Halting Time: Monuments to Alterity

Halting Time: Monuments to Alterity Many thanks to Rebecca Adler-Nissen, Kirsten Ainley, Morten Skumsrud Andersen, Roland Bleiker, Ina Blom, Rupert Burridge, Benjamin de Carvalho, William Connelly, Håkon Glørstad, Nina Græger, Scott Hamilton, Kristin Haugevik, Kim Hutchings, Oliver Kessler, Mathias Koenig-Archebugi, Halvard Leira, Megan Mackenzie, Lene Melheim, Aaron McKeil, Zaphinas Naguib, Cecilie Basberg Neumann, Einar Petterson, Bjørnar Sverdrup-Thygeson, Alexei Tsinovoi, Joanne Yao, three demanding reviewers and particularly Lene Hansen and Michael C. Williams for comments. A warm word of thanks to Simone Friis and Johan Spanner for excellent research assistance. The article was presented at the Millennium Conference 21-22 October 2017, The Politics of Time in International Relations, and is part of a project on Images and International Security based at Copenhagen University and funded by the Danish Research Council for Independent Research, grant no. DFF–132-00056B. Millennium (2018) 46 (3) 331-351, https://doi.org/10.1177/0305829818771339, special issue on temporality and international relations. Iver B. Neumann, Museum of Cultural History, Oslo University Abstract Drawing on identity and prototype theory, the article sets out to analyse the historically dominant monumentalizing ways in which polities try to shore up their own Selves by halting their Others in time. The first part of the article discusses how monuments represent Self/Other relations from ancient Mesopotamia in the East to modern Britain in the West by limning off a constitutive outside, be that as visual absence or presence. Temporality is of the essence here, with the basic idea being that the Self is in temporal motion, while the Other is literally petrified. I then postulate that the Other is halted in time in three basic ways: as visual absence, as dead and as subjugated. Crucially, however, the Second World War is actually the end point of the extraordinary stability of monumental ways in which to represent the Other. We see the tentative emergence and damning of a fourth Other, namely a previous incarnation of the Self. I conclude, with Norbert Elias, that the fading away of the Other as dead and as subjugated is significant as part of a civilization process that works against denying the Other its future agency. Keywords: Monuments, temporality, alterity And on the pedestal these words appear: ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look at my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ Percy Bysshe Shelley 1818 ...every system’s downfall is the illusion of having triumphed over difference... Michel de Certeau 1995: 182.  Monuments try to play two tricks on temporality, namely to single out a certain patch of time for commemoration, and to preserve that patch of time in a particular medium, usually stone or metal. In part one of this article, I discuss how such commemoration works in the case of monuments, how monuments are constitutive of a polity’s identity by commemorating the Self in a specific constellation with its constitutive Others. The bulk of the article draws up a taxonomy of three ways in which the Other was halted in time in Western Eurasian monuments from the emergence of the genre and until the Second World War. By Western Eurasia I mean roughly the ancient world centered on the Eastern Mediterranean, from the Pontic Steppe in the north to Egypt in the south. The choice of region follows from the article’s focus on longue dureé temporality. We need a region with the longest possible history and a maximum number of heterogeneous polities. Western Eurasia had a certain cohesion already in the Bronze Age (Kristiansen and Larson 2005). In the third millennium Before the Common Era (BCE), Babylon and then Egypt upheld a cultural hegemony, which had by the first century BCE shifted to Rome. The latter half of the second millennium saw a growing Western European hegemony. Of course, East Asia and the Asian Subcontinent also have millennia-long, if shorter, proto-histories and histories, but their constitutive polities have been fewer and less culturally variegated and their monumentalizing traditions more homogenous, hence the choice of Western Eurasia. In what degree the findings here may be relevant beyond the article’s spatial area of validity, say to European settler colonies or even globally, must remain a question for future research. The major argument is that the Second World War constitutes a break with previous triumphalism and a beginning realisation of the futility of freezing a specific constellation between Self and Other. For the study of temporality in International Relations (IR), this article’s use of a longue durée time frame which is about 4500 years longer than what is usual in the discipline, is a contribution in itself. For the study of polity identity and Self/Other relations, a longue durée perspective yields two substantial advantages. First, extant studies of Self/Other relations, including exemplars such as Fabian’s ([1983] 1992) Time and the Other and Said’s (1978) Orientalism, stress the Othering practices of Western European polities. While this is of course politically apposite, a longue durée perspective demonstrates that Western Europe was late to the ball. The basic Othering practices on display in Western Eurasia during the last half millennium originate long before there was either a ‘West’ or a ‘Europe’. Secondly, a longue durée perspective underlines the significance of the ongoing break with former ways of visualizing Self/Other relations, and so of constituting polities, by demonstrating the historical depth of that break. <A> How Monuments Constitute Polities in Time The Oxford English Dictionary gives the most basic definition of a monument as ‘[a] statue, building, or other structure erected to commemorate a famous or notable person or event’. Already erected structures, for example a military high command, may also be monumentalized (Ejdus 2017). Such structures are intended to remind (the Latin root of monumentum is monere, to remind) the polity that erected or monumentalized it of a phenomenon that is constitutive of that polity, with a polity being a group of humans that has a self-reflected identity or ‘we-ness’, a capacity to mobilize resources and a degree of institutionalisation and hierarchy (Ferguson and Mansbach1997: 34). While we generally think of the process of imagining community as linked with text and the rise of other forms of constitutive technology, like the printing press, monuments present a different aspect of this process, with different analytical challenges and political dynamics, for they narrate the Self in a different genre. Monuments, like reminders, are intrinsically temporal. Monuments has its own agency and biography (Sørensen and Viejo-Rose 2015). They try to halt time by narrating it in a material that is intended to last. This section will argue that the temporality of monuments – that is, the way monuments try to manifest time in human existence (Hoy 