From Dust To Digital

From Dust to Digital
Ten Years of the Endangered Archives Programme
Maja Kominko (dir.)
Publisher: Open Book Publishers

Year of publication: 2015
Published on OpenEdition Books: 29 November 2016
Serie: OBP collection
Electronic ISBN: 9782821876262
http://books.openedition.org
Printed version
ISBN: 9781783740628
Number of pages: lxviii + 654
Electronic reference
KOMINKO, Maja (ed.). From Dust to Digital: Ten Years of the Endangered Archives Programme. New
edition [online]. Cambridge: Open Book Publishers, 2015 (generated 23 avril 2019). Available on the
Internet: <http://books.openedition.org/obp/2200>. ISBN: 9782821876262.
© Open Book Publishers, 2015

Creative Commons - Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International - CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
FROM DUST TO DIGITAL
Ten Years of the
Endangered Archives Programme
Edited by Maja Kominko

http://www.openbookpublishers.com
© 2015 Maja Kominko. Copyright of individual chapters is maintained by the chapters’ authors.
This work as a whole is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-commercial

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In all cases attribution should include the following information:
Maja Kominko (ed.), From Dust to Digital: Ten Years of the Endangered Archives Programme.
Cambridge, UK: Open Book Publishers, 2015. http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052
Unless otherwise stated in the List of illustrations or in the List of recordings the
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All the external links were active on 28/01/2015 unless otherwise stated.
Digital material and resources associated with this volume are available at http://www.
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ISBN Paperback: 978-1-78374-062-8
ISBN Hardback: 978-1-78374-063-5
ISBN Digital (PDF): 978-1-78374-064-2
ISBN Digital ebook (epub): 978-1-78374-065-9
ISBN Digital ebook (mobi): 978-1-78374-066-6
DOI: 10.11647/OBP.0052
Cover image: Qʷәraro Maryam (Gärᶜalta, Tigray). Repository for discarded manuscript
fragments in a niche of the central bay of the north aisle. Photograph by Michael Gervers,
CC BY-NC
All paper used by Open Book Publishers is SFI (Sustainable Forestry Initiative) and
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Printed in the United Kingdom and United States by Lightning Source

for Open Book Publishers
Contents
Acknowledgements ix
List of illustrations xi
List of recordings xxix
Notes on contributors xxxi
Introduction xxxvii
Lisbet Rausing and Peter Baldwin
Preserving the past: creating the Endangered Archives xxxix
Programme
Barry Supple
The Endangered Archives Programme after ten years xliii
Anthea Case
What the Endangered Archives Programme does xlvii
Crumb trails, threads and traces: endangered archives and history xlix
Maja Kominko
PART I. INSCRIPTIONS
1 The “written landscape” of the central Sahara: recording and 1
digitising the Tifinagh inscriptions in the Tadrart Acacus
Mountains
Stefano Biagetti, Ali Ait Kaci and Savino di Lernia
PART II. MANUSCRIPTS

2 Metadata and endangered archives: lessons from the Ahom 31
manuscripts project
Stephen Morey
vi From Dust to Digital
3 Unravelling Lepcha manuscripts 67

Heleen Plaisier
4 Technological aspects of the monastic manuscript collection at 89
May Wäyni, Ethiopia
Jacek Tomaszewski and Michael Gervers
5 Localising Islamic knowledge: acquisition and copying of the 135
Riyadha Mosque manuscript collection in Lamu, Kenya
Anne Bang
6 In the shadow of Timbuktu: the manuscripts of Djenné 173
Sophie Sarin
PART III. DOCUMENTARY ARCHIVES

7 The first Gypsy/Roma organisations, churches and 189
newspapers
Elena Mariushakova and Veselin Popov
8 Sacred boundaries: parishes and the making of space in the 225
colonial Andes
Gabriela Ramos
9 Researching the history of slavery in Colombia and Brazil 259
through ecclesiastical and notarial archives
Jane Landers, Pablo Gómez, José Polo Acuña and Courtney J.
Campbell
10 Convict labour in early colonial Northern Nigeria: a 293
preliminary study
Mohammed Bashir Salau
11 Murid Ajami sources of knowledge: the myth and the reality 331
Fallou Ngom
12 Digitisation of Islamic manuscripts and periodicals in 377
Jerusalem and Acre
Qasem Abu Harb
PART IV. PHOTOGRAPHIC ARCHIVES

13 A charlatan’s album: cartes-de-visite from Bolivia, Argentina 417
and Paraguay (1860-1880)
Irina Podgorny
Contents vii
14 Hearing images, tasting pictures: making sense of Christian 445

mission photography in the Lushai Hills District, Northeast
India (1870-1920)
Kyle Jackson
15 The photographs of Baluev: capturing the “socialist 487
transformation” of the Krasnoyarsk northern frontier, 1938-1939
David Anderson, Mikhail S. Batashev and Craig Campbell
16 Archiving a Cameroonian photographic studio 531
David Zeitlyn
PART V. SOUND ARCHIVES

17 Music for a revolution: the sound archives of Radio 547
Télévision Guinée
Graeme Counsel
18 Conservation of the Iranian Golha radio programmes and the 587
heritage of Persian classical poetry and music
Jane Lewisohn
19 The use of sound archives for the investigation, teaching and 617
safeguarding of endangered languages in Russia
Tjeerd De Graaf and Victor Denisov
Index 635
Acknowledgments
The editor would like to thank the authors who have contributed to this
book for their professionalism, good humour and patience in responding
to seemingly endless queries and requests. We are all indebted to the
anonymous peer reviewers for their invaluable comments and to Open
Book Publishers for their help and guidance.
Finally, I would like to express my gratitude to Ewa Balicka-Witakowska,
Dmitry Bondarev, Jody Butterworth, Cathy Collins, Tomasz Gromelski,
Michael Kellogg, Arietta Papaconstantinou, Mandana Seyfeddinipur,
Columba Stewart, Mark Turin and Andrew Wright, who have been most
generous with their help.
List of illustrations
1.1 Map of the Tadrart Acacus and the central Saharan massifs. First 2
published in Stefano Biagetti, Ali Ait Kaci, Lucia Mori and Savino
di Lernia, “Writing the Desert: The ‘Tifinagh’ Rock Inscriptions of
the Tadrart Acacus (South-West Libya)”, Azania, 47.2 (2012), 153-74
(p. 170).
1.2 Map of the Tadrart Acacus with the sites recorded for the Endangered 14
Archives Programme sorted by significance (adapted from Biagetti
et al., 2012).
1.3 An example of Tifinagh inscription, site 09/87B (EAP265/1/87B). 15
Photo by R. Ceccacci, CC BY.
1.4 The Basmala inscription from site 09/67. 16
1.5 Site 09/73 features the toponym of Teshuinat (TŠWNT). 17
1.6 Graph illustrating the significance and context of Tifinagh sites. 20
1.7 3D view of the aqba of wadi Tasba on the western escarpment of the 21
Tadrart Acacus (map from Google Earth).
1.8 Site 09/74, close to the guelta of wadi Bubu (EAP265/1/74). Photo by 22
R. Ceccacci, CC BY.
1.9 Etaghas Ti-n-Lalan (map from Google Earth, adapted from di Lernia 23
et al., 2012).
1.10 Site 09/73, Ti-n-Anneuin, vandalised in 2009 (EAP265/1/73). Photo 26
by R. Ceccacci, CC BY.
2.1 Iftiqar Rahman photographing the Phe Lung Phe Ban paper manuscript 34
belonging to Hara Phukan. Photo by Poppy Gogoi, CC BY.
2.2 The Phe Lung Phe Ban cloth manuscript belonging to Tileshwar 37
Mohan (EAP373), CC BY.
2.3 The Phe Lung Phe Ban manuscript belonging to Hara Phukan 38
(EAP373), CC BY.
2.4 Folio 33r of the Khun Lung Khun Lai manuscript belonging to Tulsi 39
Phukan (EAP373), CC BY.
xii From Dust to Digital
2.5 Folio 9r of the Du Kai Seng manuscript belonging to Tileshwar 44

Mohan (EAP373), CC BY.
2.6 A page from one of the Ban Seng manuscripts belonging to Bhim 45
Kanta Phukan (EAP373), CC BY.
2.7 Folio 6v of the Ming Mvng Lung Phai manuscript belonging to 51
Tileshwar Mohan (EAP373), CC BY.
2.8 Folio 1r of a Sai Kai manuscript belonging to Padma Sangbun 55
2.9 Folio 20v of the Nang Khai manuscript belonging to Baparam Hati 58
Baruah (EAP373), CC BY.
2.10 Folio 3v of the Nang Khai manuscript belonging to Baparam Hati 59
Baruah (EAP373), CC BY.
2.11 Folio 1v of the Bar Amra manuscript belonging to Junaram Sangbun 61
3.1 Prayers to the Choten. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/9), CC BY. 67

3.2 Worship of Ekádoshi. Tamyong Collection (EAP281/3/1), CC BY. 68
3.3 The Legend of the Goddess Queen. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/20), 72
CC BY.
3.4 The Legend of Cenrejú. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/6), CC BY. 77
3.5 The Legend of the Goddess Nángse. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/13), 79
CC BY.
3.6 Astrological text. Namchu Collection (EAP281/2/1), CC BY. 80
3.7 Astrological text. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/10), CC BY. 80
3.8 Astrological text. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/14), CC BY. 81
3.9 Parkhó Calculations. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/7), CC BY. 82
3.10 Astrological text. Dendrúp Adyemnu Collection (EAP281/4/3), CC BY. 84
4.1 May Wäyni. Treasury building interior with cased manuscripts on 91

pegs. Photo CC BY-NC.
4.2 May Wäyni. Church ambulatory, assembly line set-up. Photo CC 93
BY-NC.
4.3 May Wäyni. Preparing manuscripts in the iqabet for preliminary 94
observation. Photo CC BY-NC.
4.4 May Wäyni. A monk re-stitches a manuscript binding in the church 96
courtyard. Photo CC BY-NC.
4.5 May Wäyni. Particularly vulnerable manuscripts are stored in acid- 97
free cartons. Photo CC BY-NC.
List of illustrations xiii
4.6 May Wäyni manuscripts. Examples of minimally-prepared 98

parchment showing (a) hairy surface and (b) gelatinisation
(EAP526/1/15 and EAP526/1/44), CC BY-NC.
4.7 May Wäyni manuscript Sәrᶜatä qәddase [Order of the Mass] showing 99
the structure of the semi-translucent parchment with traces of ruling
(EAP526/1/90), CC BY-NC.
4.8 May Wäyni manuscript Mälә’әktä Ṗawlos [Letters of Paul] showing 100
extensive water damage (EAP526/1/56), CC BY-NC.
4.9 May Wäyni manuscript Ṣälotä ᶜәṭan [The Prayer of Incense] gnawed by 100
rodents (EAP526/1/62), CC BY-NC.
4.10 May Wäyni manuscript book boards showing various stages of 102
cover deterioration (a (EAP526/1/4) and b (EAP526/1/1), with sewn
repairs to c (EAP526/1/19) and d (EAP526/1/4)), CC BY-NC.
4.11 May Wäyni manuscript Arganonä wәddase [The Harp of Praise] by 103
Giyorgis of Sagla showing a variety of threads and cords used to
connect the book block to the covers (EAP526/1/23), CC BY-NC.
4.12 May Wäyni manuscript Qeddus Gädlä Gäbrä Manfäs Qeddus [The Life 103
of Gäbrä Manfäs Qeddus] showing sewn repairs to the front book
board (EAP526/1/30), CC BY-NC.
4.13 May Wäyni manuscript Mäzmurä Dawit [Psalms of David] showing 104
loose folios held together by stab-stitching (EAP526/1/61), CC BY-
NC.
4.14 May Wäyni manuscript Mäshafä Tälmid [The Book of the Disciple] 106
showing the ruptures to the original leather covering around the
spine of the volume that provide free access to the lacing holes in
the boards, holes made for resewing the book (EAP526/1/45), CC
BY-NC.
4.15 May Wäyni manuscript Dәrsanä Mikaᵓel [Homily in Honour of the 108
Archangel Michael]. Full-page miniatures (EAP526/1/7), CC BY-NC.
4.16 A rare fifteenth-century illumination of the Virgin and Child 108
bound between folios 171 and 172 of a seventeenth-century copy of
Täᵓammәrä Maryam [The Miracles of Mary] (EAP526/1/41), CC BY-NC.
4.17 Drawing of a combined quire structure. 114
4.18 May Wäyni manuscript Orit [Octateuch] and Mäṣḥafä kufale [The Book 115
of Jubilees] showing low-quality folios used as protective flyleaves
(EAP526/1/3), CC BY-NC.
4.19 Drawing showing the distribution of flyleaf arrangements in the 116
May Wäyni collection.
4.20 May Wäyni manuscript showing straight long stitches on the spine 116
(EAP526/1/89), CC BY-NC.
xiv From Dust to Digital
4.21 May Wäyni manuscript Dәrsanä Mikaᵓel [Homily in Honour of the 118
Archangel Michael] showing spine lining with a wide strip of leather
(EAP526/1/7), CC BY-NC.
4.22 May Wäyni manuscript Dәrsanä arba‘әtu әnsәsa [Homily on the Four 119
Celestial Creatures] showing the endband made of a folded strip of
leather (EAP526/1/29), CC BY-NC.
4.23 Different types of textiles used as lining for the inner side of the 121
manuscript bindings: (a) Indian plain-weave, shuttle-woven fabric
(?) – with “buta” (Persian) or “boteh” (Indian) motif (EAP526/1/18);
(b) six narrow strips of plain-weave fabric each with both selvedges
(EAP526/1/48); (c) tapestry, plain-weave fabric (EAP526/1/37);
(d) Indian Masulipatam plain-weave fabric, block-printed
(EAP526/1/43), CC BY-NC.
4.24 Set of iron tools for decorating bindings, CC BY-NC. 122
4.25 Tools found on bindings in May Wäyni collection. Straight lines: triple 124-25
(1- EAP526/1/26), double (2- EAP526/1/37), single (3- EAP526/1/39).
Circles: single (4- EAP526/1/4 [Ø≈5 mm]), double (5- EAP526/1/18
[Ø≈5 mm]). Corni-form (6- EAP526/1/4 [18 × 8mm], 7- EAP526/1/44
[17 × 8 mm). V-form: dotted (8- EAP526/1/11 [5 × 10mm], triple lines
(9- EAP526/1/24 [9 × 12 mm]). Almond form: ‘mother of water’ (10-
EAP526/1/4 [7 × 10 mm]), ’palm shape’ (11- EAP526/1/5 [13 × 6 mm],
12- EAP526/1/49 [12 × 6mm]). Diagonal cross: 13- EAP526/1/17 [7 ×
7 mm], 14- EAP526/1/11 [8 ×8mm], 15- EAP526/1/5 [10 × 10 mm], 16-
EAP526/1/4 [9 × 9 mm], 17- EAP526/1/18 [7 × 7 mm], 18- EAP526/1/87
[9 × 9 mm], 19- EAP526/1/48 [8 × 8 mm], 20- EAP526/1/42 [12 × 12
mm], 21- EAP526/1/11 [8 × 10 mm]. Criss-cross: 22- EAP526/1/7 [4 × 6
mm], 23- EAP526/1/26 [9 × 10 mm], 24- EAP526/1/15 [8 × 8 mm], 25-
EAP526/1/18 [9 × 9 mm], 26- EAP526/1/49 [7 × 9 mm], 27- EAP526/1/5 [9
× 10 mm]; 28- EAP526/1/66 [8 × 8 mm]. Grid pattern: 29- EAP526/1/24
[7 × 13 mm], 30- EAP526/1/4 [10 × 15 mm], 31- EAP526/1/41 [12 ×
12 mm]. Straight strapwork elements: 32- EAP526/1/3 [5 × 11 mm],
33- EAP526/1/18 [6 × 9 mm].Wavy lines: 34- EAP526/1/3 [5 × 14
mm], 35- EAP526/1/26 [6 × 15 mm], 36- EAP526/1/1 [4 × 10 mm].
Curve strapwork elements or ‘wave form’: 37- EAP526/1/13 [8 ×
10 mm], 38- EAP526/1/15 [6 × 10 mm], 39- EAP526/1/18 [9 × 10
mm], 40- EAP526/1/49 [7 × 10 mm], 41- EAP526/1/22 [9 × 10 mm],
42- EAP526/1/31 [9 × 10 mm], 43- EAP526/1/22 [6 × 10 mm], 44-
EAP526/1/41 [7 × 10 mm], 45- EAP526/1/41 [7 × 10 mm]. Rosette
motives: 46- EAP526/1/25 [8 × 8 mm], 47- EAP526/1/31 [7 × 7 mm],
48- EAP526/1/46 [7 × 7 mm]. All images CC BY-NC.
4.26 Decorative tooling on the central panels of the leather covering of 127
four manuscripts from May Wäyni (a (EAP526/1/4), b (EAP526/1/16),
c (EAP526/1/7), d (EAP526/1/31)), CC BY-NC.
List of illustrations xv
4.27 May Wäyni manuscript Zena Sәlase [Narrative Teaching on the Holy 128
Trinity]. Tooled leather binding (EAP526/1/73), CC BY-NC.
4.28 Tooled leather decoration on the spines of manuscripts (from left to 129
right: EAP526/1/31, EAP526/1/22, EAP526/1/44), CC BY-NC.
4.29 May Wäyni manuscript Gädlä Ṗeṭros zä-Däbrä Abbay [Acts of Petros 130
of Däbrä Abbay] showing decoration of the inner side of the cover
(EAP526/1/65), CC BY-NC.
4.30 May Wäyni manuscript showing tooled decoration on the edges of 131
the covers (EAP526/1/52), CC BY-NC.
5.1 First page of Sharḥ Tarbiyyat al-aṭfāl by Muḥyī al-Dīn al-Qaḥṭānī (d. 139
Zanzibar, 1869). Possibly in the author’s own hand (EAP466/1/38,
image 3), CC BY-ND.
5.2 Wiṣayāt Aḥmad b. Abī Bakr b. Sumayṭ ilā ʿAbd Allāh BāKathīr. Spiritual 140
testament from the Zanzibari Sufi shaykh Aḥmad b. Sumayṭ (d.
1925) to his friend and disciple ʿAbd Allāh Bā Kathīr (d. 1925), dated
1337H/1918-1919. Possibly in the author’s own hand (EAP466/1/99,
image 2), CC BY-ND.
5.3 Example of late waqf donation “for the benefit of Muslims”. 147
Notebook with compilation of prayers and adhkār (Sufi texts for
recitation) (EAP/1/106, image 2), CC BY-ND.
5.4 Al-Fawāʾid al-Saniyya fī dhikr faḍāʾil man yantasibu ilā al-silsila al- 150
nabawiyya [The Benefits of Remembering the Virtues of those Belonging to
the Prophetic Lineage], by Aḥmad b. Ḥasan b. ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlawī, d.
1203/1788-1789 in Ḥaḍramawt. The inscriptions show the travelling
of this particular manuscript, first given as a gift in 1891-1892 and
then again in Batavia (Jakarta) in 1946-1947 (EAP466/1/29, image 4),
CC BY-ND.
5.5 Al-Fawāʾid al-Saniyya fī dhikr faḍāʾil man yantasibu ilā al-silsila al- 151
nabawiyya, by Aḥmad b. Ḥasan b. ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlawī (d. 1203/1788-
1789 in Ḥaḍramawt) (EAP466/1/29, image 6), CC BY-ND.
5.6 Example of local copying in the nineteenth century. Alfyya [The One 155
Thousand, verse of 1000 lines] with marginal commentary by Ibn
ʿAqīl copied by Shārū b. ʿUthmān b. Abī Bakr b.ʿAlī al-Sūmālī in
1858 (EAP466/1/15, image 574), CC BY-ND.
5.7 Diwān al-ʿAdanī [The Collected Poetry of Abū Bakr al-ʿAdanī], copied 157
by Sālim b. Yusallim b. ʿAwaḍ Bā Ṣafar for Habib Saleh in 1927 [1]
(EAP466/1/19, image 2), CC BY-ND.
5.8 Diwān al-ʿAdanī [The Collected Poetry of Abū Bakr al-ʿAdanī], copied 158
by Sālim b. Yusallim b. ʿAwaḍ Bā Ṣafar for Habib Saleh in 1927 [2]
xvi From Dust to Digital
5.9 Colophon showing the signature of copyist Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr 160
al-Bakrī Kijūma and the date 18 Jumāda II 1352H/8 October 1928.
6.1 Façade of Djenné library. Photo by author, CC BY. 175

