetery, Tucson (USA), see Alameda-Stone Cemetery, Tucson, Arizona (USA) National Historical Museum, Stockholm (Sweden), see Swedish History Museum (Historiska Museet), Stockholm (Sweden) National Museum of Denmark, Copenhagen (Denmark) 178, 268, 275, 279, 280 National Museum of Greenland, Nuuk (Greenland) 178 National Museum of Ireland 216, 415 National Museum of Natural History (Smithsonian), Washington DC (USA): mummies 282–3, 283 f, 284 f repatriation 180 Written in Bone: Forensic Files of the 17thCentury Chesapeake exhibition 179, 284–5, 285 f, 286–7, 286 f National Museum of the American Indian Act (1989) 39 National Museum of the American Indian, Washington (USA) 179 National Museum of Wales 338, 339 National Trust, Sutton Hoo (Suffolk) 8–9 see also Alexander Keiller Museum, Avebury (Wilts) nationalism 78–9, 271 Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) 39, 42, 46, 180, 270, 281, 443 Natural History Museum, London 2 Natural History Museum, Vienna (Austria) 347, 358 neo-Pagans, see Council of British Druid Orders (CoBDO); Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD) ‘New Blacks’ slave cemetery, Rio de Janeiro (Brazil) 101 New Walk Museum, Leicester, Egyptian mummy exhibition 175 New York African Burial Ground (NYABG) 108–9

Index news media, see BBC News, online; excavations, and digital media; Guardian, The; Huffington Post, The; Telegraph, The Nielsen, Poul Otto 275, 280 nighthawking 122 Nilsson Stutz, Liv 268–89, 441 No Man’s Land (European Group for Great War Archaeology) 127, 131 Nordström, Nina 204–29, 254, 438, 440, 446, 447 North America, viewpoints 269, 435, 438, 439 see also museum practice, Scandinavia and USA; Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) North Grimston, Ryedale (Yorks), sword hilt 425, 425 f NRK (TV and Radio Norway) 222 Oakington (Cambs), early Anglo-Saxon cemetery: excavations 141 f, 146–7, 153 f community involvement 154–5 cow and woman burial 374, 375 media interest in 375–9 social impact research 158–60 feedback form 161–2 methodology 148–50 observational results 152–4, 153 f, 156–7 questionnaire results 150–2 Obama, Barack (President USA) 436 Öland (Sweden), cremation graves, see Swedish History Museum (Historiska Museet), Stockholm (Sweden), cremation displays O’Mack, Scott 49 online, see BBC Leicester, online news; BBC News, online; Egyptmanchester blog; public opinion, internet fora Opening the Vaults: Mummies, exhibition 282–3 opinion polls (ICM) 200 Oseberg Viking ship burial (Norway): original excavation and interpretation 219–20 reburial 1948 and speculation 220–2, 221 f re-excavation 2007 and reinterpretation 222–6, 223 f, 224–5 f Viking Ship Museum exhibition 226–7, 226 f ossuaries 193–4, 195–6, 351–2, 352 f, 359–60 Ötzi (Iceman), natural mummy 178, 205–6, 420, 440 Owen, Wilfred 120

461

Paganism, contemporary 333–4 ‘Ancestor’ veneration 334–5, 336 contesting heritage 336–41 informing spirituality 334–6 Pagans for Archaeology (PfA), Facebook 261–2, 340 Pagans, human remains debate, see Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD); human remains debate; Manchester Museum (University of Manchester), human remains debate Parker Pearson, Michael 78, 336, 370 Parnell, James (d. 1696) 305 Patterson, Aoife 419, 420, 420 f, 421 Paviland Cave, Gower Peninsula (Swansea) 339 Payne, Sebastian (English Heritage) 185, 199–200, 200–1 Peabody Museum (Harvard University), Cambridge (USA) 273, 281, 285 Pearce, Susan 170 Pearson, Andrew 97–112, 435 ‘Pete Marsh’, see Lindow Man (Cheshire), bog body Peers, Laura 360 Pendragon, Arthur Uther (John Timothy Rothwell) 340 Perry, Grayson, Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman (2011) 174 Perry, Sarah 428 personhood and re-embodiment 39–42 Alameda-Stone Cemetery, Tucson, Arizona (USA) 436, 442–4, 443 f early history (19C) 47–9, 48 f abandonment and redevelopment (20C) 50–1 excavations (21C): consultations 51–2 biological profiling 53–5 reburials 55–60, 56 f, 58 f, 59 f, 60 f death and transformation 43–5 osteologists role 47, 60–1 re-embodiment 45–7 repatriation 42–3 Perth Museum and Art Gallery (Perths, Scotland) 176 Petrie Museum (UCL), London 175 Petrie, Sir William Matthew Flinders (1853–1942) 169 Phillips, James E. 413 Pitt, Brad 206 Pitts, Mike 370 Pliny 335 Ploegsteert, Hainaut (Belgium) 122, 123, 126, 133