2009) -- is event-oriented and slow. Because of their event-oriented temporality – monuments seize the opportunity to halt a moment in time -- in order to stay relevant, monuments have to be kept alive by a synthesis with social memories that also come from elsewhere, otherwise they lose their meaning and fall into empty time. This process is constitutive of a polity’s identity, for it upholds or breaks a polity’s Self. While extant studies have analysed this process, I will add value by looking at a previously unstudied question, namely how monuments represent the constitutive outside of the polity’s Self, that is, its Others. Monuments have two temporal characteristics. How these play out in different societies will depend, among other things, on the various temporalities that will serve as context for monumentalisation in different polities, see Hutchings 2007, Helliwell and Hindess 2013. First, monumental temporality seizes the opportunity of trying to capture a special event (Deleuze 1994, Hutchings 2008). Secondly, monumental temporality is slow, as in intended to last for posterity. The slow temporality or ‘coolness’ (Innes 1950: 27; McLuhan 1994: 22) of monuments compared to other visual genres such as cartoons (Hansen 2017), drawings (Aradau and Hill 2013), murals (Lisle 2006) and even art (Bleiker 2009) as well as their often stony immovability lend them much of their gravitas (Deibert 1997). The fact that the temporality of the genre is so slow means that we still a large number of ancient monuments with very long reception histories on public display, so that any overall study of monumentalisation, as opposed to close readings of specific monuments, will have to be on a millennial time scale. Their slow temporality or coolness is also what makes monuments so problematical and central in times when the boundaries and character of the polity are particularly contested. Monuments go up in an attempt at closure – to celebrate a reign, a battle victory, a conversion – or in order to usher in a new beginning – a birth, a change of ruling lineage, a territorial takeover. They may come down when the defeated opposition – Soviet rulers of Estonia, moderate Muslims of Afghanistan – have been ushered out and the reckoning is at hand, or when a new social force – Nasser in Egypt, ISIS in Syria – are trying to be socially creative by being materially destructive. Since the narratives of Self that monuments tell are constitutive of a certain kind of polity, it follows logically that social change will involve their effacement or total destruction, be that on the central square in Tallinn, in the Bamiyan valley, in ancient Palmyra or, to index an example from outside of Western Eurasia, in the American South. New social forces want new times and territorial markers, and begin by removing old ones or, at the very least, attempt to change their meaning. Ultimately, monuments strive for immortality for individuals and, by extention, for the polities to which they belong. It is significant that large monuments make their historical appearance as Neolithic henges that call on polities to merge, and that they are a constitutive element of all emergent complex polities: Babylon had its ziggurats, Egypt its pyramids; Mycenae and Minoan Crete are regularly referred to as ‘palace culture’. These monuments manifest the polities in time and space. An 8th-century BCE stele found in Zincirli, Anatolia, records that it was the wish of the person who paid for its erection that there should be an offering of ‘a ram for my soul that will be in this stele’ after his death (Pearson 2013: 12; Manco 2014: 77). The monument was in this case thought of as a long-lasting, preferably ever-lasting, container of the soul of the dead, much like monuments erected by polities are supposed somehow to contain the spirit of the polity. Egypotologist Jan Assmann (2011: 150, 127) notes how what he calls ‘monumental discourse’ and defines as the ‘dual references of writing, plus art and architecture, reflected the special relationship between the concepts of state and eternity (or immortality) in Egypt’ was actually what gave birth to the Egyptian polity. Neal Leach argues about that modern polity, the nation, that it ‘needs to read itself into objects in the environment in order to articulate that identity” (Leach, 2006: 85). Monuments, then, are material artefacts that invite mnemonic techniques and practices that are constitutive of polities and, since the Self has a constitutive outside, also of that polity’s relationship with other polities. And yet, these attempts to endow eternity on an event are bound to fail (Steele 2013: 46-47; Hutchings 2008). Ray (2006: 139) draws on Bakhtin’s concept of the chronotope to capture how space and time conspire to make landscapes and monuments ‘chronotopes in which time has been condensed in a space symbolically arranged and invested with myth and identity’. Eventually, monuments disappear in sand, are destroyed, grow to be illegible. By attempting to turn past into present and space into place (Keith and Pile 1993; Amoore and Hall 2010; Neumann 2012; Björkdahl and Buckley-Zistel 2016), monuments constitute an identity in time and space for a certain polity. The basic move is to erect an event-marker that says ‘this happened to us’ and that turns space into (our) place by saying ‘it happened here’. We have in monuments what seems to be a paradigmatic case of the ways in which a political Self gains its identity by marking a difference to Others, for the basic boundary markers are walls, fences, portals. Fredrik Barth’s (1969) work on how ethnicity is formed in relation to other ethnicities and Edward Said’s (1978) work on how 'the East' is a subjugated and constitutive outside for 'the West’ gave the initial impetus to a thriving literature on Self/Other-relations. In William Connolly’s (1991: 61) words, identity demands difference to be, and turns difference into Otherness in order to secure itself. An array of studies in IR (see, e.g. Campbell 1992, Neumann 1999, Hansen 2006, Auchter 2014) went on to demonstrate how this Self/Other nexus emerged as a result of textual production and its effects. A number of excellent studies in and out of IR have followed by widening the study of identity to include monuments (see, in particular, Edkins 2003: 57-83 and 127-148; Bell 2003; Steele 2013: 129-143; Lebow 2009; Bleiker 2009; Danchev and Lisle 2009; Hansen 2011; Heck and Schlag 2012; also Kattago 2009). These studies have contributed to our understanding of how, ‘[t]he relationship between collective memory and identity is always a two-way street: there is no community without a corresponding memory that records its trajectory in time, and no such trajectory without the active construction of a past order to support or debunk a given identity in the present’ (Bartelson 2006: 37). But note the steady stream of 20th-century futurists who have condemned monuments as backward-looking and future-denying, at odds with the very spirit of modernity and modern architecture, arguing that ‘stone gives a false sense of continuity, and a deceptive assurance of life’ (Lewis Mumford quoted in Young 1992: 272). We have to ask questions about whether, and, if so, how and why, things are remembered and quoted, for ‘the past is not preserved but reconstructed on the basis of the [or, in our setting, a] present’ (Halbwachs [1925] 1992: 38). The key theme in extant literature is how, I would say quite in line with Durkheim’s (2008) understanding of religion, the Self builds monuments either to celebrate itself or, since the Second World War, also to atone for actions committed by a former and now discredited and even threatening incarnation of the Self. There is an oversight in extant literature on how monuments attempt to constitute polities celebrating certain moments in time, namely that it looks exclusively at how monuments tell stories of the Self. Given that identity is predicated on the Self’s relation to Others, and this is what it means to speak of a constitutive outside, we must also look at how monuments represent the Other. I will, therefore, try to add value to this literature by asking where the Other is in monuments. Given the cool temporality of monuments, this attempt has to be undertaken at the scale of world history. I will complement the often short temporality of the social scientist with the long temporality of the archaeologist. In discussing the genre of monuments, art historians stress formal historical breaks: the emergence of the Stelae amongst the first empires of the East Mediterranean (Mesopotamia, Egypt etc.); the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome; the Renaissance and the Second World War. The longevity and ubiquity of monuments make them a dauntingly world-historical challenge for any social scientist. It may be the overwhelming temporality of monuments, and not only that visual material in general poses different analytical challenges than does textual one, that explain why identity studies in IR have largely shied away from the potential treasure trove of data that is monuments. Even if we follow the art historians and think of monuments in the area from the Eastern Mediterranean hinterland to the Atlantic Coast as a specific, Western Eurasian class of monuments, and bracket monuments in other parts of the world, we are still talking about a huge universe of cases. Like texts, monuments secure the Self by establishing and maintaining difference which may, or may not, be turned into Otherness. Since monuments are usually erected by elites, often following some debate, they are usually intended to tell a narrative of Self, and, by implication, of the Self’s constitutive outside (Douglas 1972, Young 1994, Assmann 2001), which will then interpellate members of the polity. The process of hatching, planning, debating, building and maintaining the meanings of monuments we may call monumentalisation. Given that ‘[a]ll images are polysemous: they imply, underlying their signifiers, a “floating chain” of signifieds’ from which the reader may choose (Barthes 1979: 38-39), monumentalisation is contested and never ending. Captions may alleviate this a bit, since text makes the principally empty sign of the image into 'a signifier of a specific condition legitimizing a particular range of action' (Hansen 2011: 54; also Lisle 2006). There is no space to go into specific cases of monumentalisation here, but one goal of the present article is to stimulate specific studies of how alterity features in the process of monumentalisation. Given that the number of monuments that have gone up in Western Eurasia over the period in question is at least in the hundreds of thousand, no exploratory article can deliver anything but a bird’s eye view of this material. In order to draw up a taxonomy, I will lean on prototype theory (Rosch 1973). Prototype theory is predicated on the idea that categorisation is a graded process, where some units are seen as more typical of the category than others. Note the overlap with post-structural method: categories can never be fully separate, but will always bleed into one another, and there will always be hierarchies within categories (‘human’ has to be limned off from animals and machines and contain hierarchies pertaining to gender, ethnicity etc.) For example, as a social fact, an eagle has a longer history and a higher number of family resemblances with a prototypical bird than does, say, a penguin, and it will therefore be more representative of that category (Rosch 1973, 1999). Although a pyramid, a stone garden and a wall are all monuments, a pyramid would be a more prototypical monument than the other two. It has a longer history, is more obviously commemorative, and in Western Eurasia also more obviously a work of art to more people than are a stone garden or a wall. By the same token, my research on monuments has involved analyzing hundreds of different representations of Others, out of which I have identified three as prototypical. Drawing on art history, I have tried to identify first historical occurrences of these three prototypes – these are what prototype theory refers to in hindsight as stimuli (Lakoff 1987) – and briefly note how they persisted as modes of representation of the Other to become prototypes, that is, widely known examples of a category with a broad popular and analytical reception. First historical occurrence, then, is my basic criterion of selection, and my second one is frequency of historical citation. Note the parallel to discourse analysis of texts, where, following Georges Dumézil, texts that become key to a discourse by being much cited are metaphorically known as monuments (Dunn and Neumann 2015: 50). In reading the prototypical monuments, I draw on art historian historian Erwin Panofski (1988: 28-30), who usefully identifies three different layers of meaning for visual analysis. There is, first, the level of primary or natural objects (say, a skull), which will be fairly resistant to changing interpretations. Then there is secondary or conventional subject matter, such as a piece of fruit or a specific plant, which will stand in for some specific cultural trait. These will be iconic but ephemeral. Finally, there is intrinsic or symbolic meaning, which will stand or fall with the culture as such. An example of such a trope in Western Eurasia would be the making of columns from captured armour, for the victory and capture will guarantee what already the earliest Indo-European texts, the Iliad and the Rigveda both, refer to as imperishable fame (Watkins 1995). Note that these layers are increasingly hostage to the onset of empty time, in the sense that the more primary the object, the less active synthesis is needed for it to maintain its meaning (Deleuze [1968] 1994). Having established the temporality of monuments, how this temporality plays into the constitution of a given polity, and how that constitution necessarily involves representations of Others, I now proceed to identifying three prototypes for how monuments have constituted Others by attempting to halt Others