6.2 Tārīkh al-Sudan [History of the Sudan] manuscript in the library’s 176
collection. Photo by author, CC BY.
6.3 Manuscripts storage chest in one of the houses in Djenné. Photo by 177
author, CC BY.
6.4 Prayers to the Prophet from the Maiga family collection. Photo by 180
author, CC BY.
6.5 Two manuscript storage boxes made for the library. Photo by 183
author, CC BY.
7.1 Stamp of the Egyptian Nation organisation, Public Domain. 193

7.2 Shakir Pashov as a soldier (EAP067/1/2/4, image 4), Public Domain. 196
7.3 Roma youth preparing a sample of the future alphabet 204
(EAP067/8/1/16), Public Domain.
7.4 Shakir Pashov (centre) as a Member of Parliament with voters 207
7.5 Shakir Pashov (centre) with participants at the national conference 210
of the Ekhipe (EAP067/1/1/1), Public Domain.
7.6 Shakir Pashov with his wife in Rogozina (EAP067/1/1/13), Orphan 214
Work.
7.7 Shakir Pashov as an honoured pensioner (EAP067/1/2/5), Orphan 215
Work.
7.8 Shakir Pashov’s card identifying him as an “active fighter against 215
fascism and capitalism” (EAP067/1/8), Public Domain.
7.9 Obituary commemorating the six-month anniversary of Shakir 216
Pashov’s death (EAP067/1/9, image 2), Public Domain.
7.10 Obituary commemorating the first full anniversary of Shakir 216
Pashov’s death (EAP067/1/9, image 3), Public Domain.
8.1 Map of the Valley of Canta, Peru, by Évelyne Mesclier, CC BY. 226
8.2 Cover page of the records of the petition to close down the parish of 236
Pariamarca in the corregimiento of Canta, 1650 (EAP333/1/3/11 image
1), Public Domain.
List of illustrations xvii
8.3 In this letter, Don Gerónimo de Salazar y Salcedo, parish priest of 238
San Antonio de Pariamarca, explains that because of the fire that
destroyed the textile mill of Pariamarca, he requested the closing
down of the doctrina. Lima, 11 October 1651 (EAP333/1/3/11 image
46), Public Domain.
8.4 Register of the inhabitants (men, women and youth) of the doctrina 239
of San Antonio de Pariamarca, 1650 (EAP333/1/3/11 image 23),
Public Domain.
8.5 In this letter, the protector of the Indians, don Francisco Valençuela, 241
states that the priest of Pariamarca’s salary cannot be paid with the
proceeds of the Indians’ assets. Lima, c. 1651 (EAP333/1/3/11 image
54), Public Domain.
8.6 Sample page of the census conducted in 1653 by Juan de Escalante 244
y Mendoza showing part of the headcount of the ayllu (kin group)
Julcan Yumay (EAP333/1/3/11 image 107), Public Domain.
8.7 Sample page of the census conducted in 1653 by Juan de Escalante y 245
Mendoza, showing part of the headcount of the ayllu Allauca Pacha
(EAP333/1/3/11 image 113), Public Domain.
8.8 Sample page of the census conducted in 1653 by Juan de Escalante 248
y Mendoza showing part of the headcount of reservados, adult men
and women who because of their occupation, age or health were
exempted from paying tribute (EAP333/1/3/11 image 106), Public
Domain.
8.9 Cultivated fields in Pariamarca, August 2014. Photo by Évelyne 250
Mesclier, CC BY.
8.10 A street in Pariamarca, August 2014. Photo by Évelyne Mesclier, 253
CC BY.
8.11 A view of the town and valley of Canta, August 2014. Photo by 254
Évelyne Mesclier, CC BY.
9.1 Map of Pacific and Caribbean Colombia, by James R. Landers, CC 262

BY-NC-ND.
9.2 The Quibdó team examines a notarial register at the EAP workshop. 265
Photo by David LaFevor, CC BY.
9.3 Notarial Document from Quibdó (EAP255/2). Photo by Quibdó 267
team member, CC BY-NC-ND.
9.4 Project directors and University of Cartagena student team at EAP 271
workshop. Photo by Mabel Vergel, CC BY-NC-ND.
9.5 Endangered ecclesiastical records from the Iglesia de Santa Cruz de 273
Lorica, Córdoba. Photo by Cartagena team member, CC BY-NC-ND.
xviii From Dust to Digital
9.6 Students learn to film endangered records at Vanderbilt’s digital 273

workshop at the University of Cartagena. Photo by David LaFevor,
CC BY.
9.7 Cathedral of San Jerónimo de Buenavista, Montería, Córdoba. Photo 274
by Mabel Vergel, CC BY-NC-ND.
9.8 Baptism document of Maria Olalla, San Jerónimo de Buenavista 275
Cathedral, Montería, Córdoba (EAP640). Photo by Cartagena team
member, CC BY-NC-ND.
9.9 Nova et Accurata Brasiliae Totius Tabula made in 1640 by Joan Blaeu. 277
Note the Capitania de Paraiba, highlighted on the northeastern
coast. Ministério das Relações Exteriores do Brasil, Public Domain
(http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Blaeu1640.jpg).
9.10 Map of Paraíba, highlighting São João do Cariri in the interior and João 278
Pessoa on the coast, created by Courtney J. Campbell, CC BY-NC-ND.
9.11 Students from the Universidade Federal da Paraíba filming 280
ecclesiastical records from Nossa Senhora dos Milagres do São João
do Cariri (EAP627). Photo by Tara LaFevor, CC BY.
9.12 Sesmaria (land grant) document from Paraíba (EAP627). Photo by 281
Courtney J. Campbell, CC BY-NC-ND.
9.13 Sesmaria document from Paraíba (EAP627). Photo by Paraíba team 282
member, CC BY-NC-ND.
9.14 Nossa Senhora dos Milagres do São João do Cariri Church (EAP627). 283
9.15 Book of Baptisms, Marriages and Deaths, 1752-1808, from Paróquia de 284
Nossa Senhora dos Milagres do São João do Cariri Paraíba (EAP627).
Photo by Paraíba team member, CC BY-NC-ND.
9.16 Book of Baptisms, Marriages and Deaths, 1752-1808, from Paróquia de 285
Nossa Senhora dos Milagres do São João do Cariri Paraíba (EAP627).
10.1 Kitāb tārīkh Zazzau [A History of Zazzu or Zaria Emirate] by B. Ulama-i, 296
1924. Digitised handwritten Arabic document (EAP535/1/2/3/2,
image 2), Public Domain.
10.2 Digitised original file description written in English on an Arabic 296
document by Sultan Muhammad Bello, n.d. (probably 1954-1966).
The National Archives, Kaduna (EAP535/1/2/3/3, image 2), Public
Domain.
10.3 A Guide to Understanding Certain Aspects of Islam, by Sultan Muhammad 297
Bello, 1809. The National Archives, Kaduna (EAP535/1/2/3/3, image
3), Public Domain.
List of illustrations xix
10.4 Waqar jami-yah by Sheikh Ahmadu ti-la ibn Abdullahi, n.d. 297
(EAP535/1/2/19/20, image 2), Public Domain.
10.5 Report on the annual inspection of Zungeru prison by Lieutenant 301
Colonel Hasler, 1906 [1] (EAP535/2/2/5/4, image 7), Public Domain.
10.6 Report on the annual inspection of Zungeru prison by Lieutenant 302
Colonel Hasler, 1906 [2] (EAP535/2/2/5/4, image 5), Public Domain.
10.7 Report on Bornu Province prisons by W. P. Hewby, 1906 [1] 303
10.8 Report on Bornu Province prisons by W. P. Hewby, 1906 [2] 304
10.9 Document from the Niger Province annual report on cotton 311
production for 1911 by Major W. Hamilton Browne, 1912
10.10 Report on the unsatisfactory conduct of the Maaji of Zaria by the 316
District Officer in charge of the Zaria Emirate, Y. Kirkpatrick, to the
Resident of Zaria Province, 1921 [1] (EAP535/2/3/6/18, image 20),
Public Domain.
Public Domain.
Public Domain.
10.13 Document from “Report September quarter 1911-Kabba Province” 321
concerning constraints on crop cultivation by J. A. Ley Greeves, 1912
11.1 Picture of Ahmadou Bamba taken during the 2012 Màggal, the 341
yearly celebration of his arrest in 1895. The Arabic verses read as
follows: “My intention on this day is to thank You, God; O You, the
only one I implore, The Lord of the Throne”.
11.2 Mbaye Nguirane reading an Ajami excerpt of one of Moussa Ka’s 347
poems during an interview with Fallou Ngom on 11 June 2011.
Born in 1940 in Diourbel, Senegal, Nguirane is a leading specialist
in Sufism, a historian and a public speaker.
11.3 This image is the last page of Moukhtar Ndong’s Ajami healing and 359
protection manual, Manāficul Muslim (EAP334/12/2, image 19), CC BY.
xx From Dust to Digital
11.4 “In the Name of Your Quills and Ink” by the master poet and social 360
critic, Mbaye Diakhaté, written between 1902 and 1954 (EAP334/4/2,
image 46), CC BY.
11.5 A page from Habibou Rassoulou Sy’s Lawtanuk Barka [Flourishing of 363
Baraka], a genealogy book of the family of Boroom Tuubaa (Ahmadou
Bamba). Bamba is located in the circle in bold (EAP334/12/1, image
6), CC BY.
11.6 A work of Ajami art displaying a key Murid maxim: “Loo yootu jàpp 364
ko (Seize whatever you reach)” in Mbaye Diakhaté’s “Yow miy Murid,
Seetal Ayib yi La Wër [You, the Murid, Beware of the Challenges
Surrounding You]” (EAP334/8/1, image 29).
11.7 Photo of a shopkeeper’s Ajami advertisement in Diourbel, the 365
heartland of Muridiyya, taken in June 2009. The Ajami text reads
as follows: “Fii dañu fiy wecciku ay Qasā’id aki band(u) ak kayiti kaamil
aki daa” [Poems, audiocassettes, Quran-copying quality paper and
ink are sold here]”. The word TIGO refers to a local mobile phone
company.
11.8 A mill owner’s advertisement for grinding grains, including 366
peanuts. The Ajami text reads as follows: “Ku bëgg wàllu wàlla soqlu
wàlla tigadege wàlla nooflaay; kaay fii la. Waa Kër Xaadimu Rasuul [If
you want (your grains) pounded or grinded or peanut butter
effortlessly; come here. The People of The Servant of the Prophet
(Ahmadou Bamba)]”. Photo taken in Diourbel in June 2009.
11.9 Shopping for Ajami materials in Touba, Senegal during the 2012 367
Màggal.
11.10 Shopping for Ajami materials and Murid paraphernalia in Touba, 367
Senegal, 12 July 2014.
11.11 An advertisement in Ajami for the mobile phone company Orange 368
in a suburb of the Murid holy city of Touba, 12 July 2014.
11.12 A public announcement in Ajami and six foreign languages asking 369
pilgrims who attended the 2011 Màggal to turn off their mobile
phones when entering the Great Mosque of Touba where Ahmadou
Bamba is buried, 11 January 2011.
12.1 Front page of al-Jāmiʿah al-Islāmīyah [Islamic Union] newspaper, 27 385

July 1937 (EAP119/1/12/480, image 1), CC BY.
12.2 Front page of al-Liwāʾ [The Flag] newspaper, 16 December 1935 386
(EAP119/1/17/2, image 1), CC BY.
12.3 Front page of Miraʾat al-Sharq [The Mirror of the East] newspaper, 388
on the Balfour Declaration, 2 November 1917 (EAP119/1/24/1,
image 1), CC BY.
List of illustrations xxi
12.4 Front page of al-Jāmiʿah al-ʿArabīyah [The Arab League] newspaper, 389
on the Buraq uprising, 16 October 1929 (EAP119/1/13/260, image
1), CC BY.
12.5 Page three of al-Jāmiʿah al-ʿArabīyah [The Arab League] newspaper, on 390
al-Qassam unrest, 22 November 1935 (EAP119/1/13/1504, image 3),
CC BY.
12.6 Front page of al-Iqdām [The Courage] newspaper, on political parties, 391
30 March 1935 (EAP119/1/23/34, image 1), CC BY.
12.7 Front page of al-Difāʿ [The Defence] newspaper, on the great strike of 392
1936, 17 June 1936 (EAP119/1/21/169, image 1), CC BY.
12.8 Page three of al-Jāmiʿah al-ʿArabīyah [The Arab League] newspaper, 393
on the Palestinian press under the Mandate, 3 April 1930
(EAP119/1/13/338, image 3), CC BY.
12.9 Damaged page of Filasṭīn [Palestine] newspaper, 30 December 1947 395
(EAP119/1/22/1802, image 1), CC BY.
12.10 Damaged paper of Bāb sharḥ al-shamsīyah, work on logic, 1389 CE 397
(EAP399/1/23, image 4), CC BY.
12.11 Ashraf al-Wasāʾil, biography of the Prophet, 1566 CE (EAP399/1/12, 397
image 4), CC BY.
12.12 Khāliṣ al-talkhīṣ, on the Arabic language, seventeenth century CE 398
12.13 al-Wasīlah fī al-Ḥisāb, on mathematics, 1412 CE (EAP399/1/14, image 398
18), CC BY.
12.14 Taṣrīf al-Šāfiyah, on the Arabic language, 1345 CE (EAP399/1/34, 399
image 85), CC BY.
12.15 al-Rawḍah, on jurisprudence and matters of doctrine, 1329 CE 404
12.16 Maʿālim al-Tanzīl, exegesis, 1437 CE (EAP521/1/6, image 3), CC BY. 404
12.17 Ṭabaqāt al-Shāfiʿīyah, on history, 1542 CE (EAP521/1/26, image 33), 405
CC BY.
12.18 al-Nawādir al-Sulṭānīyah, on the history and biography of Salaḥ al- 405
Dīn al-Ayyūbī, 1228 CE (EAP521/1/24, image 29), CC BY.
13.1 Carte-de-visite from Bernabé Mendizábal to Mr. Comendador Dr. 419

Guido Bennati (EAP207/6/1, images 27 and 28), Public Domain.
13.2 Itineraries of Guido Bennati in South America. Map by Samanta 421
Faiad, Dept. Ilustración Científica del Museo de La Plata, CC BY.
13.3 Museo de La Plata, c. 1890 (Anales del Museo de La Plata, 1890), Public 423
Domain.
xxii From Dust to Digital
13.4 Carte-de-visite from Michel-Aimé Pouget (EAP207/6/1, images 29 428

and 30), Public Domain.
13.5 “Souvenirs of Bolivia” (from La Ilustración Española y Americana, 43 435
(November 22, 1877), p. 316). © CSIC, Centro de Ciencias Humanas
y Sociales, Biblioteca Tomás Navarro Tomás, all rights reserved.
13.6 “The Ruins of Pumapungu”, view to the southwest. © Stübel’s 436
Collections, Leibniz-Institut für Länderkunde, Leipzig, all rights
reserved.
13.7 “The church of Tiahuanaco”. © Stübel’s Collections, Leibniz-Institut 437
für Länderkunde, Leipzig, all rights reserved.
14.1 Mission Veng Church, c. 1913-1919, Mizoram Presbyterian Church 450

Synod Archive, Aijal, Mizoram, India.
14.2 Challiana, seated second from right, with F. W. Savidge, seated second 463
from left, and others, n.d., British Library (EAP454/16/1), CC BY.
14.3 Wedding at Mission Veng Church, n.d., British Library (EAP454/12/1 465
Pt 2), CC BY.
14.4 Church leaders at Mission Veng Church, 1919, British Library 465
(EAP454/13/22), CC BY.
14.5 Liangkhaia at Mission Veng Church, 1919, British Library 467
(EAP454/13/22), CC BY.
14.6 Suaka Lal, Veli and Chhingtei at Durtlang, 1938, British Library 470
(EAP454/3/3 Pt 2), CC BY.
14.7 “Wives of the Soldiers in Lungleh”, c. 1938, loose photo in J. H. 470
Lorrain’s file, BMS Acc. 250, Angus Library and Archive, Regent’s
Park College, Oxford.
14.8 “Some of the mothers who live in Lungleh”, c. 1938, loose photo 478
in J. H. Lorrain’s file, BMS Acc. 250, Angus Library and Archive,
Regent’s Park College, Oxford.
14.9 Two Mizo nurses in Serkawn, c. 1924, British Library (EAP454/6/1), 478
CC BY.
15.1 Baluev writing in his journal in Dudinka, 1938. © Krasnoyarsk 492