462

Index

Pöch, Rudolf (1870–1921) 346 poetry, see Constantine, David (poet); creative writing, poetry and archaeology; Dejonckheere, Marc, Kruisweg (2006); Heaney, Seamus (bog poems) Pollard, Tony 123, 124 Prehistories (Forntider), exhibition 274–5, 315–16 t, 316–23, 319 f, 321 f, 322 f Prince Andrew School, St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean) 103, 103 f ‘princes in the tower’ 380 Prittlewell Prince 9–10 Procurer Royal 116 public consultations: Alameda-Stone Cemetery, Tucson, Arizona (USA) 51–2 English Heritage 199–202 Lindow Man at Manchester 255–7 Manchester Museum (University of Manchester) 238, 239, 243–4, 245, 246 St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean) 110, 173, 246 public opinion, internet fora 390–2 see also excavations, and digital media public opinion, measuring 444–6 questionnaires, use of, see mentalities, funerary archaeologists (Italy), the research design; Oakington (Cambs), early Anglo-Saxon cemetery, social impact research; St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean), Liberated African graveyard excavation, data gathering Ragnarok (movie) 226–7 Railway, Southern Pacific 48–9 Rajala, Ulla 68–91, 445 Ramilisonina 336 Ramses I, mummy 282 Rantz, August 355, 356 f Rasdjarmrearnsook, Araya 207 Rathouse, Will 333–41, 447 reburial, requests for 1–4 see also Alexander Keiller Museum, Avebury (Wilts); Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD); human remains debate; Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA); Paganism, contemporary, contesting heritage; repatriation, human remains; Stonehenge (Wilts), burial campaign reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials:

chariot burial (Peter Connolly) 409–11, 410 f, 411 f chariot burial (Aaron Watson) 422–3, 423 f peopling the image 423–5, 424 f, 425 f technology and style 425–7 collaborative visualization 421, 427–8 death and its representation 416–18 funerary representation 418–20, 420 f Iron Age life and death 411–16, 414 f ‘Red Lady of Paviland’ 339 Redfern, Rebecca 2, 3 Reischek, Andreas 347 Remembering the Dead, project 68 repatriation (USA), see Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) repatriation, human remains 1–4, 439 from collections 346–8, 346 f, 359–61, 445 and restoration 42–3 see also human remains debate Research Excellence Framework (REF) 385–6 Restall Orr, Emma: contemporary Paganism 335–6 Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD) 240–1, 260, 261, 262, 339 Lindow Man exhibition 239 see also Druid Network (TDN); Honouring the Ancient Dead (HAD) Richard III: excavation 379–80 online comments analysis 381–2 Hillsborough Disaster/Report 386–7 humour 389–90 news genres 387–9 non-Ricardians 385–6 Ricardians 383–5 Robinson, Sir Tony 130, 136 see also Ambrus, Victor; Time Team (C4 TV) Rosaldo, Renato 402 Rowett, Reverend David 194 Royal Navy, liberated slaves 99, 101 Rupert’s Valley, see St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean), Liberated African graveyard excavation Russians, California (USA), see Fort Ross, California ( USA) St Bethlehem’s, London, excavation 140, 142–3 St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean), Liberated African graveyard excavation: airport project 98–9, 99 f attitudes to the dead 106–7 data gathering 99–100 ethnic origins and cultural ownership 100–1