in time in Western Eurasia. They are the Other as visual absence, as dead, and as suborned. <A> The Other as Visual Absence Monuments go up either in situ, which is where the event commemorated took place, or at political centres of the Self that have built them. The inverse, that monuments build polities, is also true. Monumentalisation is a constitutive social act, and nowhere is this clearer than in the Neolithic, where, for the first time, we see the emergence of groups of a scale larger that the hunter-gatherer band. <PHOTO NO. ONE HERE> Consider Stonehenge, the largest and justly most famous of the many megalithic centres of Britain, Brittany and Ireland, work on which was begun somewhere between 3000 and 2400 BC. The well-known group of megaliths in Dorset is the centre of a huge, now subterranean, structure which it took some 30 million man-hours to build. What’s the meaning of Stonehenge? There is archaeological consensus that ‘Stonehenge can be understood as a monument of unification’ (Pearson 2013: 342). If we think with Durkheim (2008), Stonehenge, like all religious and spiritual phenomena, is a materialization of the community celebrating itself. For a more specific answer, however, we have to turn to archaeology. Colin Renfrew’s reads Stonehenge, first, by drawing attention to the fact that, in Northern Europe, community could not celebrate itself by building mud huts which, as the generations passed and ever new huts were built on top of the old ones, presumably literally to make a mark in the landscape. In a cold and wet climate, the temporality of mud is much too fast for it to serve as a material for memoralisation. That left so-called tells. There is a sense in which the tell is a kind of plinth, with the village on top then becoming the rest of the monument. Instead of such tells, which were the rule in the Fertile Crescent and on the Balkans but which would literally have melted away in Northern Europe, the local answer was stone, whose slow temporality is unsurpassed. Renfrew then turns to the traditional, reflective answer to what the meaning of Stonehenge was, which is summarized as follows: One view of the long barrows and chambered cairns is that they served as ‘territorial markers of segmentary societies’. The apparent regularity in their spatial distribution suggests that each was associated with the habitual territory of a resident population (not necessarily a sedentary one). […] Often the larger monuments have been seen in similar terms, reflecting the growth of larger social units in the later Neolithic period, while the chambered cairns date back to the earlier Neolithic period (Renfrew 2007: 154). For our purposes, this would mean that Stonehenge should be read first and foremost as an inventory of polities that is constitutive of a larger one In order to bring about the first part of the Stonehenge complex, Renfrew points out, The rather small group of occupants of the territory in question would need to invest a great deal of their time. They might need also to invoke the aid of neighbours in adjoining territories, who were encouraged no doubt by the prospect of feasting and local celebration. One can imagine that when the monument was completed it might itself have become the locus for further, annual celebrations and feast days. It served henceforth as a burying place and as a social focus for the territory. The suggestion here is that it was as a result of these ongoing social activities, along with other activities of a ritual or religious nature, that the cairn or barrow came to be the centre of a living community. It is reasonable to suggest that this community would not have come into being had it not been for the ongoing activities centred upon the cairn (Renfrew 2007: 155-156). Renfrew (2007: 158) actually goes on to argue that this process is an example of the birth of ethnicities. Renfrew builds on his earlier work (Renfrew 1974) on Stonehenge as a focus of what he then termed ‘group-oriented chiefdoms’. Stonehenge and megaliths seem to have been intended as magnets for firming a Self. They interpellate all adjacent polities by telling narratives of yet-to-be Selves. They are stimuli building to a prototype where the Other is visually absent, and simply that which refuses to be drawn in. Greek and Romans, who built most of their monuments to commemorate war, did not go in for absenting the Other in the monumentalisation. After the fall of Rome, official monuments in what we now call Europe took the shape of churches. Church depictions of Others turn on the salvation/damnation binary, and then there is the constitutive outside of the heathen, the not yet converted. Churches, and, later, mosques, like Stonehenge, hold out an open interpellation: anyone may join. With the advent of nationalism, enormous monuments that attempt to encapsulate the nation by means of larger-than-life people, pillars or symbols crop up everywhere (Dietler 1998). Nationalist monuments are still very much with us, as witnessed, for example, by the 16-meter tall Vladimir holding a cross that recently went up outside the Kremlin. This monumentalisation was a particularly contested one, with protests coming from citizens, Ukrainians who also claim the 10th-century Christianising leader as their own, as well as from UNESCO, which has not extended the necessary approval for building activity at a designated world heritage site; Moscow Times, 9 August 2016. To sum up, the Other as visual absence and interpellation to join the Self has been around for at least 5000 years and is still very much with us. The interpellation may be open – anybody may join – or closed. Closed interpellations and blank absences are problematic, for given that the Other is always there, the Other’s visual absence amounts to a negation of the Other’s very being. Difference becomes Otherness. This is particularly tangible in the subgenre of city walls and state boundaries, which are there to celebrate the Self and its territory by delineating it physically from its outside (Brown 2011). The prototype of the Other as absence, be that in the form of an open or a closed interpellation, challenges the analyst to pinpoint and highlight its implied presence. <A> The Other as Dead In order to receive their rewards, Proto-Indo-Europeans residing in the Eurasian Steppe from around 4000 BCE onwards had to bring the severed heads of their enemies to their chiefs (*weik-potis). The practice was perpetuated when people from groups speaking Turkic and Altaic languages rose to become the main kinship lines in the steppe. It is hard to say when the building of monuments out of the heads of the vanquished began, for the skulls were rapidly swallowed by the shifting sands of the Eurasian steppe where this practice was conducted, which was in situ of the battles in which the Other had been killed. We know of it from countless descriptions stretching from 5th century BCE Greece to Persian and European descriptions of Mongol ways in the 13th century, but the practice does in all probability stretch back to