Museum, Siberia (KKKM 3604), all rights reserved.
15.2 Map of the Evenki National District. Photo by I. I. Baluev 495
(EAP016/4/1/223). © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia, all rights
reserved.
List of illustrations xxiii
15.3 The first camp after crossing the border between Taimyr and Evenkia 497
with all three expedition members: Baluev, Dolgikh and Strulev. ©
Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia (KKKM 3683), all rights reserved.
15.4 Stakhanovite hunter, Stepan N. Pankagir, on the hunt for squirrels. 504
Uchug, Evenki National District, 17 January 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1264).
© Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia, all rights reserved.
15.5 Prize-winning hunter Ivan K. Solov’ev (a Yakut) shows his award to 511
his wife. Next to her is V. V. Antsiferov. Kamen’ Factory, 7 November
1938 (EAP016/4/1/1913). © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia, all rights
reserved.
15.6 Female hunters. From the left, Mariia L. Mukto and Mariia F. 512
Chapogir hunting for squirrels in the forest. Evenki National
District, 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1323). © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia,
all rights reserved.
15.7 Icefishing with reindeer fat. Evenki National District, 1939. © 513
15.8 Geography lesson in grade seven at the Russian School. Evenkii 515
National District, Tura Settlement, January 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1546).
15.9 The Yakut Nikolai N. Botulu (Katykhinskii) with a polar fox 516
caught in the jaws of a trap. He was from Ezhova, Taimyr National
District, but his traps were located in the Evenki National District,
1938 (EAP016/4/1/315). © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia, all rights
reserved.
15.10 Krasnoyarsk krai forest on the border of the Evenki National 517
District, Boguchansk Region, February 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1646). ©
Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia, all rights reserved.
15.11 Three modes of transport: reindeer, sleigh and truck. Evenki 519
National District, Tura, 1939. © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia
(KKKM 3767), all rights reserved.
15.12 Evenki hunter Danil V. Miroshko trading furs. The head of the 519
exchange is Luka Pavlovich Shcherbakov. Tura, January 1939. ©
15.13 A reindeer herd with herder from the Reindeer Sovkhoz (state farm), 520
NKZ. Evenki National District, February 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1341). ©
Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia, all rights reserved.
15.14 Headquarters for the Reindeer Sovkhoz (state farm), NKZ. A chum 521
(conical tent) is in the foreground, a new home for Evenki labourers
in the background. © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia (KKKM 3706),
all rights reserved.
xxiv From Dust to Digital
15.15 Yakut tent in Tura in the winter. Evenki National District, 522
Tura settlement, January 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1556). © Krasnoyarsk
Museum, Siberia, all rights reserved.
15.16 New Year’s tree celebration at the secondary school. © Krasnoyarsk 523
Museum, Siberia, (KKKM 3759), all rights reserved.
15.17 Children performing exercises under a portrait of Stalin (a small 525
portrait of the assassinated Bolshevik leader, Sergei Kirov, is behind
the teacher’s head) (EAP016/4/1/1246). © Krasnoyarsk Museum,
Siberia, all rights reserved.
16.1 Jacques Toussele with a plate camera in 1965. © Jacques Toussele, 532
CC BY-NC-ND.
16.2 Jacques Toussele in 2001. Photo by author, CC BY-NC-ND. 533
16.3 The studio in 1973 (EAP054/1/123/56). © Jacques Toussele, CC BY- 535
NC-ND.
16.4 The studio building in 2006. Photo by author, CC BY-NC-ND. 535
16.5 A street seller (EAP054/1/54/58). © Jacques Toussele, CC BY-NC-ND. 536
16.6 Portrait for an ID card (EAP054/1/94/167). © Jacques Toussele, CC 536
BY-NC-ND.
16.7 Portrait of an elderly man with spear and pipe (EAP054/1/68/125). © 537
Jacques Toussele, CC BY-NC-ND.
16.8 Portrait for an ID card (EAP054/1/177/24). © Jacques Toussele, CC 537
BY-NC-ND.
16.9 Portraits for school ID cards. Double exposure on a single negative 538
(EAP054/1/52/144). © Jacques Toussele, CC BY-NC-ND.
16.10 A photocopy of a print of a man standing, showing how the original 540
negative was cropped (EAP054/1/4/145). © Jacques Toussele, CC
BY-NC-ND.
16.11 Original negative for the print shown in Fig. 16.10 (EAP054/1/50/562). 541
© Jacques Toussele, CC BY-NC-ND.
16.12 Baptism. Damaged negative (EAP054/1/44/45). © Jacques Toussele, 543
CC BY-NC-ND.
16.13 Negatives before scanning. Photo by author, CC BY-NC-ND. 543
16.14 The documentary team at work in Mbouda. Photo by author, CC 544
BY-NC-ND.
List of illustrations xxv
17.1 The logo of the Syliphone recording company. © Editions Syliphone, 555
Conakry, under license from Syllart Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
17.2 Bembeya Jazz National, Regard sur le passé (Syliphone, SLP 10, c. 557
1969). The photo depicts Samory Touré, grandfather of President
Sékou Touré, who led the insurgency against French rule in the late
nineteenth century. The orchestra’s version of the epic narrative in
honour of his life earned them great acclaim; when it was performed
at the First Pan-African Cultural Festival, held in Algiers in 1969, it
won Guinea a silver medal. © Editions Syliphone, Conakry, under
license from Syllart Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
17.3 Ensemble Instrumental de la Radiodiffusion Nationale, Guinée an 558
XI (Syliphone, SLP 16, 1970). Guinea’s premier traditional ensemble
displays the prominence of the griot musical tradition, with two
koras (first and second rows, centre) and a balafon (second row, far
left). © Editions Syliphone, Conakry, under license from Syllart
Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
17.4 The verso cover of a box set of four Syliphone LPs (Syliphone, SLP 558
10-SLP 13, 1970), released in recognition of the performances of
Guinea’s artists at the First Pan-African Cultural Festival, held in
Algiers in 1969. © Editions Syliphone, Conakry, under license from
Syllart Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
17.5 Bembeya Jazz National/Horoya Band National, Concerts des Orchestres 559
Nationaux (Syliphone, SLP 27, 1971). Political doctrine was reinforced
through Syliphone. Here the cover depicts an enemy combatant,
his boat blasted, surrendering to the JRDA (Jeunesse de la Révolution
Démocratique Africaine, the youth wing of the PDG) and the APRG
(Armée Populaire Révolutionnaire de Guinée). © Editions Syliphone,
17.6 Édition spécial de la régie Syliphone. Commémorant le 1eranniversaire de la 559
victoire du peuple de Guinée sur l’Impérialisme International (Syliphone
SLPs 26-29, 1971). A box set of four LP discs (“Coffret special agression”)
released to celebrate Guinea’s victory over the Portuguese-led forces
which invaded the country in 1970. © Editions Syliphone, Conakry,
under license from Syllart Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
17.7 Horoya Band National (Syliphone, SLP 41, c. 1973). Many of Guinea’s 560
orchestras featured the band members wearing traditional cloth. Here,
an orchestra from Kankan in the north of Guinea wears outfits in the
bògòlanfini style associated with Mandé culture. © Editions Syliphone,
xxvi From Dust to Digital
17.8 Various Artists, Discothèque 70 (Syliphone, SLP 23, 1971). Tradition 560
and modernity: a compilation of music by Guinean orchestras is
promoted by images from local cultural traditions. Here, a Fulbé
woman is depicted. © Editions Syliphone, Conakry, under license
from Syllart Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
17.9 The Radio Télévision Guinée (RTG) offices in Boulbinet, Conakry. 568
Photo by author, CC BY-NC-ND.
17.10 Audio reels stored in the RTG’s “annexe”. Photo by author, CC BY- 569
NC-ND.
17.11 Some of the audio reels were in urgent need of preservation. Photo 569
by author, CC BY-NC-ND.
17.12 Archiving the audio reels and creating digital copies. Photo by 570
author, CC BY-NC-ND.
18.1 Davud Pirnia (on the right) and Rahi Mu’ayyiri (on the left) at the 588
radio in Tehran, c. 1950. Courtesy of Forugh Bahmanpour, Public
Domain.
18.2 Parviz Yahaqqi (on the right) and Bijan Taraqqi (on the left) 589
composing a song for the Golha programmes. Tehran, late 1950s.
Courtesy of Forugh Bahmanpour, Public Domain.
18.3 Rahim Moini-Kermanshahi (on the right) and ‘Ali Tajvidi (on the 589
left) composing a song for the Golha programmes. Tehran, mid-
1950s. Courtesy of Forugh Bahmanpour, Public Domain.
18.4 Vigin Derderian, one of the most popular pop singers from the 592
1950s. He sang several Armenian tunes for the Golha programmes.
18.5 Ali Akbar Shanazi teaching his pupil Pirayeh Pourafar at the Centre 597
for the Preservation and Promotion of Music in Tehran, in 1977.
Courtesy of Pirayeh Pourafar, Public Domain.
18.6 Ghulam Hosain Banan (on the left) and Navab-Safa (on the right) 599
working on a song for the Golha programmes. Tehran, late 1950s.
18.7 Akbar Golpaygani (on the left) and Farhang Sharif (on the right) 602
in the late 1960s. Courtesy of Alireza Mirnaghabi, Public Domain.
18.8 Left to right: Shaf’i Kadkani, Hushang Ebtehaj and Bastani 605
Parizi. They were all poets whose work was featured in the Golha
programmes, c. 1970. Courtesy of Alireza Mirnaghibi, Public
Domain.
List of illustrations xxvii
18.9 Mohammad Reza Lutfi (on the left) and Hushang Ebtehaj (on the 606
right) in the mid-1970s. Courtesy of Forugh Bahmanpour, Public
Domain.
18.10 Text of the Golha-yi javidan and Golha-yi rangarang programmes 607
printed in the Radio-yi Iran journal. Majala-yi Radio, 16-17 (1335
A.Hsh./1956), Public Domain.
18.11 Faramarz Payvar (on the left) and Hosain Tehrani (on the right), at 610
the Tomb of Hafiz, Shiraz Arts Festival, c. 1970. Courtesy of Forugh
Bahmanpour, Public Domain.
18.12 Left to right: Turaj Nigahban, Gulshan Ibrahimi and Humayun 611
Khuram. Courtesy of Forugh Bahmanpour, Public Domain.
19.1 The Pushkinskii Dom in St Petersburg. Photo by V. Denisov, CC BY. 620

19.2 The phonogram collection in St Petersburg. Photo by V. Denisov, 621
CC BY.
19.3 The catalogue of sound recordings in the Pushkinskii Dom. 624
19.4 The sound laboratory in Izhevsk. Photo by V. Denisov, CC BY. 625
List of recordings
17.1 Orchestre Honoré Coppet, “no title” (1963), 4’40”. Syliphone2-068-02. 573
With permission from Sterns Music, all rights reserved.
17.2 Syli Orchestre National, “Syli” (c. 1962), 4’33”. Syliphone3-248-3. 573
17.3 Balla et ses Balladins, “PDG” (c. 1970), 5’22”. Syliphone2-089-08. 573
17.4 Orchestre de la Paillote, “Dia” (1967), 3’48”. Syliphone4-358-10. 574
17.5 Orchestre de la Garde Républicaine 1ère formation, “Sabougnouma” 574
(1964), 4’25”. Syliphone2-067-02. With permission from Sterns
Music, all rights reserved.
17.6 Kébendo Jazz, “Kankan diaraby” (1964), 3’20”. Syliphone2-052-03. 574
17.7 Orchestre Féminin Gendarmerie Nationale, “La bibeta” (1963), 574
3’41”. Syliphone4-382-08. With permission from Sterns Music, all
rights reserved.
17.8 Syli Authentic, “Aguibou” (c. 1976), 7’04”. Syliphone2-077-01. With 575
permission from Sterns Music, all rights reserved.
17.9 Koubia Jazz, “Commissaire minuit” (1987), 5’40”. Syliphone4-022-03. 575
17.10 Bembeya Jazz National, “Ballaké” (c. 1972), 8’02”. Syliphone2-091-01. 575
17.11 Kouyaté Sory Kandia, “Miniyamba” (c. 1968), 2’24”. 576
Syliphone4-380-05. With permission from Sterns Music, all rights
reserved.
17.12 Kouyaté Sory Kandia, “Sakhodougou” (c. 1973), 8’26”. 576
Syliphone3-168-4. With permission from Sterns Music, all rights
reserved.
xxx From Dust to Digital
17.13 Mama Kanté avec l’Ensemble Instrumental de Kissidougou, “JRDA” 576

(1970), 4’37”. Syliphone4-251-12. With permission from Sterns
Music, all rights reserved.
17.14 Fodé Conté, “Bamba toumani” (c. 1978), 3’33”. With permission 576
from Sterns Music, all rights reserved.
17.15 Les Virtuoses Diabaté, “Toubaka” (c. 1971), 4’22”. Syliphone4-047-04. 577
17.16 Kadé Diawara, “Banankoro”(c. 1976), 4’25”. With permission from 577
Sterns Music, all rights reserved.
17.17 M’Bady Kouyaté, “Djandjon” (c. 1974), 7’35”. Syliphone4-322-03. 577
17.18 Femmes du Comité Landreah, “Révolution” (1964), 2’54”. 578
Syliphone3-068-3. Sung in the Susu language. With permission
17.19 Musique Folklorique du Comité de Guèlémata, “Noau bo kui kpe 578
la Guinée ma” (1968), 2’33”. Syliphone3-088-3. Sung in the Guerzé
language. With permission from Sterns Music, all rights reserved.
17.20 Sergent Ourékaba, “Alla wata kohana” (c. 1986), 2’10”. 578
Syliphone4-755-06. Sung in the Fulfuldé language. With permission
17.21 Binta Laaly Sow, “56” (c. 1986), 5’01”. Syliphone4-581-09. With 579
permission from Sterns Music, all rights reserved.
17.22 Farba Téla, “Niina” (1979), 7’52”. Syliphone3-097-2. With permission 579
18.1 Golha-yi javidan 85, broadcast between 1956 and 1959. Public Domain. 591
18.2 Golha-yi rangarang 158, broadcast between 1956 and 1972. Public 591
Domain.
18.3 Barg-i sabz 23, broadcast between 1956 and 1972. Public Domain. 591
18.4 Yik shakh-i gol 196, broadcast between 1956 and 1972. Public Domain. 591
18.5 Golha-yi sahra’i 14, broadcast between 1960 and 1972. Public Domain. 591
18.6 Golha-yi taza 200, broadcast between 1972 and 1979. Public Domain. 604
Notes on contributors
Qasem Abu Harb is Director of the Archive Centre of the Arab Studies
Society in Jerusalem (al-Quds).
Ali Ait Kaci has been working as an archaeologist at the National Archaeological
Agency of Algeria since 1990. He has directed many excavations in Italy,
Tunisia and Morocco. His current research focuses on Libyco-Berber epigraphy.
David G. Anderson is professor of anthropology at the University of Aberdeen.

He has authored and edited numerous books on Siberia.
Peter Baldwin is Co-founder of the Arcadia Fund and the Global Distinguished
Professor at New York Untiersity’s Center for European and Mediterranean
Studies. His research focuses on the development of the modern state, but
also addresses the comparative history of the welfare state, social policy,
and public health.
Anne K. Bang is Senior Researcher at the Chr. Michelsen Institute and an

Associate Professor of African Islamic history at the University of Bergen,
Norway. She has published widely on Islam in the Indian Ocean during the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
Mohammed Bashir Salau is Associate Professor of history at the University

of Mississippi and author of The West African Slave Plantation: A Case Study.
Mikhail Semenovich Batashev is Senior Research Fellow in the Division of

Archaeology and Ethnography of the Krasnoyarsk Territory Regional Museum.
Stefano Biagetti holds a Marie Curie Intra-European Fellowship in the

Department of Humanities, Pompeu Fabra University, where he is conducting
research into the resilience of central Saharan pastoralists from historical to
current times.
xxxii From Dust to Digital
Courtney J. Campbell is a Past & Present Postdoctoral Fellow at the Institute

of Historical Research at the School of Advanced Study, University of London.
Her work focuses on international cultural exchange and regional identity
in the Brazilian Northeast.
Craig Campbell is Assistant Professor in the Department of Anthropology

at the University of Texas at Austin. His book Agitating Images: Photography
Against History in Indigenous Siberia was published by the University of
Minnesota Press in 2014.
Anthea Case is Principal Adviser of the Arcadia Fund and Chair of the National
Trust East of England Regional Advisory Board. She was previously Chief
Executive of the National Heritage Memorial Fund and Heritage Lottery
Fund (1995-2003). She was awarded a CBE in 2003 for services to heritage.
Dr Graeme Counsel is a Lecturer in ethnomusicology and an Honorary

Fellow of the Melbourne Conservatorium of Music, University of Melbourne.
His research specialises in the investigation of cultural policies in Africa,
examining the nexus between politics and the arts and exploring the ways
in which cultural policies shape cultural expression.
Victor Denisov is a linguist specialising in Finno-Ugric Languages. He is a

researcher at the Udmurt Institute for History and a member of the Kastren
Finno-Ugric Society, Finland.
Tjeerd de Graaf has specialised in the phonetic aspects of ethnolinguistics.