Index future of the human remains 110–11 international attention 108–9 public engagement 101–5, 103 f, 104 f, 105 f superstition 107–8 St John the Baptist, Flitton (Beds), see De Grey Mausoleum, Flitton (Beds) St Leonard’s Church, Hythe (Kent) 195, 196 St Michael & All Angels church, Copford (Essex), see Copford church (Essex) St Nikolas, Hall in Tirol (Austria) 350, 351 f St Peter’s Church, Barton-upon-Humber (Lincs) 193 Buried Lives (2007) exhibition 194–9, 196 f, 198 f ossuary 193–4 Samain family, Serre (France) 122 Sámi (indigenous Scandinavians) 272, 275, 287, 315 t, 320, 321 f Samson Hill, Bryher (Isles of Scilly) 399 ‘Sandy’, pre-dynastic burial 176 Sayer, Duncan 139–62, 367–92 on public access 434–5 on public opinion 444–5, 446 Sayer, Faye (née Simpson) 139–62 Scandinavia and USA, museum exhibitions, see museum practice, Scandinavia and USA Scarry, Elaine 416–17 Schmelz Cemetery (later Märzpark), Vienna (Austria) 357, 358 Schreier, Daniel 111 Schreiner, Kristian Emil 221 Schubert, Franz 357 Schubertpark (formerly Währing Village Cemetery), Vienna (Austria) 357, 358 screens, see barriers, excavating without Seven Vikings, exhibition 294 Shakespeare, William 380 Shallcrass, Philip (British Druid Order) 336, 338, 339 Sheffield Cathedral (Yorks), Supertram grave clearance 143 ship burials, see Sutton Hoo (Suffolk); Viking ship burials (Norway); Volga River, ship burial Silk Road Cultural Relics Museum (China), display 181 Silkeborg (Denmark): Grauballe Man 214, 215–17, 216 f, 217 f, 218 Tollund Man 213–14, 215 f, 218–19, 419 see also Heaney, Seamus, Tollund Man (1972) Simpson, Bruce 115 see also Western Front Association (WFA) Simpson, Faye, see Sayer, Faye (née Simpson) Sinuhe, Egyptian palace official 337

463

Sitch, Bryan 238–9, 241, 245, 254–5, 256, 257 Skeletons, exhibition 178 slave quarters, excavation 145 slave trade, archaeology, see St Helena (South Atlantic Ocean), Liberated African graveyard excavation Smithsonian, Washington DC (USA), see National Museum of Natural History (Smithsonian), Washington DC (USA) social media, see Facebook; Twitter Society of Antiquaries (London), portraits 380 Sokal, Alan 234, 235, 236 South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology, Bolzano (Italy) 178 South Wiltshire Museum, Salisbury (Wilts) 174 Southern Arizona Veterans Memorial Cemetery, Sierra Vista (USA) 55–7, 56 f spirituality, see Paganism, contemporary, informing spirituality Spitalfields, London 23, 97, 177 Stallworthy, Jon 401 Stead, Ian 410 Stonehenge (Wilts), burial campaign 340, 370–1 online comments analysis 371–2 Stonehenge Free Festival 337, 338 Strathern, Marilyn 41 Styria (Austria) 345–6 superstition, Saint Helenians 107–8, 111, 112 Sutton Hoo (Suffolk) 8–9 Swain, Hedley 169–82, 438–9 Swedish History Museum (Historiska Museet), Stockholm (Sweden) 274–5, 280 Bäckaskog Woman 209–12, 211 f, 212 f, 447 cremation displays 313, 315–16 t, 316–23, 319 f, 321 f, 322 f sword hilt, North Grimston, Ryedale (Yorks) 425, 425 f Sydsvenskan, newspaper 279 Tacitus, Cornelius, Germania 218 Tarlow, Sarah 383, 397, 402, 403, 405 Tatham, Sarah 184–202, 442 Taylor, Tim 335 Telegraph, The 380, 381, 390 television, programmes, see TV programmes, influence of Tey, Josephine, The Daughter of Time (1951) 388 Thackray, David (National Trust) 199–200 Thielecke, Unteroffizier Albert (d. 1915) 118, 122, 133 Thomas, David Hurst 281, 286 Tilley, Christopher 401, 402, 404