Indo-European peoples who established a unified set of political practices in the steppe during the fifth and fourth millennia BCE (Quigley 2001; Koudounaris 2011). <PHOTO NO. TWO HERE> Why did various Indo-European steppe peoples and their steppe successors do this? Historian of religion Bruce Lincoln has a convincing answer. Indo-European myths of creation have the universe created out of a God’s (the ‘Purusha’ of the Rig-Veda) body parts, so that ‘The priest was his mouth, the warrior was made from his arms; his thighs were the commoner, and the servant was born from his feet’ (Rig-veda 10.90.11-14 quoted in Lincoln 1991: 7). The King’s body encapsulates all of the community; he is its head. So, enemies of the King are, as it were, anti-Kings, and so anti-heads. ‘Just as Scythian warriors negated their enemies’ arms in practices based on a cosmogonic myth that were designed to augment their own power, Scythian kings thus seem to have done the same with their enemies’ heads’, Lincoln (1991: 203) concludes. Those that try to kill the king -- the head -- become anti-kings – anti-heads – and the way to deal with anti-heads was to chop them off. The building of a monument that consists exclusively of the Other’s severed heads to celebrate the Self’s victory is as clear-cut an example of a stimulus building to a prototype of the monumentalized Other which is as opposite of Stonehenge as could possibly be. Whereas at Stonehenge, the Other is only present as a visual absence, in the Eurasian Steppe, the Self is only present as the absence that once wielded the blade. The Self celebrates itself by putting the dead Other on display. Skull-taking and display on a minor scale is of course well known from a number of other settings, such as pre-Indo-European Northern Europe (Gummesson, Hallgren and Kjellström 2018) and Fiji (Carneiro 1990: 1995 ff). As already noted, the Eurasian Steppe tradition of celebrating Self by heaping skull upon skull of killed enemies on top of one another survived uninterrupted in the steppe up to and including the Mongol empire. Tamerlane, always the improviser, made a tower wall out of brick, mortar and two thousand living human beings during one of his campaigns. The prototype was also in evidence with the Ottomans. A good example is still on display in today’s Serbia. In the third largest Serbian town, Nis, stands the more than three-meter tall Skull Tower (Serb. Ćele-kula), built in 1809 by Turks out of at least 192 Serbian skulls to demonstrate what would happen to those who oppose Ottoman power (Quigley 2001: 172). In line with ancient traditions of bringing the heads of defeated enemies to the leader, the skulls were first sent to the Porte in Istanbul for inspection and preservation before serving as building material. So much for the dead Other as primary subject matter. The motif of Other as dead also occurs in a sublimated form, where death is intrinsic. This motif emerged first in Greece, as when the so-called Snake Column went up at Delphi as a celebration of the victory over the Persians in the 479 BCE battle of Plataea, and then at Marathon. The narratives of Selves that these monuments tell do not denote the Other pictorially, but the Snake Column in some sense was the Other, for it consisted of bronze melted down from the captured weapons of the Persians. In a parallel tradition which also involved metal, pieces of captured armour were hung from tree branches in celebration. As we know from a surviving coin celebrating a victory at Leuktra in 371 BC (Garlan 1975: 60), the two practices of building columns from melted-down enemy metal and displaying captured enemy armour merged in a monument consisting of a column decked out with captured enemy armour (Garlan 1975: 60). We recognize the basic thrust in 19th-century European monuments like the Siegsseule (Victory Column) in Berlin, which is decorated by enemy cannons captured in various wars, and in the Vendome Column in Paris, which is built from melted cannon captured at Austerlitz. This tradition is still with us. In order to celebrate Iraq’s victory over Iran in the 1980s, Saddam Hussein had a war memorial built in the centre of Bagdad. Below two swords hang nets. In the nets dangle the helmets of Irani soldiers. In the tarmac around the monuments, over which cars and lorries are forever on the move, there are more helmets. The enemy and, if not their heads, then at least their helmets, have been run into the ground, where they are clearly in sight and can be desecrated on a continuous basis. However, when, in August 2014, ISIS slaughtered the Seventh Division of the Syrian Army, they celebrated by putting dozens of actual heads on stakes (Friis 2015). The outraged reactions against monumentalizing the Other in this way in and of themselves bore witness to the residual character of the practice, for by definition, the doxic does not spark outrage. Outrage or not, the practice that turns difference into that most radical form of Otherness, death, has a very long temporality. Note the ubiquitous presence of the practice in popular culture, which further underwrites its prototypical status. And yet, the frequency with which the Other is narrated as dead has tapered off. The actual and sublimated forms of putting the Other’s armour and weapons on display are waning. And yet, the Imperial War Museum in London recently put Afghan suicide vests on display. However, the temporality of museum exhibitions is very much faster than is the temporality of monuments. Further evidence of the waning may be seen in the emergence of a new stimulus after the Second World War. In many monuments that were and still are built to commemorate the Self’s perpetuation of genocides on Jews and, in a much more limited degree, Roma Others, the Self’s putting the Other to Death is mourned and atoned for, and not celebrated. Such new cadences further break down the prototype of Other as dead. <A> The Other Subjugated The Bronze Age also saw another innovation in monuments, to stand beside megaliths and skulls as early stimuli of different prototypes of monumentalizing the Other. To avoid confusion, note that, while the emergence megaliths and ziggurats both date to the beginning of the third millennium BCE, the first takes place in Neolithic Britain, while the other takes place in Babylon and spread to other places that already knew how to forge bronze from copper and arsenic. Ziggurats and pyramids may be forged from stone, but they are a Bronze Age phenomenon. Beginning with the Babylonian ziggurats from the late third millennium (McMahon 2016: 322), pyramidal structures crop up in assorted adjacent polities. Egypt soon took point. The pyramids are still megalithic in the sense that they are huge and built of stone, but we are now talking about fashioned brick, not simply huge slabs of stone. Where Stonehenge celebrates the community as such, pyramids are typical of the new hierarchical Bronze Age society by celebrating the community’s leader. For our purposes, it is of key interest that the ziggurats, although they sometimes