After retiring from the University of Groningen, he was a visiting professor
at the University of St. Petersburg and guest researcher at the Slavic Research
Center of Hokkaido University, Japan. He is a research fellow at the Frisian
Academy and a board member of the Foundation for Endangered Languages
and the Foundation for Siberian Cultures.
Savino di Lernia teaches ethnoarchaeology and African archaeology at

the Faculty of Letters, Sapienza University of Rome. He is the director of
the Archaeological Mission in the Sahara (Tunisia, Algeria, Libya) project.
His main interests cover the transitions from hunting and foraging to food
production, the development of pastoralism in Northern Africa and the
management of cultural heritage in arid regions.
Notes on contributors xxxiii
Michael Gervers is Professor of History at the University of Toronto and

co-founder of Mäzgäbä Sәәlat, an on-line corpus of over 65,000 images of
Ethiopian art and culture. He publishes in the fields of medieval history,
medieval art history and archaeology, and ancient textiles and ethnography.
Pablo Gómez is Assistant Professor in the Department of Medical History

and the Department of the History of Science at the University of Wisconsin,
Madison. His work examines the history of medicine and corporeality in the
early modern African and Iberian Atlantic worlds.
Kyle Jackson is a Ph.D. candidate and Chancellor’s International Scholar

at the University of Warwick’s Centre for the History of Medicine where he
is exploring the history of health and religion in colonial Northeast India.
Maja Kominko is a historian of late antiquity and Byzantium. Her research

focuses on intellectual history. She held postdoctoral and academic positions
at the University of York, Princeton University and the University of Oxford.
She currently manages the cultural grants portfolio at the Arcadia Fund.
Jane Landers is the Gertrude Conaway Vanderbilt Professor of History at

Vanderbilt University. Her research focuses on Africans in the Atlantic World.
Jane Lewisohn is a graduate of Pahalavi University, Shiraz, Iran. She has

been involved in research into and promotion of various aspects of Persian
Studies for the last three decades. Since 2005, she has been directing the Golha
Project under the auspices of the British Library and the Music Department
of SOAS, University of London.
Elena Marushiakova (President of the Gypsy Lore Society) and Vesselin

Popov have published widely on Roma (Gypsies) in Bulgaria, the Balkans
and Eastern Europe. Their publications include Gypsies in the Ottoman Empire
(2000) and the first monograph on Roma in Bulgaria (1997).
Stephen Morey is Australian Research Council Future Fellow at the Centre

for Research on Linguistic Diversity, La Trobe University. He is the author
of two books on tribal languages in Assam, including both Tai-Kadai and
Tibeto-Burman families. He is the co-Chair of the North East Indian Linguistics
Society and has also written on the Aboriginal Languages of Victoria, Australia.
xxxiv From Dust to Digital
Fallou Ngom is Associate Professor of Anthropology and Director of the

African Language Program at Boston University. His current research interests
include Ajami literatures — records of West African languages written in a
modified Arabic script — and the interactions between African languages
and non-African languages.
Heleen Plaisier has written a comprehensive reference grammar of Lepcha,

the language spoken by the indigenous tribal people of Darjeeling, Sikkim
and Kalimpong. She is now working on a Lepcha-English dictionary.
Irina Podgorny has been a Permanent Research Scholar at the CONICET

(Consejo Nacional de Investigaciones Científicas y Técnicas) since 1995. She is
also Director of the Archivo Histórico y Fotográfico at the Facultad de Ciencias
Naturales y Museo of the Universidad Nacional de la Plata, Buenos Aires.
José Trinidad Polo Acuña is Professor of History at the University of Cartagena

and Director of the research group “Frontiers, Society and Culture in the
Caribbean and Latin America”.
Lisbet Rausing is co-founder of Arcadia, holds a doctorate in history from

Harvard, and has taught at Harvard University and Imperial College. She
currently serves on the advisory boards of the National Library of Israel and
the Cambridge Conservation Initiative.
Gabriela Ramos is Senior Lecturer in Latin American History at the University

of Cambridge and a Fellow of Newnham College, Cambridge. She has
published extensively on the history of religion in the Andes, including Death
and Conversion in the Andes. Lima and Cuzco, 1532-1670 (2010), winner of the
2011 Howard F. Cline Prize for its contribution to the history of indigenous
peoples in Latin America, Conference on Latin American History.
Sophie Sarin is a designer who runs a textile and clothing studio in

Djenné (www.malimali.org), as well as a hotel built out of mud (www.
hoteldjennedjenno.com).
Barry Supple is an economic historian. He held academic posts at Harvard

Business School and at the Universities of Sussex, Oxford and Cambridge,
where he was Professor of Economic History and Master of St. Catharine’s
College. Subsequently, he was Director of the Leverhulme Trust (1993-2001).
From 2001 to 2007 he acted as principal adviser of the Arcadia Fund.
Notes on contributors xxxv
Jacek Tomaszewski is an art historian, conservator, and Lecturer at the Polish

Institute of World Art Studies and the Asia and Pacific Museum in Warsaw.
His main fields of research are the history of bookbinding, manuscript
technology and book conservation.
David Zeitlyn is Professor of Social Anthropology at the Institute of Social

and Cultural Anthropology, University of Oxford and a Fellow of Wolfson
College, Oxford. He has been working in Cameroon since 1985 and has
published extensively on various topics including traditional religion,
sociolinguistics, kinship and history.
Introduction
Lisbet Rausing and Peter Baldwin
We would like to thank Lisbet’s father, Hans Rausing, whose exceptional

capability and great generosity enabled us to fund the Endangered Archives
Programme and contribute to the preservation of vulnerable archival
collections worldwide.
The keepers of fragile, at-risk archives often do not have the means of
preserving them. Faced with conflicts and their aftermath, natural disasters
and epidemics, not even governments can afford to secure the survival of
their archival heritage. And what of archives in private possession or those
in small, struggling institutions? What of the heritage of minorities, whose
position may be precarious in any case? What of the heritage of the displaced
and the exiled whose archives are no longer understood or seen as relevant
by the communities who keep them? It is easy to condemn neglect, but
these communities often struggle to preserve their own heritage, let alone
the heritage of others that came to them through accidents of history. We
cannot expect them to shoulder the burden alone.
Endangered archives are scattered throughout the globe, often unknown
or inaccessible. Ensuring that help reaches where it is most urgently needed
may be a complex matter. This is why we decided to establish a grant
programme allowing those who know of archives in danger to apply for
support to digitise them. We chose digitisation because it preserves the
content of the archives, even if the physical materials may disappear in the
future. Importantly, it enables access to the documents without the need for
physical handling that might cause further deterioration.
Access to the materials must be a crucial part of any effort to safeguard
the knowledge and memory they contain. Minorities, exiles, the displaced
and various first nations who have often been denied access to their own
© Lisbet Rausing and Peter Baldwin, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.20

xxxviii From Dust to Digital
heritage as a result struggle to maintain their cultural identity. Who could lay
claim to rescuing their heritage if we digitise it without making it accessible
to them? And we do mean accessible — not only to those who can afford
the travel to London but to every member of any dispersed community and
to anyone who wants to explore and understand their culture. Digitisation
may help to preserve the archives, but without open access the impact of
these efforts will be limited.
The digitised collections contain a wealth of historical knowledge. They
may not be part of school curricula or learned canons, but it is not for us to
decide whether they do or do not become part of them in the future. Simply
put: if this is the memory of the world, the world needs to be able to access
it. We are proud that ten years from its inception, the Endangered Archives
Programme has made nearly four million files available through its website.
These are nearly four million individual windows into the human past that
might otherwise have remained inaccessible or could even have closed forever.
Much of the credit for the wonderful success of the programme should go
to the British Library and the programme’s team. Their tireless enthusiasm
and dedication made it possible to transform the concept into an efficient
reality. The global reach and significance of the programme would have
been impossible to achieve without the international panel of experts who,
over the years, have generously shared their knowledge and assiduously
scrutinised applications, making sure that the support is directed where it
is most needed. The expertise of the British Library curators helps to ensure
that, what could have so easily have become a Borghesian labyrinth, is an
accessible and clear archive of archives. We are also grateful to the Advisory
Board and to the staff of the Arcadia Fund for their unflinching support,
advice and hard work. Most importantly, however, our recognition is due
to grantees who took risks and often worked in harsh conditions to ensure
that historical materials were preserved. They are the real heroes of the
Endangered Archives Programme.
We are grateful to the British Library for agreeing to keep the collections in
perpetuity and ensuring that they remain freely accessible. We hope that not all
scholarly publications based on these materials will be closed behind paywalls.
Preserving the past: creating the
Barry Supple
When Arcadia was established in 2001, Lisbet Rausing was concerned to use
its resources to protect and advance knowledge and to establish the means
of preserving that knowledge. That aim was based on an appreciation of
the importance of academic and professional expertise. But the essence
of the fund’s purposes was the preservation and enlargement of cultural
information and awareness in their broadest senses.
These aims were initially embodied in the Endangered Languages
Documentation Programme, which reflected the growing awareness of the
threat to a core aspect of human culture. It was designed to support projects
to record the nature, structure and use of as many of the world’s languages
that are threatened by extinction as possible. It exemplified a combination
of an overarching central initiative and a responsiveness to approaches and
applications by well-qualified experts.
As the Endangered Languages Documentation Programme was being
launched, attention turned to a parallel need to act on behalf of a field of
knowledge and culture that was also under threat. Historical archives — the
essential records of human activity — are subject to the ravages of time, to
neglect, to forgetfulness, and to the destructive forces of war and civil unrest.
In response to this danger, Arcadia established the Endangered Archives
Programme (EAP) to ensure that archival material was not only preserved,
digitally recorded and retained in its original location where possible, but
also safely deposited in more than one location. It embodied a major effort to
ensure that knowledge of the past — of human social life in its huge variety
— would remain available to the future.
© Barry Supple, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.21

xl From Dust to Digital
The aims and means of the EAP — its “model” — followed logically on
those of the Endangered Languages Documentation Programme. Both were
concerned to rescue or maintain culturally significant records. Both focused
on a large-scale effort to protect important fields of knowledge. But both
were designed to attract individual proposals within those fields rather than
depend on direct, detailed initiatives by Arcadia. It followed that both of
them respected, and were designed to harness, the efforts and initiatives of
a multitude of scholars.
As with the Endangered Languages Documentation Programme, the EAP
depended on a panel of international experts to allocate grants to individual
scholars and an institution, in this case the British Library, to administer
those grants. Given its role and the nature of the EAP, the panel had to
be international, experienced and representative of interests and archival
knowledge. By the same token, its was composed of historians and archivists
of standing, reputation and influence.
Initially, and given the flow of applications for support at an unusually
generous and enlightened level, it might have been assumed that the panel’s
work would be undertaken straightforwardly within the original parameters of
the EAP. It was anticipated that grants would be fairly scrupulously confined
to funding the digital recording (and the deposit of those recordings) of
archival material (historical written data, photographs and sound recordings)
largely derived from pre-industrial societies. Indeed, at the initial stage it
was not envisaged that support would be offered to applications concerned
with more unconventional archives or the physical preservation/restoration
of material generated by advanced societies.
However, as knowledge of the programme spread, applications became
more diverse — and in some respects unexpectedly and commendably
adventurous. First, panel discussions increasingly focused on the fact
that the boundaries between categories of archives are porous and the
distinctions sometimes difficult to maintain. At the same time, the EAP came
to acknowledge the urgency of the threat to archives that appeared to be
outside the original expectations but were no less significant for historical
research and the preservation of cultural knowledge.
Quite early on in the history of the EAP, therefore, the panel had to
consider proposals to preserve seemingly unconventional material — material
concerned with Italian folk songs, for example, or Iranian radio broadcasts
between the two world wars, or Chinese tax records. Whatever doubts were
entertained were resolved by the quality and intrinsic interest of the data
Preserving the past xli
— which sometimes persuaded an initially sceptical panel. By the same token,

some unusually significant archival records from relatively modern periods
and developed societies also seemed sufficiently important to overcome a
strict interpretation of the programme’s original criteria. In effect, the EAP
was drawn into a very broad-based appreciation of the worthwhile diversity
and multitudinous character of archival records — and the importance of
ensuring their survival.
Initially, it was not envisaged that the EAP would support focused
work on the physical preservation of material. But it was not always easy to
maintain the distinction between preserving by sustaining and copying, and
preserving by protecting archives through the acquisition of storage materials
and other means of physical maintenance of archives. This was comparable
to the fact that the Endangered Languages Documentation Programme, while
primarily focusing on the recording of endangered languages, did have an
influence on the preservation or extension of their use, even though that was
not specified as a direct objective of the scheme.
It is also worth emphasising that the EAP arrived at these extensions or
variants of the original guidelines through the detailed consideration of a
wealth of empirical situations. That is, the panel learned more about archival
issues precisely because it had to consider a wider and deeper range of such
concerns than its members’ individual experiences may have brought to their
attention before the panel was formed. Applicants as well as decision-makers
determined the shape and evolution of the programme.
And this is an example of the important fact that in the last resort, it is less
the work of the panel than the scholarly efforts and huge commitments of
those who were supported by the EAP that will loom large in its preservation
of, and therefore contribution to, social and cultural knowledge. This volume
offers a relatively small but significant sample of the fruits of all those
endeavours, ensuring that the past will be illuminated and that darkness
will not obscure history.
The Endangered Archives Programme
after ten years
Anthea Case
Ten years on, the broad objectives of the Endangered Archives Programme
(EAP) remain unchanged. The EAP continues to bring into the international
research domain neglected, vulnerable or inaccessible archival materials
relating to “pre-industrial” societies worldwide. It does so by providing
relatively small grants to individual researchers to find and copy endangered
or vulnerable material.
The reach of the EAP has been global, supporting a remarkable range
of dedicated people — not just professional archivists and academics but
independent researchers and amateur enthusiasts of the best kind. Some
six million pounds in 240 grants has now been given for archives from
Argentina to Zambia, for the digital preservation of around 400 manuscripts
in Ethiopian desert monasteries, of piles of paper decaying in institutions
without the resources to look after them, of boxes of shellac records and
early tape recordings and Saharan rock inscriptions. Grants have also led
to the discovery of unknown and important archives in private hands, such
as manuscripts of the minority Cham people in Vietnam and handwritten
records of village customary law in southern India.
All this digitised material is now freely available to academics, individuals
and communities, in both local archives and through the British Library website.
This volume shows the breadth and quality of the scholarly activity that the
EAP has made possible. Its impact, however, goes much further than that.
Against this background it is not surprising that an independent review
in 2010, after the first five years, found the EAP to be innovative, worthwhile
and successful in the eyes of participating scholars both internationally and
© Anthea Case, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.22

xliv From Dust to Digital
in the home countries of the archival projects concerned. Much of this success
reflects two key decisions taken at the start of the programme: to administer it
through a world-class institution — the British Library — with a global reach
in terms of skills and networks; and to recruit an international panel of experts
to guide its decisions on policy and on individual grants. The contributions
of the library and the panel have been significant in steering the EAP through
the two main challenges we have faced since 2004.
The scope of the programme, originally conceived along conventional lines,
has been challenged by applications from the start. The current approach
has evolved through pretty continuous discussion at panel meetings about
such fundamental questions as “what constitutes an archive” and “what
constitutes pre-industrial society”. In practice, there has been a widening of
the definition of “pre-industrial” or “pre-modern” in response to the expressed
needs in the field, as evidenced by applications and the cases they make for
importance and vulnerability. Some risks affect material whatever its age —
storm and tempest, political instability — but paper used from the end of the
nineteenth century and audio visual materials in the early twentieth century
are particularly vulnerable to the ravages of the environment and the innate
fragility of the media. The panel’s approach is subtle — there is no single
cut-off date. This allows the issues of risk and importance to be judged on
their merits in individual circumstances.
The EAP’s focus has always been on access and preservation rather than on
conservation. In 2004, worldwide access through the web was not envisaged.
The digitised, or in some cases microfilmed, master copies were expected
to be viewed in in-country local archives, with back-up copies available to
view in the British Library, or mailed to researchers who could not get there.
By 2010, development of the internet and the expectations of scholars
had made it clear that the route to dissemination needed to be via the British
Library website which was not subject to the vagaries besetting access to
material elsewhere, especially in less developed countries. This presented
a major challenge. Placing future material online would be relatively easy.
Dealing with the material already deposited — approximately 100 projects,
a huge variety of subject matter, digitised by different hands — has been
more challenging. A single project might produce five terabytes of material,
or in one instance, fifteen terabytes. Sound recordings and videos presented
further difficulties, but this is being worked on, with the aim of streaming
recordings, where rights have been cleared, through the British Library
Sounds website.
The Endangered Archives Programme after ten years xlv
Curating and cataloguing this has been a huge task for both curatorial and
technical staff. But now, this enormous amount of newly digitised material
is free to view online via the British Library website. A significant amount
of the new material is in a wide variety of non-roman scripts. It will enable
new scholarship and new collaborations by both western and non-western
scholars and underline the volume and value of writings in other scripts.
More recently, in 2013, the final report from The Global Dimensions of
Scholarship and Research Libraries: A Forum on the Future, identified the
EAP as one of the most promising initiatives in efforts to align research
library agendas with globalising scholarship and teaching.
In addition to delivering on its core objectives of preservation and
dissemination for the benefit of scholarship worldwide, the EAP has also
secured further benefits, in general unforeseen at the start. Perhaps the most
important of these is the impact on communities where the archives are sited.
In fulfilling its aim, the EAP builds the capacity for local communities
to continue to care for archival sources beyond the life of a project. It does
this by preferring to train local people to help deliver projects rather than
employ experts from overseas. The equipment is deposited with the archival
partner for further use after the project has ended. And the EAP, through
the British Library, offers outstanding technical and general support, which
is highly valued by those leading projects.
The international status of the British Library and its involvement in
the programme has had significant impacts locally. Archives in many
developing countries are poorly funded and personnel employed there
generally struggle to protect their collections. The involvement of the EAP
has meant that governments and universities have been made aware of
the value of the materials they possess and have sometimes pledged to
develop a strategy for long-term preservation and to enhance their support
for archives more generally.
One of the great pleasures of being involved in the programme is to read
the final reports, which express profound thanks for saving part of a group’s
heritage for future generations. This is particularly true for minority groups
whose collections are often dispersed in private hands, with much of their
heritage already lost. The value of the EAP lies in the fact that it does not
remove items from their owners, unless they are happy for this to happen.
It therefore overcomes the concerns that people may have about the loss of
their material heritage. At the same time, the free open access to the materials
through the British Library makes them available to anyone with an internet
xlvi From Dust to Digital
connection — this brings to light the material held in remote or unknown

archives, and increases the interest of researchers to visit those archives.
Overall, the EAP is generally seen to be working in the interests of local
people rather than that of the British Library, which has not often been their
historical experience of contact with outside groups. The involvement of
the EAP has also raised the esteem of local cultures and their history, and
those who have been employed in projects clearly take great pride in being
involved. The excitement felt by local people, which emanates from the
reports, is both rewarding and humbling.
The work of the EAP is still unfinished. Archives remain at risk from war,
theft, natural disasters, climate change, neglect and planned or accidental
destruction. Recent events, whether the hurricane which swept through the
Philippines in 2013 or the unrest in the Middle East, only serve to underline
the continuing importance of the work of the EAP’s grantees.
What the Endangered Archives
Programme does
Once a year for the past decade an eminent panel of nine experts – librarians,
archivists and academics – has met at the British Library to consider
applications from individuals wishing to preserve vulnerable archival
collections worldwide.
The panel awards two types of grants. Pilot grants support initial exploration
to locate and assess the state of endangered collections. These projects may
serve as preparation for major grants which support the digitisation of
collections. The digital images recorded by the EAP projects are deposited
with local institutions and the British Library, which makes them available
online. To qualify for a grant the material must be potentially significant for
scholarship, endangered and from a pre-modern period. Importantly, the
panel only awards grants where the resulting materials can be made open
to access on the library’s website.
So far the Programme has awarded 244 grants worldwide totalling
£6m, giving between £500k and £900k each year. It has supported 91 pilot
projects and 153 major projects. It has digitised collections endangered by
environmental factors, neglect, obsolescence of materials or the vulnerability
of the minority groups to whom the materials belong. Among the collections
documented are records from the low-lying island of Tuvalu, under threat
from rising sea waters, and murals on crumbling temples in India. The
programme has digitised photographs taken by Buddhist monks in Luang
Prabang, images that provide a unique view of monastic life and that had been
forgotten for decades in storage. It has supported digitisation of traditional
music and stories recorded on magnetic tapes and phonograph records from
the mountains of Azerbaijan. It has also helped to digitise Hakku Patras,
historic certificates of rights granted to families from dependant castes, which
xlviii From Dust to Digital
allowed them to practice their trade in the villages of Andhra Pradesh in

India. Across the programme, the digitally preserved materials range from
rock inscriptions to sound recordings, spanning the first millennium BC to
the twentieth century, from Chile to Siberia.
Endangered Archives Programme staff

Directors Staff
Adam Farquhar – Acting Director* Cathy Collins*
Graham Shaw Jody Butterworth*
Susan Whitfield Paul Young*
Aly Conteh Robert Miles*
Isobel Clouter*
Lynda Barraclough
Alex Hailey
Toni Hardy
International Advisory Panel