464

Index

Time Team (C4 TV) 101–2, 136, 373, 374, 389 see also Ambrus, Victor; Robinson, Sir Tony Tollund Man (Denmark), bog body 213–14, 215 f, 218–19, 419 Heaney, Seamus, Tollund Man (1972) 389, 399–400, 406 see also bog bodies Tom Tit’s Experiment, Science Museum, Stockholm (Sweden) 288 Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman (2011), exhibition 174 ‘Tomb to give away’ (‘Gruft abzugeben’) 355, 356 f Towton (Yorks), see Battle of Towton (1471), human remains Tringham, Ruth 396, 403 Tucson, Arizona (USA), see Alameda-Stone Cemetery, Tucson, Arizona (USA) Tucson Citizen, newspaper 443 f Turin Egyptian Museum, Turin (Italy), mummy 175 Turpan Museum (China), natural mummies 181 TV programmes, influence of 40, 127, 175, 368 see also Meet the Ancestors (BBC TV); Time Team (C4 TV) Twin Towers, World Trade Centre (USA) 286, 389 Twitter 145, 370, 375 University of Arizona (USA) 40, 50, 442 University of Bradford (Yorks) 417 University of Edinburgh, repatriations 348 University of Leicester (Leics), excavation, see Richard III ‘Unknown’, burials of the 56, 126–7 USA, see Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA); North America, viewpoints USA, museum exhibitions, see museum practice, Scandinavia and USA Valletta Convention 145 Valsta cemetery (Sweden), reconstructions 317–18 Vandewalle, Johan 123–4 Velasco, Juan 420 Vendel period, boat-graves 315 t, 317, 321, 322–3, 322 f Verdery, Katherine, The Political Lives of Dead Bodies (1999) 251–2 VIA (Visualisation in Archaeology) 421 Victoria and Albert Museum, London, exhibition process 234

Vienna Central Cemetery, Vienna (Austria) 357, 358, 359 Viking ship burials (Norway): original excavation and interpretation 219–20 reburial 1948 and speculation 220–2, 221 f re-excavation 2007 and reinterpretation 222–6, 223 f, 224–5 f Viking Ship Museum exhibition 226–7, 226 f Vikings: The North Atlantic Saga, exhibition 282 villa, Roman, see Lullingstone Roman Villa (Kent) visibility, of excavations, see Assistens cemetery, Copenhagen ( Denmark), keeping a low profile; barriers, excavating without Visualisation in Archaeology (VIA) 421 visualizations, see Lindow Man (Cheshire), bog body, visualization; reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials Volga River, ship burial 219, 323 von Hagens, Gunther, Body Worlds, exhibition 30, 173, 178, 207, 282, 288 von Waldenstein, Florian Waldauf 350 Währing Village Cemetery (later Schubertpark), Vienna (Austria) 357, 358 Währinger Park (formerly Währing General Cemetery), Vienna (Austria) 357, 358, 358 f Waldenstein, Florian Waldauf von 350 Walter, Tony 367–92, 446 Wangen, Vivian 222–4, 223 f, 224–5 f Warhol, Andy 208 wars, see Great War (1914–18), casualties Warwick, Kit 339 ‘Washington Agreement’, restoration of Jewish cemeteries 361 Watson, Aaron, see reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials Weerdinge couple (Netherlands), bog bodies 219 see also bog bodies Weiss-Krejci, Estella 345–61, 445–6 Wellcome Collection, London 178, 179 Wellcome Collection, London’s Buried Bones, exhibition 200–1 Welwyn Garden City (Herts), cremation grave 324–5 Western culture, museum practice 170–2 see also museum practice, display of human remains

Index Western Front, see Great War (1914–18), casualties Western Front Association (WFA) 115, 121, 127, 131 Westminster Abbey, London 384 Wetwang Slack (Yorks), chariot burials, see reconstructions, Iron Age chariot burials WFA (Western Front Association) 115, 121, 127, 131 Whithorn (Dumfries and Galloway), excavation 140 Whittle, Alasdair 405 Wilk, Christopher 234 Williams, Elizabeth J. L. 45, 144 Williams, Howard 1–14, 45, 144, 293–326, 415 ‘the bigger picture’ 204, 438 cremation exhibits 6, 440–1 visualizations 418 Williams, Howard, Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain (2006) 419 Windeby Girl, see Heaney, Seamus (bog poems), Punishment (1975) Windmill Hill, Avebury (Wilts), see ‘Charlie’, Windmill Hill, Avebury (Wilts)

465

Wonderous Horrendous Human Being–Who has the Right to Live?, exhibition 277, 278 Woolgar, Steve 234 World City: 1789–1914, London Museum 177 World Trade Centre (WTC) 286, 389 World War I, see Great War (1914–18), casualties Worsley Man (Gtr. Manchester) 240, 411, 411 f see also bog bodies Wrest Park, see De Grey Mausoleum, Flitton (Beds) writing, creative, see creative writing Written in Bone: Forensic Files of the 17thCentury Chesapeake, exhibition 179, 284–5, 285 f, 286–7, 286 f WTC (World Trade Centre) 286, 389 Y Farm cemetery, Bois-Grenier (France) 127, 132 York Minster (Yorks), Richard III 381, 382, 384 Yorkshire and Lancaster Regiment 127 Ypres, see Ieper (Belgium) Zhuanzi, see ‘Lady of the marquis of Dai’