had the names of kings engraved on them, did not have any other graffiti. Some younger Egyptian temples, on the other hand, sported representation of the other, in the form of vanquished enemies. Consider the reliefs on the temple at Medinet Habu, Thebes, which is Ramses III’s (dead 1155 or 1156 BCE) final resting place. The drawings on the temple depict a triumphant Ramses lording it over captured ‘Sea Peoples’, that is, raiders and traders from elsewhere in and around the Mediterranean (Gitin 1998). Here, the other is represented not as dead, but as alive and subjugated. <PHOTO NO. THREE HERE> Why would the Other make such a dramatic entrance on historic monuments at exactly this time? First of all, it must be made clear that the motive of the triumphant king was itself nothing new in Egyptian tradition. The semiotics of narrating the Self as subordinating the Other were already in place. One of the very earliest images we have of an Egyptian King hails from the 31st century BCE (Baines 1989). The so-called Narmer Palette depicts Narmer, pharaoh of the First Dynasty, holding a captured enemy by the hair. The obverse side has the Pharaoh and soldiers parading in front of the corpses of beheaded enemies, that are subsequently shown being eaten by wild animals. At the time of Ramses III, then, the artistic tradition of depicting subjugated Others was very well established, so the question must be reformulated as, why move the Other from the small format of painting to the large format of monuments at this particular juncture? The answer seems to lie in a need to re-establish lost superiority. As argued most fully by Allan Megill (1998), memory takes on a particularly urgent importance when identity is experienced as being under threat. The Self seems to be challenged by some Other and one way of shoring up the Self is to evoke narratives of how things used to be. In 1550 BC, Egyptians finally managed to dethrone the Hyksos from the throne. This was a major event, so much so that the reestablished series of Egyptian dynasties is known as the New Kingdom. The Hyksos seem mostly to have been Semitic-speakers who migrated into Egyptian lands and established themselves as Pharaohs (Booth 2005). The intermezzo left a memory of what migrants could do that was not lost on later Egyptian Pharaohs, and when the so-called Sea Peoples subsequently emerged to raid and also migrate into the New Kingdom, memories of what in-migration could do was still fresh in memory. What is important here is, I think, a basic functional point. With the increased strain on what we are definitely warranted in calling the body politic, inasmuch as the body of the Pharaoh was the pars pro toto of the polity, the maintenance of political authority called for a wider broadcast of depictions of how the cosmic order was being upheld. Since it was impossible to further enhance the divinity of the Pharaoh by representational means – he was already a god -- this was done qualitative, not only in the sense that depictions increased to so- called hierarchical scale, but first and foremost by making these images widely available by having them engraved on public monuments. The campaigns against the Sea Peoples took its toll, and it seems to have been in this context that the Sea People become the first Other in history to appear in represented form on monuments, more specifically on temple gates, where all that passed could watch the larger-than-life representations of Ramses II (1279-1213 BC) defeating foreign soldiers and lording it over captured enemies. It is thus a temporal phenomenon, namely the fear of repetition, that drives the monumentalisation. Bronze-Age Egyptians reacted to the social strain by placing the subjugated other on public display on monuments. Romans echoed the Egyptian depicting of the subjugated Other. The arch was a Roman technical invention, and the Roman triumphal arches emerge from the early second century BCE (Claridge 2010: 55) and are full of reliefs of conquered enemies. One example would be the arch of Titus, built around 82 CE by the Roman Emperor Domitian to commemorate his brother Titus and his victories, which included the sack of Jerusalem. Captured Jews being led away in chains and booty, including a menorah (i.e. a Jewish seven-pronged candelabra), feature prominently. The arch was built where this very procession had passed into Rome, so the reliefs were presented as a representation of an in situ event. When this particular arch went up, arches had been around for a century, so they had no claim to novelty as a monument. I have chosen the arch of Titus because of its rich reception history in Europe. One practice of the renaissance, that is, the European mnemonic ethno-politics which commemorated past greatness, was to build arches of triumph, and the arch of Titus was a favoured exemplar. Here we have an example of how genres like monuments have their own memory; the slow temporality of monuments makes it possible to resuscitate one and a half millennia old stimuli. Why would Romans so prominently feature the Other as Subjugated? The standard work on the arch of Titus tells us no more than that arches grounded the building of colonies and that the arch was a Roman power symbol (Pfanner 1983: 95). Once again, as was the case in Egypt, it seems to me that the reason is social strain. In imperial Rome, the known world was rubbing shoulders. Order, the famous Pax Romana, was predicated on showing these people, and also people in Rome’s colonies, their respective places, with Roman citizens on top, other free men in the middle, and everybody else at the bottom. This narrative of Self was made perfectly clear on monuments, as everywhere else. With the renaissance or rebirthed Europe, the arch reappeared, with the subjugated Other still in place, but usually as a fighting force, not as a captured one. The arch was a particularly blatant example of early modernity’s penchant for ‘spatial marks of identity that could be deciphered in terms of whose virtues that had been appropriated from the ancients’ (Bartelson 2006: 48). The most famous of them all, the Arc de Triomphe de L’Étoile, was ordered built by Napoleon following his triumph at Austerlitz in 1806 and stands in the heart of Paris. Formatted on the Arch of Titus, it has battle scenes prominently displayed, so the Other is back in view, but this is not the vanquished and integrated Other highlighted by Romans. There is no social contact and hybridization on display here, only a different detachment of humanity depicted as a fighting force. The theme here is difference. Nationalism thinks of humanity in terms of a series of distinct, backward-looking, rebirthing detachments of sameness, be that when the Self is celebrated with the Other absent or, as in arches, when the Other is present as a force about to be subjugated. Quite fittingly, the Arc de Triomphe was also to become the first grave to the Unknown Soldier (Kattago 2009: 154) – the homogenized Other was joined by the homogenized Self. New Stimuli The analysis so far