Chair
Anthea Case*
Barry Supple
Members
Simon Franklin* Jeevan Deol
Nada Itani* Aziz Abid
Ann Kumar* Lorraine Gesick
Nathan Mnjama* Gabriela Ramos
Linda Newson* Lenka Matušiková
Sanjay Subrahmanyam* Ann Thurston
Marion Wallace* (BL Curator Branka Prpa
for African Studies) Paul Lihoma
* Current
Crumb trails, threads and traces:
endangered archives and history
Maja Kominko
Advocating the opening of the Imperial Archives of France to scholars, their

director-general Léon de Laborde, argued in 1858 that government “has no
better means to prevent the writing of bad books than to provide scholars
with the means to write good ones”, and that opening the Archives would let
“the light of history shine from its true source”.1 The issue of what historians’
sources are and how they should be approached was debated from the
beginning of history-writing, perhaps unsurprisingly considering that it
underlies the fundamental question of what history is, and why and how
it should be written.2 What constitutes an archive is not always clear-cut:
although predominantly understood as a formal repository of official records,
the concept is often extended to accommodate more diverse documentary
residue of the past.3
1 Quoted after Jennifer S. Milligan, “The Problem of Publicité in the Archives of Second
Empire France”, in Archives, Documentation, and Institutions of Social Memory: Essays from
the Sawyer Seminar, ed. by Francis X. Blouin, Jr. and William G. Rosenberg (Ann Arbor,
MI: University of Michigan Press, 2006), 20-35 (p. 20).
2 Donald R. Kelly, Faces of History. Historical Inquiry from Herodotus to Herder (New Haven,
CT and London: Yale University Press, 1998); R. G. Collingwood, The Idea of History
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993); Arnaldo Momigliano, Studies in Historiography
(New York: Harper & Row, 1966); Jacques Le Goff, History and Memory (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1992), pp. 152-78; Carlo Ginzburg, Threads and Traces: True
False Fictive (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2012).
3 Francis X. Blouin, Jr. and William G. Rosenberg, Processing the Past. Contesting Authority
in History and the Archives (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). For a critical theory
of archives as a locus of authority, see Jacques Derrida, Mal d’archive: une impression
freudienne (Paris: Édition Galilée, 1995). For an overview of the theoretical discussion, see
Wolfgang Ernst, Das Rumoren der Archive: Ordnung aus Unordnung (Berlin: Merve-Verlag,
2002).
© Maja Kominko, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.23

l From Dust to Digital
The Endangered Archives Programme (EAP), founded to digitise and

bring vulnerable documentary materials into the academic domain, belongs
to a long tradition of scholarly efforts to find and to publish new pieces of
historical evidence. Although not many collections digitised over the first
decade of the Endangered Archives Programme can be defined as “archives”
in the strictest sense, as we hope this volume shows, this does not make them
any less valuable as witnesses of the past.
***
In 1707 Elias Assemani, a Maronite priest in the service of Pope Clement XI,
was hauled out of the Nile after the boat he travelled on had sunk. The monk
who accompanied him drowned, but the 34 Oriental manuscripts they carried
were rescued, cleaned, dried and shipped to the Vatican.4 Assemani acquired
these codices in the Deir al-Surian Monastery, which historically was home
to Syrian monks in the Egyptian desert. Reports of large collections held by
this and several other monasteries in Egypt had reached Europe almost a
century earlier, at a time of growing interest in manuscript-based scholarship,
development of scientific approaches to codicology and palaeography, and
growing interest in the Near East.5 The latter, largely driven by the region’s
association with the Bible, was further fuelled by publication of the great
Polyglot Bibles, which combined not only Hebrew, Greek and Latin, but
also Aramaic, Syriac, Arabic and Ethiopic texts.6 The importance of teaching,
studying and translating Near Eastern languages increased, and with it the
activity of Oriental printing presses in Europe. But accessible textual sources
were limited, and it was not long before European scholars and institutions
started looking for manuscripts. 7
4 Bibliotheca orientalis Clementino-Vaticana, in qua manuscriptos codices syriacos, arabicos,

persicos, turcicos, hebraicos, samaritanos, armenicos, æthiopicos, Graecos, ægyptiacos, ibericos &
malabaricos, ed. by Giuseppe Simone Assemani (Roma: Typis Sacrae Congregationis de
Propaganda Fide, 1719), Praefatio, sec. 7; Brian E. Colless, “The Place of Syrian Christian
Mysticism in Religious History”, Journal of Religious History, 5 (June 1968), 1-15 (p. 1).
5 Peter N. Miller, “Peiresc, the Levant and the Mediterranean”, in The Republic of Letters and
the Levant, ed. by Alastair Hamilton, Murits H. Van Den Boogert and Bart Westerweel
(Leiden: Brill, 2005), pp. 103-22.
6 Peter N. Miller, “The “Antiquarianization” of Biblical Scholarship and the London
Polyglot Bible (1653-57)”, Journal of the History of Ideas, 62 (July 2001), 463-82; The Republic
of Letters.
7 Columba Stewart, “Yours, Mine, or Theirs? Historical Observations on the Use,
Collection and Sharing of Manuscripts in Western Europe and the Christian Orient”, in
Malphono Rabo w-Malphone, ed. by George A. Kiraz (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2008),
pp. 603-30.
Crumb trails, threads and traces li
It seems that it was with Elias Assemani that the “harvesting of manuscripts”
from the Orient began in earnest. His first visit to Deir al-Surian Monastery
was followed by other expeditions to the Middle East on behalf of the Vatican
Library and in the company of his cousin Joseph Assemani, its future librarian.
The manuscripts they collected constitute much of the Vatican Library’s
Oriental holdings.8 Other libraries followed suit. For example, the British
Library preserves over 500 codices bought from the Deir al-Surian Monastery
between 1839 and 1851.9 The acquisition of Oriental manuscripts continued
throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and with the codices
put “to noble use”, scholarship on Eastern Christianity, Near Eastern languages
and history grew exponentially.10 The only occasional wrinkle in this process
was caused by the Eastern monks’ reluctance to part with their books. This
frustrated westerners, who believed the monks had neither intellectual interest
in the manuscripts, nor the skills to read and understand them.11 Rarely did
they pause to reflect on why the monks were so unwilling to sell, and if they
considered it at all, they wrote it off as result of anathemas placed in the codices
against those who remove them from monasteries.12 The buyers grew cunning:
on one occasion Joseph Assemani was careful to procure codices from the
superior without the knowledge of the monks, who would have opposed the
transaction.13 The murkiest and most famous of all such stories is that of the
acquisition of the Codex Sinaiticus, a Greek Bible including the earliest copy
of the Greek New Testament, obtained by Constantine Tischendorf in two
instalments: 43 loose leaves, which he brought to Leipzig in 1844, were allegedly
8 Ricerche sulla formazione del più antico fondo dei manoscritti orientali della Biblioteca Vaticana.
Studi e Testi 92, ed. by Giorgio Levi della Vida (Città del Vaticano: Biblioteca Apostolica
Vaticana, 1939).
9 William Wright, Catalogue of Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum, 3 (London: [n.
pub.], 1872), pp. viii-xxxii. For more general information on western collecting, see
Stewart, “Yours, Mine, or Theirs?”, pp. 622-27.
10 Wright, Catalogue, 4-5; See also Sebastian Brock, “The Development of Syriac Studies”,
in The Edward Hincks Bicentenary Lectures, ed. by Kevin J. Cathcart (Dublin: University
College Dublin, 1994), pp. 94-113.
11 William George Browne, Travels in Africa, Egypt, and Syria, from 1792 to 1798 (London:
T. Cadell Junior & W. Davies, Strand and T. N. Longman & O. Rees, Paternoster-Row,
1799), pp. 42-43; Charles-Nicolas-Sigisbert Sonnini de Manoncourt, Voyage dans la haute
et basse Égypte, fait par ordre de l’ancien gouvernement, et contenant des observations de tous
genres, 2 vols (Paris: F. Buisson, 1799), pp. 185-216.
12 Wright, Catalogue, 4.
13 Ibid., 7.
lii From Dust to Digital
recovered from a basket of old parchments, ready to be burned; the bound

codex, secured in 1859, was borrowed to present to the Emperor of Russia.14
The European buyers’ accounts take pains to illustrate that the manuscripts
were neither read nor kept in good condition: they were usually piled up in
cellars, covered in dust and neglected.15 Westerners shrank in horror at traces
of wax on ancient lectionaries used for liturgy.16 To take them at their word,
had they not rescued the manuscripts, the codices would have perished.
Some accounts seem exaggerated; others may be true, but the miserable
state of the codices mostly seems due to the fact that the monks had no
resources to care for them, rather than to any lack of appreciation. Would
the manuscripts have been lost, were they not brought to the west? Possibly
some would. Even today the fate of several collections in Syria and Iraq is
not known. Yet the travellers’ damning statements are belied by the fact that
many of the monasteries retain large libraries of manuscripts to this day.17
On the other hand, it is clear that most of the westerners hunted for
manuscripts out of genuine scholarly interest. This was not new. In fact, this
was how many collections were created in the first place. The Deir al-Surian
Monastery’s library was greatly expanded through acquisition of manuscripts
by the abbot Moses of Nisibis in the tenth century. Notes in several codices
document the circumstances of their purchase. In 925, a new vizier sent to
Egypt from Caliph al-Muqtadir demanded that monks, who had previously
been exempt, should pay the poll-tax. The monasteries of the Egyptian
desert elected the abbot of Deir al-Surian as their representative to travel to
Baghdad and appeal to the Caliph. It took Moses five years, from 927 to 932,
to battle the Abbasid bureaucracy and have the vizier’s ruling overturned.
It was during these years that he acquired over 250 books, some several
centuries old, and brought them back to Deir al-Surian. The arid climate of the
Egyptian desert preserved the manuscripts, which are among the oldest Syriac
14 The latter codex was purchased in 1933 by the British Library. David Parker, Codex
Sinaiticus: The Story of the World’s Oldest Bible (London: British Library, 2010), pp. 127-48.
15 Curzon, in Visit to the Monasteries, pp. 23-24, claims to hear a report of monks in Bulgaria
who, during a service, stood on old manuscripts in order to protect their bare feet from
the cold marble floor of the church. For a description of the lamentable state of the
collections in Egypt, see Curzon, Visit to the Monasteries, pp. 82, 85-87 and 381-82.
16 Ibid., pp. 78-82.
17 Bigoul al-Suriany, “The Manuscript Collection of Deir al-Surian: Its Survival into the
Third Millennium”, in Coptic Studies on the Threshold of a New Millennium: Proceedings of
the Seventh International Congress of Coptic Studies. Leiden, 27 August – 2 September 2000, ed.
by Mat Immerzeel and Jacques van der Vliet (Leuven, Paris and Dudley, MA: Uitgeverij
Peeters en Departement Oosterse Studies, 2004), pp. 281-94.
Crumb trails, threads and traces liii
codices in the world. It is from this collection alone that we have complete
writings of the most famous early Syriac authors, Ephrem and Aphrahat.18
Moses had acquired the books for the spiritual and intellectual benefit of his
community; intellectual benefit to the scholarly community also drove the
western buyers. Yet there are differences: Moses was part of the historical
community that produced the codices; the westerners were outsiders who
believed themselves better equipped to read and interpret Eastern Christian
books than Eastern Christians themselves.19 Unsurprisingly, the monks
learned to firmly close the doors of their libraries to visitors from the west.
Only gradually did scholars travelling to the Middle East to read, rather than
buy, regain Christian communities’ trust and obtained access to important
and in many cases unknown collections. New catalogues were published
both by Levantine and western authors, bringing previously unknown
works to scholarly attention.20 Even so, access remained a problem for very
practical reasons. A new effort then began: first to microfilm (from the 1950s),
then to digitise (from the 1990s) the manuscripts and make them available
without removing them from the libraries where they reside.21 Importantly,
photographic documentation ensures that a record of all codices will be
preserved, a significant safety measure considering the difficult history of
the Middle East. It also permits us to digitally unite dispersed collections and
divided manuscripts such as the Codex Sinaiticus.22 Needless to say, the Eastern
Christian manuscripts on which I have focused here, are only one example,
a case study, in what has been a much wider phenomenon encompassing
and affecting, to various degrees, almost all regions of the globe. Arguably
18 Sebastian Brock, “Without Mushê of Nisibis, Where Would We Be? Some Reflections
on the Transmission of Syriac Literature”, Journal of Eastern Christian Studies, 56 (2004),
15-24.
19 For a wide-ranging discussion of the Occidental bias of history-writing, see Jack Goody,
Theft of History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006).
20 Arthur Vööbus, “In Pursuit of Syriac Manuscripts”, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 37/2
(April 1978), 187-93. For examples of catalogues, see Agnes Smith Lewis, Catalogue of the
Syriac Mss. in the Convent of S. Catharine on Mount Sinai. Studia Sinaitica 1 (London: C.J.
Clay and Sons, 1894); Addai Scher, Catalogue des manuscrits syriaques et arabes, conservés
dans la Bibliothèque épiscopale de Séert (Kurdistan) avec notes bibliographiques (Mosul:
Imprimerie des pères dominicains, 1905).
21 Kenneth Clark, “Microfilming Manuscripts in Jerusalem and at Mount Sinai”, Bulletin
of the American Schools of Oriental Research, 123 (1951), 17-24. For large-scale digitisation
projects in Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Egypt and Ethiopia, see http://www.hmml.org/
our-collections.html
22 http://www.codexsinaiticus.org/en/project/ For the hopes of a digital reunion of the Deir
al-Surian collection expressed by Father Bigoul, the monastery’s librarian, see British
Library Annual Report 2001-2002 (London: The Stationary Office, 2002), p. 13.
liv From Dust to Digital
the materials brought to western libraries were accessed and studied by

more readers then it would otherwise have been possible. Yet this has come
at a price. Leaving aside the difficult issue of how the loss of manuscripts
affected their custodians, the removal from their original context led to the
loss of entire levels of historical information on collection formation, on
traditional use of manuscripts, on their original cultural significance. It is
important to note that, at the time when western scholars began their hunt
for manuscripts, Europe had long ceased to use manuscripts for intellectual
and religious purposes. The availability of printing brought the demise of
manuscript literary culture and transformed manuscripts into artefacts, to be
protected and studied.23 The western scholars did not recognise that the link
between communities and manuscripts as objects of cultural and religious
significance still existed elsewhere.
The rise of manuscript-based scholarship and efforts to gather codices
into secure libraries were part of a broader interest in primary documents,
increasingly gathered into archives and approached scientifically.24 These
efforts culminated with Leopold Ranke, who in his Geschichten der romanischen
und germanischen Völker von 1494 bis 1534 [Histories of the Latin and German Peoples
from 1494 to 1534] declared his intention to write “how it actually happened”
(wie es eigentlich gewesen), challenging the status of previous historians as
primary sources of history. 25 In 1831 he published a small volume, Ueber die
Verschwörung gegen Venedig, im Jahre 1618 [On the Conspiracy against Venice
in the Year 1618], on a subject which, as he explained to his publisher, was
“distant, complicated ... [and] not a very important matter”.26 The publication
was nevertheless significant: in it, Ranke delivered and described in detail
his model of how the historian should work, placing archives at the centre
of historical inquiry.27 Ranke firmly believed that the science of history lay
in a strict presentation of the facts; that history could be uncovered from
historical documents; and that the task of the historian was not to interpret
23 Stewart, “Yours, Mine, or Theirs?”, pp. 606-13.

24 Anthony Pagden, “Eighteenth-Century Anthropology and the ‘History of Mankind’”, in
History and the Disciplines: The Reclassification of Knowledge in Early Modern Europe, ed. by
Donald R. Kelley (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1997), pp. 223-33.
25 Leonard Krieger, Ranke: The Meaning of History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1977), pp. 4-5. His historical intention was not new. Indeed, Herodotus was already
seeking to narrate the real story (ton eonta logon) (History 1.95.1, 1.116.5).
26 Leopold von Ranke, Neue Briefe, ed. by B. Hoeft (Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe 1949),
p. 158
27 Kasper Risbjerg Eskildsen, “Leopold Ranke’s Archival Turn: Location and Evidence in
Modern Historiography”, Modern Intellectual History, 5/3 (2008), 425-53.
Crumb trails, threads and traces lv
documents, but to give them their own voice. For a century after Ranke,
history and archival research became inseparable. 28
Yet, as historians started knocking on archives’ doors in unprecedented
numbers, even the most willing archivists began to realise that access was
not without problems. Léon de Laborde may have seen it as a noble ideal,
but in practice the negotiation between opening the Imperial Archives and
retaining the degree of control required by the French government proved
complex and quickly resulted in a scandal. L’affaire d’Haussonville started with a
project initiated by Louis Napoleon to publish the official edition of his uncle’s
complete Correspondance, which Louis hoped would strengthen his own claim
to power. In 1867, a prominent historian and admirer of Napoleon Bonaparte,
Joseph d’Haussonville, demonstrated that some letters were conspicuously
missing from the official “complete” correspondence. He also exposed the
politically-biased practices of the Imperial Archives, where his requests for
documents that could undermine the state-approved version were increasingly
denied or returned with the annotation “not found”. As d’Haussonville
noted, this begged the question of the government’s role in protecting and
shaping the nation’s memory.29 The problem of access was not limited to
France. Ranke travelled for months to visit archives and invested significant
effort in cultivating archivists and powerful patrons who could ease his way
into repositories.30 Other historians in turn had to trust Ranke’s personal
credibility, since they could not easily verify whether he accurately quoted,
ignored or misrepresented important evidence. It soon became apparent that
greater transparency was necessary, and as a result German historians began
publishing large editions of archival sources, beginning with the Monumenta
Germaniae Historica.31
The archives on which Ranke and other nineteenth-century historians
depended were mostly the official state or church repositories, believed to
28 Anthony Grafton, The Footnote. A Curious History (London: Faber and Faber, 1997),
pp. 38-50. In France, Charles-Victor Langlois and Charles Seignobos opened their
1898 methodological textbook, intended for students in historical seminars, with this
declaration: “History is done with documents [...] Lacking documents, the history
of immense periods of the past of humankind is forever unknowable. For nothing
can replace documents: no documents, no history”. C. V. Langlois and C. Seignobos,
Introduction aux études historiques (Paris: Hachette, 1898), pp. 1-2.
29 Milligan, “Problem of Publicité”, pp. 25-28; Stefan Berger, “The Role of the National
Archives in Constructing National Master Narratives in Europe”, Archival Science, 13
(2013), 1-22 (pp. 7-8).
30 Risbjerg Eskildsen, Leopold Ranke, pp. 442-46.
31 Grafton, The Footnote, pp. 36-72; David Knowles, Great Historical Enterprises: Problems in
Monastic History (London and New York: Thomas Nelson, 1963).
lvi From Dust to Digital
hold “authentic” records, privileged in the determination of historical truth.32