has yielded two striking findings. First, the stability of the three identified prototypes over a period that spans millennia. New stimuli are few and far between. Secondly, new stimuli only pop up very tentatively in the early 20th century. On closer inspection, following the Second World War, two of the three prototypes largely disappear and there is an explosion in new stimuli, which is to say that the Second World War constitutes a unique historical break in Western Eurasian monumentalisation. As was the case historically where representing the Other as subjugated was concerned, this new trend first appeared in other visual genres before it spread to monuments. I mentioned that, in Egypt as well as in Greece, the semiotic tradition of the subjugated enemy antedates the presence of such images on and in monuments. So it seems to be in today’s Western Eurasia. One example is the black tablet of stone on one of the walls of Magdalen College, Oxford, which celebrates the members of college that fell during the Great War. It lists names, and the only way of knowing which side they fought for is to try to infer their nationality and citizenship from those names. An elite community nested within a state was able to put state Othering to one side and celebrate its fallen members, regardless of citizenship. Here we have a non-subordinating way of including the Other in memorialization that begins to make its way into monuments in German War Memorials like Käthe Kollwitz’s pietas. And what to make of the post-Second World War for leaving bullet scars on buildings, Cathedrals or even an entire village or a general staff headquarters (Steele 2013, Ejdus 2017) just sitting there, in ruined form? On the one hand, the Self is obviously and quite literally performing the wound here. On the other hand, the bullet scars may also invoke memories of the Self’s complicity. The bullet scars are there to lay distance to a previous and more violent and threatening incarnation of the Self (Wæver 1998). In all three examples given, there have been ongoing public discussion posing these two broad interpretations against one another. Peace gardens, a stimulus imported to Western Eurasia from outside, pose a similar challenge (see also Björkdahl and Buckley-Zistel 2016). Monumentalisation since the Second World War is much less thematising of victory, less bombastic, more ambiguous and so more fluid in terms of offered interpretations of both Self and Other. The key point for our purposes is not to pin down possible readings, but to demonstrate that these monuments are new stimuli that break with the three prototypes that were historically available at the time when they went up. The list of such new stimuli goes on. The post-Second World War also saw the emergence of monuments of allied leaders. Again, this is not the place to discuss the polysemous character of such statues (gratefulness or Big Brother watching?); I simply note that they do not fit available prototypes. Neither do Holocaust memorials or monuments built to celebrate International Organizations. A final observation about the destabilization of how Selves narrate themselves in monuments concerns pastiche, which is arguably typical of postmodernity (Perniola 2001). While we do have examples of previous modification of monuments, (see discussion of the skulls at Nis above for an example), such practices seem to have mushroomed over the past four decades. One recent example was on display on my way to work through 2014. On the Royal Society of Arts’ ‘fourth plinth’ in the North-Western corner of Trafalgar square sat a huge, bright blue Gallic cock, symbol, among other things, of the French nation. Lord Nelson was still up there on his 200 feet tall column, but the cock reminded at least this passer-by that Lord Nelson’s 1805 victory over France was not exactly recent, and that the French had lived to fight another day. Others saw a sending up of a phallic monument. Either way, counter-monumentalizing pastiche relativized the narrative of Self on monumental display. Pastiche and hybridization, often brought on by globalisation, is an increasingly important topic in monumental representation of the Other, as it is in IR in general. One particularly interesting example of how increased globalization spawns attempts at literally containing hybridization is the global increase in wall-building (Amoore and Hall 2010; Brown 2010; Mandour 2013), which is also on strong display in Western Eurasia. Walls are definitely boundary-drawing structures that put an easily visible mark on a landscape. They arguably also celebrate a specific polity, but do they refer to a phenomenon that is constitutive of that polity? Given that territory is constitutive of states, the answer to that question is yes, and if so, then walls, where the Other is present as that which is limned off but is visually absent, must be counted as a subclass of monuments that represent the continuity of the genre after the Second World War. Walls actively interpellate outsiders literally as outsiders. Walls stand with the Iraqi display of Iranian helmets in central Bagdad as a towering reminder that the break in monumentalising practices after the Second World War is not a clean break. Still, the very variety of new stimuli that I have only begun to sketch here indicates that there is a break, and an important one at that. It has two elements. One is the tentative emergence of a new and forth way of representing the Other, with the representation of a previous incarnation of the Self as Other for which the contemporary Self has to atone being perhaps the most striking. I write tentative, for this way consists of a number of different stimuli that have yet to congeal to form a new stereotype. The second new element concerns the tentative occlusion of representing the Other as dead or subjugated. This is remarkable, for such representations add to the constitution of the Self as a mighty force. When a polity refrains from celebrating its temporary triumph over other polities, then, it therefore gives up on a very useful source of political power. Conclusion Up until the Second World War, there were three basic prototypes available for representing the Other in monuments. The first, which emerged already during the Neolithic, was the megalith monument, which celebrates the Self and excludes the Other by visual absence only. During the Bronze Age, it was joined by two others: The Eurasian steppe practice of piling skulls in pyramids to represent the Other as dead, and the Egyptian and later Roman practice of depicting the Other as subjugated. For more than three thousand years, these three prototypes dominated the genre. After the Second World War, there was a change. Of the three historical modes of representing the Other in monuments, two have fallen on hard times. In today’s Western Eurasia, the vanquished rarely seem to be represented as subjugated any more. I know of no post-Cold War victory monuments that represent subjugated Soviets. Memorialization in ex-Yugoslavia is reticent about