Since the introduction of diplomatics in the seventeenth century, historians
and archivists had tools to verify the authenticity of records, but the objectivity
of the documents themselves, however authentic, was a different issue.33 To
assume that one could objectively reconstruct history from archives, it was
necessary to assume that history was objectively recorded in the first place,
and that the content of archives was objectively preserved without any bias
in what was kept and what was discarded.34 Gradually, it became clear that
such assumptions could not be sustained. Moreover, historians such as Lucien
Febvre, Marc Bloch and other Annalistes moved away from histoire événementielle
towards broader analyses of the role of social phenomena in historical events,
for which the records kept in official archives provided only limited testimony.35
Some limitations were practical: official state archives only recorded events in
which the state bureaucracy was directly or indirectly involved. This meant
that entire areas of history were omitted, rendering not only whole swaths
of population, but also many events, invisible: for example, any rebellion
that escaped repression usually escaped history as well.36 Increasingly other
types of records − parish registers, personal archives, oral histories − came to
play an important role, whilst archival documents were analysed not only
for what they recorded but how they recorded it and why.37 At the same time
microhistory and the history of everyday life became subjects of interest.38 As a
32 Michel Duchein, The History of European Archives, p. 16; Kasper Risbjerg Eskildsen,
“Inventing the Archive: Testimony and Virtue in Modern Historiography”, History of the
Human Sciences, 26/4 (2013), 8-26.
33 Jean Mabillon, De re diplomatica libri VI (Paris: Lutec, 1681).
34 Peter Novick, That Noble Dream: The “Objectivity Question” and the American Historical
Profession (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 21-46, 573-629.
35 For the new definition of historical method, see Marc Bloch, The Historian’s Craft (New
York: Knopf, 1953).
36 François Furet, “Quantitative Mmethods of History”, in Constructing the Past: Essays in
Historical Methodology, ed. by Jacques le Goff and Pierre Nora (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1985), pp. 12-27.
37 Michel Foucault, L’archéologie du savoir (Paris: Gallimard, 1969); Patrick Geary, Phantoms
of Remembrance: Memory and Oblivion at the End of the First Millennium (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1994); Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic
Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton, NJ and Oxford: Princeton University
Press, 2009); Nicholas B. Dirks, “Colonial Histories and Native Informants: Biography
of an Archive”, in Orientalism and the Postcolonial Predicament: Perspectives on South Asia,
ed. by Carol A. Breckenridge and Peter van der Veer (Philadelphia, PA: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 1993).
38 Carlo Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century Miller
(Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980).
Crumb trails, threads and traces lvii
result, a question arose: what are we to preserve, what historical records from
the past are we to secure for the future? Perversely, this question may be best
answered by looking at what has been discarded in the past.
When he first came to the site of Oxyrhynchus, in Upper Egypt, Bernard
Grenfell was not impressed by its ancient rubbish mounds. Yet, within a
decade of excavation, he and Arthur Hunt had uncovered 500,000 fragments
of papyri, which included plays by Menander, fragments of Euclid’s Elements,
parts of several lost plays by Sophocles, and Christian Apocrypha.39 There
were also tax returns, petitions, lease and sale contracts, wills, letters and
shopping lists: from Alexander the Great to the Arab conquest, the entire life
of a market town was captured in its discarded papers.40 The papyri were
sent to Oxford, and in 1898 Hunt and Grenfell published the first volume of
a long series on the finds (79 volumes published as of 2014). The documents
became an essential reference work for the study of Egypt between the fourth
century BC and the seventh century AD, and, more broadly, one of the
richest sources for the study of ancient culture, literature and economics. It
is something of a paradox that we lament the loss of the library of Alexandria,
a library we know so little about, when one of the archives that allowed us
to learn the most about antiquity came from an ancient dump.41
With the arrival of digitisation we can preserve more than ever before.
Though I would not advocate preserving everything, the case of Oxyrhynchus
shows that, in the case of historical records, we should not make the decision
on preservation based solely on the status of the collection. Forgotten, neglected,
discarded collections may contain a wealth of historical information. The issue of
the bulk of materials is no longer a problem. The new archival “post-custodial”
model recognises that stewardship and curation are possible without physical
custody of the records. 42
This model has another important implication. In recent decades, increasing
attention has been given to the relationship between archives and the
communities, particularly in cases of contested ownership or loss of custody.43
39 William A. Johnson, Bookrolls and Scribes in Oxyrhynchus (Toronto: University of Toronto

Press, 2004).
40 For more information, see http://www.papyrology.ox.ac.uk/POxy/oxyrhynchus/
parsons3.html
41 Roger Bagnall, “Alexandria: Library of Dreams”, Proceedings of the American Philosophical
Society, 146/4 (2002), 348-62.
42 F. Gerald Ham, “Archival Strategies for the Post-Custodial Era”, Society of American
Archivists, 44/3 (1981), 207-16.
43 E. Ketelaar, “Sharing: Collected Memories in Communities of Records”, Archives and
lviii From Dust to Digital
A poignant and illustrative example is the case of the archives of the Virgin
Islands. In 1917 the Islands, then a colony of Denmark, were sold to the United
States. The historical records dating back to the seventeenth century were
transferred to the Danish National Archives and the National Archives of
the United States, becoming inaccessible to the islanders themselves. These
records were created primarily by and for the bureaucracy of the Danish West
Indies, and they were in Danish. The subjects discussed in the documents
were the enslaved and free Africans who made up the bulk of the Danish
West Indian population, who were for the most part non-literate, and who
spoke English or Dutch Creole.44 Despite the islands’ strong oral tradition,
lack of access to the archives meant that the descendants of that population
struggled to write their own history.45 Their collective memory came to be
challenged: for example, in 1998 a Danish-American historian questioned
the factual underpinnings of the African folk hero Buddhoe, a resistance
fighter celebrated by the islanders as the crucial figure in the successful and
bloodless Emancipation Rebellion of 1848. The scholar pointed out that no
one by this name existed in census records or slave lists of the time, thus
undermining the symbol of islanders’ identity on the basis of documents
that islanders could not access.46 This situation is not unique. The records
of Native Americans, created by federal officials in the Bureau of Indian
Affairs, were stored for decades in federal repositories, leading to a situation
in which “to be an Indian is having non-Indians control the documents from
which other non-Indians write their vision of your history”.47 Until recently,
the aboriginal records in Australia were located thousands of kilometres
away from the communities they concerned: they were the property of the
Crown, and no allowances were made for Aboriginal communities to co-own
and co-manage them.48 Many first and post-colonial nations still have to
negotiate access to archives controlled by others.49 It is ironic that the same
Manuscripts, 33 (2005), 44-61.

44 Janette Bastian, Owning Memory: How a Caribbean Community Lost its Archives and Found
Its Memory (London: Libraries Unlimited, 2003), pp. 19-34.
45 Kenneth E. Foote, “To Remember and Forget: Archives, Memory and Culture”, American
Archivist, 53 (Summer 1990), 378-92 (pp. 380-82).
46 Bastian, Owning Memory, pp. 45-48.
47 William T. Hagan, “Archival Captive – The American Indian”, American Archivist, 41
(April 1978), 135-42.
48 George Morgan, “Decolonising the Archives: Who Owns the Documents”, Comma, 1
(2003), 147-51.
49 Frederick Cooper, “Memories of Colonization: Commemoration, Preservation and
Erasure in an African Archive”, in Archives, Documentation, and Institutions of Social
Memory, pp. 257-66.
Crumb trails, threads and traces lix
states that control these archives have in the past made significant efforts to
access, copy and acquire complete records of their own history as written
not only by themselves, but also by others. For example, in 1841, the state
of New York dispatched John Romeyn Brodhead on a journey to Europe to
copy or acquire documents in England, Netherlands and France relating to
the history of the United States.50 Access to records is crucial not only for
knowledge of the past and the self-definition of communities, but also for
shaping communities’ futures; it is vital for justice, reconciliation, language
revitalisation or any other form of mending broken links with the past.51
Starting with a declaration of the French National Assembly in 1794, the access
to archival records has been increasingly recognised as a civic right.52 This
right should not be limited to citizens of western countries, and digitisation
gives an unparalleled opportunity to allow fully democratic open access.
***
This volume, celebrating the tenth anniversary of the EAP, is designed to
showcase the historical significance and research potential of the collections
digitised through the programme. We invited 19 articles from the 244 projects
that the EAP has supported since its inception.53 To ensure the volume
illustrates the wide range of research that the digitised material makes
possible, we asked the authors to focus on the collections they digitised,
but otherwise gave them complete freedom as to the choice of subject and
methodology. The majority of the primary materials discussed in the articles
are freely available on the EAP website. The chapters are organised in sections
according to the type of media they discuss (inscriptions, manuscripts, archival
records, newspapers, photographs, sound archives). Although the categories
are porous and divisions are not clear-cut, this provides an illustration of
the diverse methodologies used to approach similar types of documentary
material in different settings and different regions of the globe.
The first article challenges the traditional notion of the archive. Stefano
Biagetti, Ali Ait Kaci and Savino di Lernia discuss the Tifinagh inscriptions
in the Tadrart Acacus Mountains in Libya. Their contribution places the
50 Blouin and Rosenberg, Processing the Past, pp. 8-9.

51 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of
Nationalism (London: Verso, 1995).
52 Blouin and Rosenberg, Processing the Past, p. 21; Michel Duchein, “The History of
European Archives and the Development of the Archival Profession in Europe”,
American Archivist, 55 (Winter 1993), pp. 14-25.
53 See http://eap.bl.uk/database/collections.a4d
lx From Dust to Digital
inscriptions, dated between the early first millennium A.D. and the twentieth
century, in the context of the landscape and archaeological finds in the area.
The authors show that though the events the inscriptions record (such as
the fact that a certain Busni, son of Nebuk went to a place called Tswnt) may
not be of monumental historical significance, analysis of the types of names
recorded, of the vocabulary used, and of the location of inscriptions allows
to reconstruct the history of the region from its “written landscape”.
The following section, on manuscripts, brings together contributions on
collections of codices in India, Ethiopia, Kenya and Mali. The articles consider
not only the content of the manuscripts, but also their material aspects. What
unites them is an emphasis on the original context in which the manuscripts
are preserved. The issues of ownership, collection formation and even the
symbolic meaning of the codices for their owners are considered as part of
the manuscripts’ important historical testimony.
The section begins with a contribution by Stephen Morey, who provides
an account of locating, digitising, transcribing and translating Tai Ahom
manuscripts from Assam State, Northeast India. The surviving manuscripts
mostly date from the eighteenth century, but the texts they preserve are often
much older. The Tai Ahom language is no longer spoken and – due to script
modernisation – read by very few people, making the recording, transcribing
and translating of manuscripts an urgent matter. The author describes
the difficulties of this process, the complexities and particularities of the
language. He also provides an account of the digitisation and contextualises
this scholarly endeavour by discussing the current owners’ relationships
with manuscripts which, although no longer understood, are still treasured
as objects of symbolic and religious significance.
In the next article, on Lepcha manuscripts, Heleen Plaisier likewise
explores codices in private possession, written in a language that, although
still spoken, is increasingly under threat of falling silent. The manuscript
collections she discusses belong to the Lepcha people, an ethnic minority of
circa 30,000 inhabiting a region divided between India, Nepal and Bhutan.
Lepcha literary tradition dates back to the eighteenth century when their
alphabet was devised to disseminate translations of Tibetan Buddhist texts.
Lepcha literature has not been studied, but the author shows that preserved
codices capture the way in which the Tibetan influence was combined with
native Lepcha stories and customs to create a distinct new tradition.
Jacek Tomaszewski and Michael Gervers focus on physical aspects of the
books preserved in the collection of the May Wäyni Monastery in Ethiopia.
Crumb trails, threads and traces lxi
In the context of discussing how manuscripts are stored, they explore the
physical construction of manuscripts, the methods of their production and
historical repairs undertaken for their preservation. Analysis of the parchment,
writing layers, book-block and binding structure provides new insights into
the history of book production in Ethiopia. The authors describe procedures
devised to overcome the practical problems of digitising fragile materials in
a challenging environment without further compromising their condition.
They offer several recommendations for manuscript conservation strategy
in Ethiopia.
The next article also concerns a distinct collection of books in East Africa,
but concentrates on their content. Anne Bang examines a collection belonging
to the Riyadha Mosque in Lamu, Kenya, investigating its intellectual connection
with the Sufi and legal traditions of Ḥaḍramawt, Yemen, in the period circa
1880-1940. The author also analyses the means by which these books came
to be part of the collection: imports, gifts, waqf (pious endowment), local
copying and local textual production. In doing so, she traces the various
ways in which Islamic textual knowledge came to be incorporated into the
local canon in Lamu.
The process of creating a library is also explored by Sophie Sarin, both
in the historical context of manuscript production in Djenné, Mali, and in
the contemporary context of the foundation of a Djenné Manuscript Library,
designed to safeguard manuscripts which belong to local families. The library
allows the families – traditional keepers of the old, unique and scarcely-known
collections – to deposit codices in a secure environment without forfeiting
ownership. The author describes the process of negotiation with the families
and the archivists’ efforts to overcome their reservations and address their
concerns. She also outlines the potential of the study of these manuscripts
for future investigation into the intellectual history of the region.
There follows a section, on archival records, which brings together articles
exploring institutional, community and church archives as well as libraries
in Europe, South America, Africa and the Middle East. The authors employ
diverse methodologies to approach microhistories and even personal stories
captured in the records, demonstrating their significance in the broader historical
context, as well as their importance for the local communities.
Elena Marushiakova and Veselin Popov investigate documents and
publications recording early Roma movements towards self-determination
in modern Bulgaria. Centring on the dramatic life story of one man, the
activist Shakir Pashov, the article follows the efforts of the Roma in Bulgaria
lxii From Dust to Digital
to gain a measure of political autonomy within the national framework.

The article demonstrates the importance of primary sources and outlines
the consequences of detachment from archival records, leading in extreme
cases to the scholarly acceptance of events which never actually occurred.
The authors engage carefully with documents, noting layers of writing
and re-writing resulting from the often dramatic events and reversals that
surrounded the creation of Roma records in Bulgaria.
Church records are the subject of analysis for Gabriela Ramos, who explores
ecclesiastical documents in Peru revealing the agents and circumstances
behind the demarcation of parochial jurisdictions. The author employs a
case of contested boundaries, recorded only partially but in fascinating
detail, as a window onto a changing demography and economy, and as a
microcosm of the church’s efforts to control the population of the region.
This microhistory allows us to understand the broader processes shaping
the institutions of colonial Peru.
Jane Landers, Pablo Gómez, José Polo Acuña and Courtney Campbell
also employ ecclesiastical and notarial records to investigate the history of
slavery in rural communities on the Pacific and Caribbean coasts of Colombia
and Northeastern Brazil. Thousands of African slaves were transported to
the region to exploit the gold and silver mines. Indigenous groups joined
African slaves in cattle ranching and agricultural labour. The records used
by the authors allow a reconstruction of the social and commercial history of
these under-studied regions and of African, Afro-descendant and indigenous
communities long ignored in Colombian and Brazilian history. The authors
touch upon the importance of digitised records for recognising and addressing
the land claims of indigenous groups in both countries.
Bashir Salau investigates the ways in which the early colonial administrators
in Northern Nigeria experimented with the use of convict labour for the
completion of public projects. His contribution introduces and analyses a
variety of colonial records related to prisons, placing them in the broader
context of the history of the prison system in Nigeria.
Moving from archives of colonial power to archives of communities under
colonial rule in Senegal, Fallou Ngom explores the tradition of Ajami, the
writing of other languages using modified Arabic script, a practice deeply
embedded in the histories and cultures of Islamised Africa. The article focuses
on the Ajami tradition of the Muridiyya Sufi order founded by Shaykh
Ahmadou Bamba (1853-1927). Discussing both archival and modern material,
Crumb trails, threads and traces lxiii
the author analyses the religious and secular functions of Ajami and its role
in the emergence of a distinct African Muslim identity.
A contribution from Qasem Abu Harb discusses the digitisation of historical
periodicals and manuscripts at the al-Aqṣá Mosque Library in East Jerusalem
and the al-Jazzār Mosque Library in Acre, placing these two libraries and the
materials they contain in the historical and cultural context of Palestine. The
article makes a strong case for digitisation and online access as important
means both for preserving the manuscripts and for making them accessible
not only to scholars abroad, but also to scholars and students in Palestine.
The section on photographic archives brings together contributions on
archives in Argentina, India, Russia and Cameroon. The focus of the articles
ranges in subject and approach, but what unites them is an emphasis on
the importance of context for the historical interpretation of these images.
Irina Podgorny’s article skilfully attempts to resurrect the “murdered
evidence”, a series of cartes-de-visite whose original context and provenance
were lost when they reached the museum of La Plata, Argentina and moved
through its various departments. In a careful investigation, the author
gathers traces of evidence, following Ariadne’s thread through a labyrinth
of stories, retracing the origins of the photographs back to the milieu of an
Italian charlatan, Commendatore Guido Bennati, who travelled through
South America in the late 1860s and 1870s.
Kyle Jackson uses missionary photographs from the Mizoram Hills in
Northeast India to move away from categories of cultural domination, often
employed in discussions of colonial and missionary history, towards exploring
the many layers of cross-cultural experience in everyday lives. Placing the
photographs in the context of Mizo folklore and contemporary written sources,
Jackson offers a sensory immersion into the world that these photographs
depict. We are invited not only to see through the eyes of the Mizo and the
missionaries, but also to smell through their noses, hear through their ears
and even attempt to reach harhna, the Mizo sense of spiritual awakening.
David Anderson, Craig Campbell and Mikhail Batashev discuss a collection
of photographs by Ivan Baluev, a gifted photographer whose life is known
only from documents in his personal file in the Krasnoyarsk Regional Museum.
These photographs were taken in 1938 and 1939 during a nine-month “Northern
Expedition” to some of the most remote areas of the central Siberian district.
Commissioned by the Museum, they capture the sovietisation of the region
and its indigenous people, the transition from the old ways of life to the
new era. Yet, placed in the context of Baluev’s expedition journal, they also
lxiv From Dust to Digital
reveal elements of his personal and often ironic commentary on the reality he
photographed. Previously, the photographs were most often discussed only as
distinct images, not as a collection and not in the context of other documents
from the expedition. Consequently, the personal input of the photographer
was invisible until now.
Also concentrating on the work of one photographer, David Zeitlyn
writes about the private archive of a photographic studio in the West Region
of Cameroon. The author places his discussion in the context of the history
and current status of photography in West Africa, outlining how mundane
bureaucratic factors – such as changes in the design of identity cards – affect
the way in which photographers operate. The article explores the social
significance of photography and the role of photographs as both personal
and communal records. It also outlines different processes – both intentional
and accidental – that underlay the creation of the archive and that must be
considered in its interpretation.
The last section discusses sound recordings from Guinea, Iran and Russia.
The authors devote much attention to the historical context of creation of
these materials, but equally to the diverse potential they have for the present:
facilitating political reconciliation, inspiring cultural revival, assisting
language revitalisation.
Graeme Counsel discusses the collection of vinyl discs from Syliphone,
the national record label of Guinea. The collection, which captures the music
of the era of President Sékou Touré (1958-1984) was preserved in the sound
archives of the offices of Radio Télévision Guinée in Conakry. It has been
neglected despite the high quality of the recordings, and despite their potential
to illuminate the first decades following Guinea’s independence. The article
investigates the stories behind the musical recordings and reconstructs the
political context that shaped them. It also reports on archiving and digitisation
in an unpredictable and politically charged environment.
Jane Lewisohn provides an overview of the cultural importance of the Golha
(“Flowers of Persian Song and Music”) radio programmes in contemporary
Iran. Her article places these programmes in the broader cultural context of
twentieth-century Iran and explores the impact they had on the perception
of Persian music and poetry. The author describes the process of collecting
and digitising the recordings, as well as the impact their digitisation and
online publication had on the study of Persian and world music, and on
Iranians both in the country and abroad.
Crumb trails, threads and traces lxv
The final article, by Tjeerd de Graaf and Victor Denisov, discusses the
cataloguing and digitisation of linguistic and ethnographic sound recordings
made during the first half of the twentieth century, and stored in institutional
and private collections in Russia. The authors make a strong case for the
importance of these collections in preserving and revitalising endangered
languages in the Russian Federation. They demonstrate that, although many
languages are nearly lost, the historic recordings contain enduring testimony
to their earlier life, testimony crucial for communities trying to recover what
has been nearly forgotten.
The articles use variety of approaches to interpret traces of history captured
in digitised records. From their analysis of the form and content of these
records new narratives emerge, often in unexpectedly vivid and even personal
details. Most of the sources discussed here were not previously subjects of
scholarly attention. We hope that the articles in this volume will open new
debates and encourage scholars to explore the archives preserved by the
EAP with the spirit of discovery (and without the dust) that accompanied
young Jules Michelet on his first visit to the archives, those “catacombs of
manuscripts”: “I was not slow to discern in the midst of the apparent silence
of these galleries, a movement and murmur which were not those of death.
These papers and parchments, so long deserted, desired no better than to be
restored to the light of day (…) And as I breathed on their dust, I saw them
[the dead] rise up. They raised from the sepulchre, one the hand, the other the
head, as in the Last Judgement of Michelangelo or in the Dance of Death”.54
54 Jules Michelet, The History of France, trans. by G. H. Smith (New York: D. Appleton & Co.,
1848), p. 48.
lxvi From Dust to Digital
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1. The “written landscape” of the
central Sahara: recording and
digitising the Tifinagh inscriptions
in the Tadrart Acacus Mountains
Stefano Biagetti, Ali Ait Kaci and Savino di Lernia
The archaeology of the Sahara in both historical and modern times remains,
for the most part, inadequately investigated and poorly understood. However,
the Fazzan in southwest Libya stands as a remarkable exception. In the last
two decades, the University of Leicester1 and the Sapienza University of Rome2
have undertaken various research programmes that focus on the impressive
evidence left by the Garamantian kingdom (c. 1000 BC-AD 700). These studies
have provided groundbreaking data on the history of the Fazzan (Fig. 1.1), an
area which was the centre of a veritable network of trans-Saharan connections
that developed in Garamantian times and continued to modern times, later
giving birth to the Tuareg societies.3
1 The Archaeology of Fazzan. Volume 1: Synthesis, ed. by David J. Mattingly (London: Society
for Libyan Studies, 2003); The Archaeology of Fazzan. Volume 2: Site Gazetteer, Pottery and
Other Survey Finds, ed. by David J. Mattingly (London: Society for Libyan Studies, 2007);
and The Archaeology of Fazzan. Volume 3: Excavations of C. M. Daniels (London: Society for
Libyan Studies, 2010).
2 Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (Sha ‘Abiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times,
ed. by Mario Liverani (Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio, 2005); and Life and Death of a
Rural Village in Garamantian Times: The Archaeological Investigation in the Oasis of Fewet
(Libyan Sahara), ed. by Lucia Mori (Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio, 2013).
3 David Edwards, “Archaeology in the Southern Fazzan and Prospects for Future
Research”, Libyan Studies, 32 (2001), 49-66; Mario Liverani, “Imperialismo, colonizzazione
e progresso tecnico: il caso del Sahara libico in età romana”, Studi Storici, 4 (2006), 1003-
56; and Andrew Wilson, “Saharan Trade in the Roman Period: Short-, Medium- and
Long-Distance Trade Networks”, Azania, 47/4 (2012), 409-49.
© S. Biagetti, A. Ait Kaci and S. di Lernia, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.01

2 From Dust to Digital
Fig. 1.1 Map of the Tadrart Acacus and the central Saharan massifs.
The “written landscape” of the central Sahara 3
Farmers, caravaneers and herders in this area all participated and intercepted
in a variety of socio-economical exchanges that developed from the first
millennium BC to the present day. In spite of its arid climate, the central
Sahara has, in the last 3,000 years, seen some extremely successful human
adaptations to limited resources. An intangible heritage of indigenous
knowledge allowed complex societies to flourish in the largest desert in
the world. That heritage has left a legacy of tangible evidence in the form
of remains, such as forts, monuments, burials, and settlements, all of which
have been the focus of recent archaeological studies. This paper deals with
the less investigated element of the archaeological and historical landscape
of the region: the Tifinagh inscriptions carved and painted on the boulders,
caves and rock shelters of the Tadrart Acacus valleys.
The Tadrart Acacus in historical and modern times:

the significance of the archaeological research
The Tadrart Acacus massif is of particular importance to the understanding
of both local and trans-Saharan cultural trajectories over the past three
millennia. The Acacus is set at the very centre of the Sahara, close to the oasis
of Ghat and that of Al Awaynat, and about 300 kilometres from the heartland
of the Garamantian kingdom, the relatively lush area of the Wadi el Ajal.
It hosts a unique set of rock art sites that were added to UNESCO’s World
Heritage list in 1985. These sites are often located in physical connection
with archaeological deposits in caves and rock shelters. The massif is seen
as a key area for studies of Africa’s past: several archaeological deposits
have been tested in the past fifty years,4 and some were subjected to
excavations.5 Its primary role in African prehistoric archaeology has been
4 Mauro Cremaschi and Savino di Lernia, “The Geoarchaeological Survey in the Central
Tadrart Acacus and Surroundings (Libyan Sahara): Environment and Cultures”, in Wadi
Teshuinat: Palaeoenvironment and Prehistory in South-Western Fezzan (Libyan Sahara), ed. by
Mauro Cremaschi and Savino di Lernia (Milan: CNR, 1998), pp. 243-325.
5 Fabrizio Mori, Tadrart Acacus: Arte rupestre e culture del Sahara preistorico (Turin: Einaudi,
1965); Barbara E. Barich, “La serie stratigrafica dell’Uadi Ti-N-Torha (Acacus, Libia)”,
Origini, 8 (1974), 7-157; Barbara E. Barich, “The Uan Muhuggiag Rock Shelter”, in
Archaeology and Environment in the Libyan Sahara: The Excavations in the Tadrart Acacus,
1978-1983, ed. by Barbara E. Barich (Oxford: BAR International Series, 1987), pp. 123-219;
Uan Afuda Cave: Hunter-Gatherer Societies of the Central Sahara, ed. by Savino di Lernia
(Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio, 1999); Uan Tabu in the Settlement History of the Libyan
Sahara, ed. by Elena A. A. Garcea (Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio, 2001); and Stefano
Biagetti and Savino di Lernia, “Holocene Deposits of Saharan Rock Shelters: The Case
of Takarkori and Other Sites from the Tadrart Acacus Mountains (Southwest Libya)”,
African Archaeological Review, 30/3 (2013), 305-38.
further confirmed by some recent discoveries of the Middle Neolithic age

(c. sixth to fifth millennium before present) — such as the earliest dairying
in Africa and an outstanding set of cattle burials — that received attention
in the popular media as well as in academic circles.6
In the last fifteen years, the work of the Libyan-Italian Archaeological
Mission of the local Department of Archaeoloy (DoA) and Sapienza University
of Rome focused on the village and adjacent necropolis of Fewet,7 the fortified
settlement of Aghram Nadharif (close to the Ghat area),8 some funerary
monuments in the Wadi Tanezzuft,9 and on two forts located east of the
Acacus massif.10 The still-inhabited mountain range of the Tadrart Acacus,
cut by dozens of dry river valleys, has been largely neglected. However, in
recent years, the development of ethnoarchaeological studies11 has further
enlarged the aims of the DoA-Sapienza research to include modern and
contemporary civilisations. In fact, the study of human-environment
interaction in such a hyper arid region has become one of the hottest topics
in the debate around sustainable development in dry lands. The impact
of social science in the design and development of possible solutions to
mitigate the effects of drought in dry regions has been low and scarcely
significant so far. Major involvement from social scientists in the issue of
sustainable development has been again recently voiced at the international
6 Julie Dunne et al., “First Dairying in ‘Green’ Saharan Africa in the 5th Millennium
BC”, Nature, 486 (2012), 390-94; and Mary Ann Tafuri et al., “Inside the ‘African Cattle
Complex’: Animal Burials in the Holocene Central Sahara”, PLoS ONE, 8 (2013), http://
www.plosone.org/article/info%3Adoi%2F10.1371%2Fjournal.pone.0056879.
7 Roberto Castelli, Maria Carmela Gatto, Mauro Cremaschi, Mario Liverani and Lucia
Mori, “A Preliminary Report of Excavations in Fewet, Libyan Sahara”, Journal of African
Archaeology, 3 (2005), 69-102; and Mori, Life and Death of a Rural Village.
8 Liverani, Aghram Nadharif.
9 Sand, Stones, and Bones: The Archaeology of Death in the Wadi Tanezzuft Valley (5000-2000
BP), ed. by Savino di Lernia and Giorgio Manzi (Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio, 2002).
10 Stefano Biagetti and Savino di Lernia, “Combining Intensive Field Survey and Digital
Technologies: New Data on the Garamantian Castles of Wadi Awiss, Acacus Mountains,
Libyan Sahara”, Journal of African Archaeology, 6/1 (2008), 57-85.
11 Stefano Biagetti, Ethnoarchaeology of the Kel Tadrart Tuareg: Pastoralism and Resilience in
Central Sahara (New York: Springer, 2014); Stefano Biagetti and Jasper Morgan Chalcraft,
“Imagining Aridity: Human-Environment Interactions in the Acacus Mountains,
South-West Libya”, in Imagining Landscapes: Past, Present, and Future, ed. by Monica
Janowski and Tim Ingold (Farnham: Asghate, 2012), pp. 77-95; Savino di Lernia, Isabella
Massamba N’siala and Andrea Zerboni, “‘Saharan Waterscapes’: Traditional Knowledge
and Historical Depth of Water Management in the Akakus Mountains (SW Libya)”,
in Changing Deserts: Integrating People and Their Environment, ed. by Lisa Mol and Troy
Sternberg (Cambridge: White Horse Press, 2012), pp. 101-28; and Andrea Zerboni, Isabella
Massamba N’siala, Stefano Biagetti and Savino di Lernia, “Burning without Slashing:
Cultural and Environmental Implications of a Traditional Charcoal Making Technology in
the Central Sahara”, Journal of Arid Environments, 98 (2013), 126-31.
level.12 There is a strong need to develop integrated approaches focused on

the study of the indigenous knowledge in arid lands, by the adoption of
archaeological, geoarchaeological, historical and anthropological tools to
unveil the practices of variable resource management by desert communities.
The long tradition of scientific research in the area makes the Tadrart
Acacus an ideal place to adopt a multi-pronged approach focusing on
landscape, where data from historical and modern times are integrated
with the study of the ethnographic present. 13 These new studies have
deeply affected our perception of the whole Acacus landscape, paving the
way to more nuanced reasoning about the human-environment interaction
in both the modern and historical context.
Materials and methods

Thanks to a major grant from the British Library’s Endangered Archives
Programme, the project EAP265: The Tifinagh rock inscriptions in the Tadrart
Acacus Mountains (southwest Libya): An Unknown Endangered Heritage14
represented the first research focused on this peculiar type of archaeological and
epigraphic evidence. The use of Tifinagh characters in North Africa may date
back to the first half of the first millennium BC.15 These types of signs, still used
by contemporary Tuareg, were adopted to write down different Libyco-Berber
languages or idioms (Table 1.1). This explains why current Kel Tadrart Tuareg
are often unable to read the ancient Tifinagh texts of the Tadrart Acacus. The
origin of this African alphabet is debated and discussed on the basis of the studies
carried out on the Mediterranean and the Atlantic façades of North Africa.16
12 Managing the Risks of Extreme Events and Disasters to Advance Climate Change Adaptation: Special
Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, ed. by Christopher Field, Vicente
Barros, Thomas F. Stocker and Qin Dahe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012).
13 Biagetti, Ethnoarchaeology of the Kel Tadrart Tuareg; Biagetti and Chalcraft, “Imagining
Aridity”; di Lernia, N’siala and Zerboni, “Saharan Waterscapes”; and Zerboni, N’siala,
Biagetti and di Lernia, “Burning Without Slashing”.
14 http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP265
15 Mohamed Aghali-Zakara and Jeannine Drouin, “Écritures libyco-berbères: vingt-cinq
siècles d’histoire”, in L’aventure des écritures: naissances, ed. by Anne Zali and Annie
Berthier (Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, 1997), pp. 99-111; Lionel Galand,
“L’écriture libyco-berbère”, Sahara, 10 (1999), 143-45.
16 Gabriel Camps, “Recherches sur les plus anciennes inscriptions libyques de l’Afrique
du nord et du Sahara”, Bulletin archéologique du C.T.H.S., n.s. (1974-1975), 10-11 (1978),
145-66; José Farrujia de la Rosa, Werner Pichler and Alain Rodrigue, “The Colonization
of the Canary Islands and the Libyco-Berber and Latino-Canarian Scrips”, Sahara, 20
(2009), 83-100; Lionel Galand, “Du berbère au libyque: une remontée difficile”, Lalies, 16
(1996), 77-98; Lionel Galand, “Un vieux débat: l’origine de l’écriture libyco-berbère”, La
lettre de répertoire des inscriprions libyco-berbères, 7 (2001), 1-3; and Werner Pichler, Origin
and Development of the Libyco-Berber Script (Cologne: Köppe, 2007).
Table 1.1 Tifinagh alphabet, from Aghali-Zakara (1993 and 2002): Hoggar (Algeria);
Aïr (Niger); Ghat (Libya); Azawagh (Niger-Mali); and Adghagh (Mali).
Letter Name Hoggar Ghat Aïr Azawagh Adghagh

A taɣerit . . . . .
B ieb Β Β Β Β Β
D ied b, χ b E E χ
Ḍ ieḍ E E E
F ief М М М М ╥
G ieg â Ŋ Ŋ Ŋ Ŋ
G y
ieg y Ŋ ╥ ▐
Γ ieɣ Μ Μ ▐ Μ Μ
H ieh Ζ Ζ Ζ Ζ Ζ
J iej ╟ Η Η ΐ
K iek K K K K K
X iex L L L L
L iel Y Y Y Y Y
Ḷ ieḷ Į
M iem _ _ _ _ _
N ien W W W W W
Ny ieny Γ
Q ieq E E Μ L E
R ier Ά Ά Ά Ά Ά
S ies ⅞ ⅞ ⅞ ⅞ ⅞
Š ieš Α Α Α Α 8
Ṣ ieṣ
T iet Έ Έ Έ Έ Έ
Ṭ ieṭ ê ” ”
W, [u] iew B B B B B
Y, [i] iey k p k k p
Z iez ΐ Η ΐ ¤, ΐ ╟
Ẓ ieẓ Η ΐ ¤, ΐ Η
The Saharan texts, however, have been rarely subjected to systematic

recording and publication. 17 In the absence of any bilingual texts, the
translation of Saharan inscriptions is extremely difficult. However, some
attempts have been made, and they seem to confirm that Tifinagh was
mainly used to write short personal messages, epitaphs, and “tags”.18 A
further hurdle to translation is that these texts normally feature metaphors
— alterations of signs and/or words — so that they become hardly readable.
It has been suggested that some inscriptions have a “ludique” character
whose aim was precisely to prevent the comprehension by anyone other
than the author and the recipient(s) of the message.19 Tifinagh texts present
interpretive problems similar to those raised by Saharan rock art, such as
its interpretation, meaning, and chronology. Therefore, the EAP265 project
aimed to: 1) create a database of all the available data regarding Tifinagh
inscriptions noticed in the past surveys; 2) digitally record known and
unknown Tifinagh sites on the ground; and 3) make available an open
access dataset.
During the fieldwork we carried out in October to December 2009 we
identified 124 sites (Table 1.2; Fig. 1.2). Our landscape approach included
two main field methods. The first method was geomorphologically inspired,
and featured visits to the most relevant water points and other locations of
interest such as passageways and what we later discovered to be crop fields.
In the Tadrart Acacus, water occurs in the form of gueltas (rock pools where
rainfall gathers) and wells. Gueltas have been subjected to investigation by
the “Saharan Waterscapes” project, as have etaghas (empty spaces where
crops can be raised after floods).20 The aqbas (passageways) that connect the
western oases (Tahala, Ghat, Barkat and Fewet) to the valleys of the Tadrart
Acacus, have been surveyed, since these are still to this day a key element
of the Acacus landscape. Those mountain trails feature variable gradients
and climb for up to 300 metres. In addition, some of the Kel Tadrart elders
showed us a variety of previously unknown sites.
17 Mohamed Aghali-Zakara and Jeannine Drouin, Inscriptions rupestres libyco-berbères: Sahel

nigero-malien (Geneva: Droz, 2007); Camps; and Pichler.
18 Ali Ait Kaci, “Recherche sur l’ancêtre des alphabets libyco-berbères”, Libyan Studies, 38
(2007), 13-37.
19 Aghali-Zakara and Drouin, Inscriptions rupestres libyco-berbères.
20 Di Lernia, N’siala and Zerboni, “Saharan Waterscapes”.
Table 1.2 List of the sites recorded (adapted from Biagetti et al., 2012). Site types are open-air (O-A), rock shelters (RS), and caves (C).
Technique includes pecking (P), carving (C), pecking and further carving (PC), and painting (Pa). Chronology features pre-Islamic (P-I; early first
millennium BC - 700 CE); Islamic (I; CE 700 - 1500 CE) and Modern (M; CE 1500 - present).
ID N E area context site type support N of surfaces significance technique chronology
09/01 25°34’18.91’’ 10°26’03.16’’ W. Irlarlaren wadi O-A slab 1 average P n.a.

09/02 25°34’17.76’’ 10°25’38.93’’ W. Irlarlaren aqba O-A slab 1 average P n.a.