representing subjugated enemies. No newly-built monuments displaying subjugated Afghans or Iraqi or their melted weapons adorn Western Eurasian capitals. Others are still subjugated in war, but Others are no longer monumentalized as subjugated in war for posterity. As to monuments representing the Other as dead, they may be threatened with extinction, but are still respawning. Saddam Hussein’s 1980s helmet-based war memorial built to celebrate Iraq’s 1980s victory over Iran is another. If helmets are a somewhat bloodless cover for real heads, there is always ISIS. When, in August 2014, ISIS slaughtered the Seventh Division of the Syrian Army, they celebrated by putting dozens of actual heads on stakes (Friis 2015), and thus saw to it that a long pre-Islamic tradition got a new lease on death (but see also Weber 2014). Only the representation of the Other as visual absence seems to be flourishing. These findings are summarized in table 1. <Table 1 here> How do we account for the waning of deeply engrained traditional ways of monumentalisation, which is also, by implication, the waning of one way of constituting political Selves? The obvious answer would be that the conditions which gave rise to representations of Other as subjugated or dead have changed. That does not seem to be the case, though. When Egyptians first came up with the idea of monumentalizing the Other as subjugated, it seems to have been in reaction to in-migration of new groups and the ensuing social strain. This was also, I have argued, why Roman availed themselves of this prototype. Today, Western Eurasia is yet again in the throes of increasing migration. This time, however, the answers to increased migration do not include representing the Other as subjugated on monuments. On the contrary, the basic monumentalizing response has been the erection of the simplest of monuments, namely walls. Concurrently, monumentalisation has moved on to record, or even celebrate, pastiche and hybridization. What we have here is no less than a historical break with a more than three thousand-year old pattern. Should the explanation for this change be sought in how monumentalizing has become the purview of other agents than before? This is hardly the case, either. Bartelson (2006) rightly stresses how, from the late 17th century onwards, memory was leashed to the state and territorialized accordingly. Bourdieu (2015: 4), in setting out to define the state, concluded by amending Weber’s definition of the state as being in ‘possession of the monopoly of legitimate physical and symbolic violence’ (Bourdieu 2015: 4). The amendment – symbolic violence – covers the naturalisation of arbitrary categories, one example of which is the way the Other is depicted in monuments. There are few signs that the state has let go of this monopoly where monumentalisation is concerned. It follows that, with globalisation, the compartmentalisation of mnemonic raw material in the separate power containers that are nation states will necessarily come under increasing strain. More groups with more diverse interests in memorialisation will be more present both in the production and consumption of monuments. It does not follow, however, that playing up difference should necessarily be substituted for the traditional monumentalising answer to such strain, namely underlining the subjugated status of (captured) newcomers. And yet, here we are. With the waning of representations of Others as subjugated in monuments, triumphalism has become a little less blatant. Post-colonial writers have documented convincingly how, where other practices are concerned, we find the opposite tendency. Even within the genre of monumentalisation, the recent increase in wall-building practices is a reminder of the strictly limited area of validity of my claim that triumphalism has receded. This complicates the case for arguing that we are looking at a cover-all change in Western Eurasian representations of the other, as is frequently done by scholars who base their arguments on changing norms and human rights (e.g. Levy and Sznaider 2010). Still, where the genre of monumentalisation is concerned, in Western Eurasia, since the Second World War, we see an increasing willingness by an increasing number of Selves to take in the futility of celebrating the Other’s permanent subordination. The key may lie in the word celebration: what has changed a little may not be practices as such, but the way in which these practices are made a spectacle of. Perhaps the appetite for monumentalising vanquished Others has abated somewhat because the memento mori that every system’s downfall is the illusion of having permanently triumphed over difference has begun to sink in. The historical sociologist who has done most to theorise the kind of shift on display in this article, is Norbert Elias. Elias postulates that there exists a civilization process, marked by an ‘advance in the frontier of shame and the threshold of repugnance’ (Elias [1939] 1994: 114; Linklater 2017). The key point here is not that things held to be shameful and repugnant stop happening altogether. That is obviously not the case. The issue is how the Self monumentalizes vanquished Other, not how and in which degree such vanquishing is going on. If, however, Others are represented as subjugated or dead less often than before, it should have a knock-on effect on foreign policy, for refraining from boosting the identity of the Self by monumentalizing a vanquished or dead Other should make it somewhat harder to mobilise violence against a certain Other. Elias should, I think, be tempered by a Foucauldian doubt. Famously, with his juxtaposition of the 18th century regicide Damiens and the 19th century disciplinary regime at an English boarding school that opens Discipline and Punish ([1977] 1979), Foucault implies that the ending of one kind of violence simply opens the field for another to emerge. And true enough, everyday violence against the Other continues, and within the genre of monumentalisation, the Other-negating subgenre of walls is on the rise. These are caveats that specify but do not detract from Elias’s key point, which is that there exists a process whereby certain things that were once considered normal or even salutary, fall into disrepute and end up being thought of as simply not done. I would argue that this is what we see in how Western Eurasian monumentalisation is now largely refraining from halting subjugated and dead Others in time. If monuments secure the Self by establishing and maintaining difference which may, or may not, be turned into Otherness, then the frequency with which difference is turned into Otherness has tapered off. To end on a normative note, we should not monumentalise Others in humiliating ways, for humiliation breeds contempt and contempt may breed unnecessary conflict. The facts that new monuments now rarely turn difference into Otherness, and that we see growing counter-monumentalisation of old monuments that do, are facts to celebrate. 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