09/03 25°34’17.98’’ 10°25’38.75’’ W. Irlarlaren aqba O-A slab 1 average P n.a.
09/04 25°43’28.78’’ 10°24’27.79’’ W. Irlarlaren wadi O-A boulder 1 high P n.a.
09/05 25°43’26.80’’ 10°24’26.64’’ W. Tanezfert wadi O-A boulder 1 average P n.a.
09/06 25°43’26.87’’ 10°24’26.42’’ W. Tanezfert wadi O-A slab 1 average P n.a.
09/07 25°43’26.90’’ 10°24’26.24’’ W. Tanezfert wadi O-A slab 1 average P n.a.
09/08 25°43’35.33’’ 10°24’27.43’’ W. Tanezfert wadi O-A boulder 1 very high P,C,PC I
09/09 25°43’32.70’’ 10°24’28.62’’ W. Tanezfert wadi O-A boulder 1 very high P,PC n.a.
09/10 25°27’27.00’’ 10°26’22.88’’ W. Toula aqba O-A slab 1 high C n.a.
09/11 25°27’19.40’’ 10°26’15.32’’ W. Toula aqba O-A slab 1 high P n.a.
09/12 25°27’19.94’’ 10°26’12.70’’ W. Toula aqba O-A slab 1 high P I–M
09/13 25°14’24.32’’ 10°23’35.16’’ W. Toula aqba O-A boulder 1 high P,C I
09/14 25°08’40.85’’ 10°23’46.54’’ W. Ghallasc’m wadi O-A slab 1 average C I
09/15 25°08’30.37’’ 10°24’03.35’’ W. Ghallasc’m wadi O-A boulder 1 average P M
09/16 25°08’27.89’’ 10°24’05.15’’ W. Ghallasc’m wadi O-A slab 1 average P n.a.
09/17 25°08’14.86’’ 10°24’09.22’’ W. Ghallasc’m wadi O-A boulder 1 average PC n.a.
09/18 25°06’54.79’’ 10°24’24.15’’ W. Ghallasc’m wadi O-A boulder 1 very high P,PC n.a.
09/19 25°06’55.01’’ 10°24’24.51’’ W. Ghallasc’m wadi O-A boulder 1 high P,C,PC n.a.
09/20 25°06’54.32’’ 10°24’24.44’’ W. Ghallasc’m wadi O-A boulder 1 very high P,PC n.a.
09/21 25°06’53.82’’ 10°24’24.73’’ W. Ghallasc’m wadi O-A boulder 1 very high P n.a.
09/22 24°55’43.18’’ 10°10’49.54’’ W. Tanezzuft wadi O-A bedrock 1 very high P,PC n.a.
09/23 25°03’05.44’’ 10°23’31.05’’ W. Ghallasc’m wadi O-A boulder 1 average P n.a.
09/24 25°17’49.85’’ 10°28’15.60’’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 high P n.a.
09/25 25°17’49.63’’ 10°28’16.78’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 high P n.a.
09/28 25°17’50.68’’ 10°28’22.47’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 high P,PC I
09/29 25°17’50.39’’ 10°28’23.55’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A boulder 1 average P I
09/30 25°17’49.81’’ 10°28’24.88’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A boulder 1 average P n.a.
09/31 25°17’50.53’’ 10°28’33.31’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A boulder 1 average P n.a.
09/32 25°17’50.20’’ 10°28’33.56’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 high P I
09/33 25°17’49.99’’ 10°28’35.40’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 high P I
09/35 25°17’50.28’’ 10°28’35.68’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 average P n.a.
09/36 25°17’48.44’’ 10°28’38.20’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A boulder 1 high P n.a.
09/37 25°17’49.06’’ 10°28’40.08’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 average P I

09/42 25°17’48.95’’ 10°28’41.88’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A boulder 1 high P n.a.
09/43 25°17’48.73’’ 10°28’44.11’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 high P,C n.a.
09/45 25°17’48.16’’ 10°28’44.58’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 high P,PC Pre-I
09/46 25°17’47.47’’ 10°28’44.65’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 very high P,C n.a.
09/49 25°17’46.50’’ 10°28’48.29’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 average C n.a.
09/50 25°17’46.43’’ 10°28’48.68’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A bedrock 1 average P n.a.
09/52 25°17’46.28’’ 10°28’48.76’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 average P,PC n.a.
09/53 25°17’46.36’’ 10°28’48.86’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 high P,PC n.a.
09/54 25°17’46.50’’ 10°28’49.44’’ W. Tasba aqba O-A slab 1 average P M
09/56 25°27’51.01’’ 10°27’28.01’’ Awiss mts wadi O-A wall 1 very high P,C,PC n.a.
09/57 24°31’16.10’’ 10°32’40.06’’ Waltannuet guelta O-A wall 2 high P,PC n.a.
09/58 24°31’56.10’’ 10°30’50.18’’ W. Takarkori wadi O-A wall 1 high P I
09/59 24°31’55.60’’ 10°30’50.58’’ W. Takarkori wadi O-A wall 1 high P,PC I
09/60 24°35’36.89’’ 10°37’42.89’’ W. Bubu wadi RS wall 3 high P,C,PC n.a.
09/61A 24°36’23.08’’ 10°38’53.70’’ W. Bubu wadi O-A boulder 2 very high P M
09/61B 24°36’23.08’’ 10°38’53.70’’ W. Bubu wadi O-A slab 1 average P n.a.
09/61C 24°36’23.08’’ 10°38’53.70’’ W. Bubu wadi O-A slab 1 high P n.a.
09/62 24°41’43.40’’ 10°37’53.90’’ W. Anshalt wadi O-A boulder 1 high P n.a.
09/63 24°58’34.07’’ 10°28’56.06’’ Ti-n-Lalan etaghas RS wall 6 very high P,PC n.a.
09/64 24°58’50.27’’ 10°29’1.932’’ Ti-n-Lalan etaghas O-A complex 3 very high P,C,PC n.a.
09/65 24°58’57.04’’ 10°28’34.24’’ Ti-n-Lalan etaghas O-A wall 1 very high P,PC I–M
09/66 24°58’34.40’’ 10°28’46.20’’ Ti-n-Lalan etaghas O-A wall 1 average P,PC n.a.
09/67 24°58’39.68’’ 10°28’44.04’’ Ti-n-Lalan etaghas O-A wall 1 average P M
09/68 24°58’51.82’’ 10°28’46.70’’ Ti-n-Lalan etaghas O-A wall 1 average P n.a.
09/69 24°58’56.60’’ 10°28’44.50’’ Ti-n-Lalan etaghas RS wall 1 average Pa n.a.
09/70 24°57’25.20’’ 10°30’56.23’’ Ti-n-Lalan etaghas O-A wall 1 average Pa I
09/71 24°53’47.76’’ 10°38’02.69’’ Ti-n-Lalan etaghas O-A wall 2 high C I
09/72 24°58’54.62’’ 10°28’59.19’’ Ti-n-Lalan etaghas O-A wall 3 very high P,C Pre-I - I – M
09/73 24°57’20.95’’ 10°32’30.01’’ Ti-n-Anneuin wadi C wall 6 very high P,Pa n.a.
09/74 24°34’45.98’’ 10°38’12.01’’ W. Bubu guelta O-A wall 2 very high P n.a.
09/75A 24°36’12.49’’ 10°38’48.76’’ Ti-n-Amateli guelta O-A wall 1 very high P,C n.a.
09/75B 24°36’12.06’’ 10°38’47.68’’ Ti-n-Amateli guelta O-A wall 2 very high P,C n.a.
09/76 24°44’36.02’’ 10°32’26.01’’ Intriki guelta O-A wall 8 high P,C I
09/77 24°53’41.03’’ 10°33’21.06’’ Tibestiwen guelta O-A wall 6 high P,C,PC I–M
09/78A 24°57’43.99’’ 10°34’44.33’’ Iknuen guelta O-A wall 3 very high P n.a.
09/78B 24°57’44.42’’ 10°34’42.06’’ Iknuen guelta O-A wall 1 very high P,C n.a.
09/79 25°00’56.95’’ 10°37’24.24’’ W. Raharmellen wadi RS wall 1 high C,Pa n.a.
09/80A 25°01’43.64’’ 10°35’54.31’’ W. Raharmellen wadi O-A wall 3 very high P,C n.a.
09/80B 25°01’43.57’’ 10°35’55.28’’ W. Raharmellen wadi O-A wall 3 high P,C,PC I
09/80C 25°01’42.78’’ 10°35’55.43’’ W. Raharmellen wadi O-A wall 1 high P,C n.a.
09/81 25°00’11.95’’ 10°37’21.47’’ W. Raharmellen wadi O-A slab 1 average P n.a.

09/82A 25°02’35.09’’ 10°34’50.01’’ Tejleteri guelta O-A complex 15 very high P,C,PC n.a.
09/82B 25°02’32.24’’ 10°34’55.23’’ Tejleteri guelta O-A wall 1 very high P,PC n.a.
09/82C 25°02’31.92’’ 10°34’55.63’’ Tejleteri guelta O-A wall 1 very high P n.a.
09/83 25°01’13.62’’ 10°37’17.58’’ W. Raharmellen wadi O-A wall 1 very high P n.a.
09/84 25°02’26.34’’ 10°36’07.49’’ W. Raharmellen guelta O-A wall 2 high P,C n.a.
09/85A 25°01’30.04’’ 10°35’58.27’’ W. Raharmellen wadi O-A wall 1 very high P,C n.a.
09/85B 25°01’30.00’’ 10°35’57.66’’ W. Raharmellen wadi RS wall 2 very high P,C n.a.
09/86 25°01’37.49’’ 10°33’50.76’’ W. Raharmellen wadi RS wall 1 very high P,C n.a.
09/87A 24°51’37.51’’ 10°32’25.36’’ W. Teshuinat wadi O-A slab 1 high P,PC n.a.
09/87B 24°51’37.48’’ 10°32’25.00’’ W. Teshuinat wadi O-A wall 1 high P n.a.
09/87C 24°51’38.20’’ 10°32’24.72’’ W. Teshuinat wadi O-A wall 2 high PC n.a.
09/87D 24°51’34.67’’ 10°32’26.88’’ W. Teshuinat wadi RS wall 1 high PC n.a.
09/88 24°59’50.82’’ 10°38’03.70’’ W. Raharmellen wadi RS wall 1 very high P n.a.
09/89A 25°01’12.43’’ 10°34’43.60’’ W. Raharmellen wadi O-A wall 2 very high P,PC n.a.
09/89B 25°01’11.93’’ 10°34’41.84’’ W. Raharmellen wadi O-A wall 1 very high PC n.a.
09/90 25°01’35.22’’ 10°31’11.17’’ W. Raharmellen wadi O-A wall 1 high P,PC I
09/91 25°14’17.81’’ 10°37’07.61’’ W. Gargor wadi O-A boulder 1 average P n.a.
09/92 25°14’21.01’’ 10°34’56.02’’ W. Gargor wadi O-A boulder 1 high P,PC n.a.
09/93 25°14’4.596’’ 10°33’50.32’’ W. Gargor wadi O-A wall 1 average P n.a.
09/94 25°13’45.98’’ 10°32’52.11’’ W. Gargor wadi O-A wall 1 average P n.a.
09/95 25°11’51.32’’ 10°30’31.03’’ W. Gargor wadi O-A wall 1 very high P n.a.
09/96 25°11’55.64’’ 10°40’24.16’’ Sughd well O-A wall 24 very high P,C,PC n.a.
09/97 25°12’00.86’’ 10°40’31.26’’ W. Taluaut wadi O-A boulder 1 high P n.a.
09/98 25°12’16.99’’ 10°40’43.42’’ W. Taluaut wadi O-A boulder 1 high P,PC n.a.
09/99 25°12’13.64’’ 10°40’45.73’’ W. Taluaut wadi O-A bedrock 1 average P n.a.
09/100 25°11’59.35’’ 10°40’30.47’’ W. Taluaut wadi O-A boulder 1 average P n.a.
09/103 25°11’57.80’’ 10°40’27.01’’ W. Taluaut wadi O-A slab 1 average P,PC n.a.
09/104 25°11’56.58’’ 10°40’26.08’’ W. Taluaut wadi O-A slab 1 high P n.a.
09/105 25°11’54.96’’ 10°40’20.10’’ W. Taluaut wadi O-A wall 1 high P n.a.
09/106 25°11’50.17’’ 10°40’17.14’’ W. Taluaut wadi O-A wall 4 very high P,PC n.a.
09/107 25°17’30.98’’ 10°30’40.90’’ Ti-n-Tararit guelta O-A wall 2 very high P,C,PC n.a.
09/108 25°16’42.82’’ 10°30’6.084’’ Awiss mts wadi RS wall 1 average P,PC n.a.
09/109 25°20’00.10’’ 10°31’19.06’’ Awiss mts wadi RS wall 2 high P,C,PC n.a.
09/110 25°20’01.03’’ 10°31’27.51’’ W. Ti-n-Torha wadi RS wall 3 high P,C,PC n.a.
09/111 25°16’28.31’’ 10°34’57.25’’ W. Tehet wadi RS wall 1 very high P,C,PC n.a.
Fig. 1.2 Map of the Tadrart Acacus with the sites recorded for the Endangered
Archives Programme sorted by significance. White circle: average; white dot: high;
grey dot: very high (adapted from Biagetti et al., 2012).
Tifinagh texts of the Tadrart Acacus are carved and painted onto isolated
boulders, rocky flanks, and rock shelter walls, and are often characterised
by uneven spatial patterns (Fig. 1.3). This raises the issue of how to define a
“site” and how to digitally record sets of lines and signs distributed on several
uneven stony surfaces. We designed a hierarchical system: a single Tifinagh
letter or complex text featuring a clearly recognisable spatial consistency
was defined as “site” and progressively labelled from 09/01 to 09/111.21 The
whole archive was ultimately given to the largest database of African rock
art, the African Rock Art Digital Archive, not only to preserve but also to
foster new studies on the recorded evidence.22
Fig. 1.3 An example of Tifinagh inscription, site 09/87B (EAP265/1/87B).

The sites and their setting in a historical perspective

All the Tifinagh sites found in the Tadrart Acacus are included in Table
1.1, with data for the identification of the sites, their coordinates and local
toponyms; the most relevant geomorphological data; and archaeological
21 Stefano Biagetti, Ali Ait Kaci, Lucia Mori and Savino di Lernia, “Writing the Desert.
The ‘Tifinagh’ Rock Inscriptions of the Tadrart Acacus (South-West Libya)”, Azania, 47/2
(2012), 153-74.
22 The African Rock Art Digital Archive is available at http://www.sarada.co.za
and epigraphic information on the type of site, technique, significance and,

when available, chronology. The significance of each site was established on
the basis of the size of the inscriptions, testifying to the presence of repeated
rock markings and/or complex texts. We deduced chronology from the study
of first names occurring in the Tifinagh texts.23
Line 3 Line 2 Line 1

` L ⌐ ▌ ` L ⌐ k Ζ ┤ ` ⅞ ↀ
13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
M X R N M X R Y H L M S B
BiSM(i) LlāHY RraXMāN RraXīM

In the name of God, the Clement, the Merciful
Fig. 1.4 The Basmala inscription from site 09/67.
Most of the Tifinagh sites include lists of anthroponyms that in some cases
are veritable genealogies going back several generations. More than 135
anthroponymic sequences have been identified so far, and site 09/92 is likely
to include the longest genealogy so far known in Libyco-Berber epigraphy.24
After the spread of Islam, the Tuareg and other Berber populations adopted
Arab names. This “neo-anthroponymy” includes names borrowed from
the most prominent personalities of Islam; the Tadrart Acacus, for example,
features the names Mohamed (37 cases), Ahmed (26), Moussa (17), Fatima
(16), and Ali (16). The Basmala (a phrase used by Muslims, often translated as
“in the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful”) occurs once (Fig.
1.4). Occasionally, love messages have been recorded as well. In four cases,
place names have been recognised: these are TDMKT (read Tadmekka, site
09/85A), likely referring to Es-Souk, an important centre located in Mali and
traditionally inhabited by Tuareg; MK(T) (read Mecca, site 09/92), the Islamic
Holy City; TŠWNT (read Teshuinat, the largest Acacus wadi, in 09/73, Fig.
1.5); and TGMYT (read Tagamayet “place where there is some couch grass”, in
Wadi Raharmellen, 09/88). Furthermore, the same graphist (i.e. author) named
Biya, can be recognised in various sites where he left his signature: the same
author has written text in at least four sites throughout the Tadrart Acacus,
including 09/63 located in the Ti-n-Lalan area, 09/90 in wadi Raharmellen (c.
23 Biagetti, Kaci, Mori and di Lernia, “Writing the Desert”.

24 Ibid.
7 km northeast from site 09/63), 09/37 in wadi Tasba (c. 35 km north from site
09/63), and 09/82A in Tejleteri (c. 13 km east-north-east from site 09/63).
Έ ▌ ┴ ⌡ Έ Μ J ▌ ▌ J ⌐ Ђ ▌ ‼ k ▌⌡ Ђ J ▌ ┴
21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
T N W Š T Γ K N N K R B N G Y NŠ B K N W
aWa NǝK BuŠNY aG NeBRuK iNnāN : ǝKkiΓ TŠWNT

this (is) me, Bušni, son of Nebruk saying: I went to TŠWNT
Fig. 1.5 Site 09/73 features the toponym of Teshuinat (TŠWNT).
The short discussion above shows the potential of this kind of study. Besides that,
it is the place of these inscriptions that holds relevance for the comprehension of
the whole landscape. It is often noted that Tifinagh texts are usually short and
there is no literature published in Tifinagh characters. Whilst one may accept this
reductionist view on Tifinagh on the whole, the case of the Tadrart Acacus allows
us to go beyond the intrinsic limits of these kinds of inscriptions, by adopting a
landscape approach. As Christopher Chippindale and George Nash argued in a
synthesis of different approaches to rock art, it is likely that the firmest attribute
of human-made signs on the stone is their place.25 The position in the space of
the Tifinagh signs thus represents a solid starting point. The 124 Tifinagh sites
recorded (Table 1.2) are found in a variety of landscape contexts, occurring
along aqbas (30.6%), wadis (51.6%), gueltas (10.5%), etaghas (6.5%), and the only
well (0.8%) (Table 1.3). Most of the Tifinagh evidence has been recorded in open
air sites (111, around 90%), and only a small percentage comes from caves and
rock shelters (Table 1.4). Nearly half of the Tifinagh inscriptions were carved
or painted on boulders and slabs, the rest occurring on the sandstone walls of
rocky cliffs (Table 1.5). Most of the evidence (79.9%) consists of single-surfaced
sites, whereas multi-surfaced sites occur less frequently (Table 1.6). Regarding
the significance, the three categories (average, high, very high) are evenly
25 Christopher Chippindale and George Nash, “Pictures in Place: Approaches to the

Figured Landscape of Rock Art”, in The Figured Landscapes of Rock-Art: Looking at Pictures
in Place, ed. by Christopher Chippindale and George Nash (Cambridge: Cambridge
distributed (Table 1.7). The four types of techniques were unevenly used, with
pecking largely occurring in the majority of cases (>60%) (Table 1.8). Occasionally
a mixed technique featuring first pecking and then a regularisation obtained by
carving was recorded. The case of painting is different: the type of surface was
not among the causes that drove that specific choice. It is worth stressing that
three out of four painted inscriptions occurred in cave (1) and rock shelters (2).
Unfortunately, the chronology of the inscriptions has been determined so far
only for 19.4% of the sites.
Table 1.3 Context of sites according to the most relevant

element of landscape for human occupations.
context N %
aqba 38 30.6
etaghas 8 6.5
guelta 13 10.5
wadi 64 51.6
well 1 0.8
total 124 100
Table 1.4 Type of sites.
type N %
open-air 111 89.5
rock shelter 12 9.7
cave 1 0.8
total 124 100
Table 1.5 Support of sites.
support N %
boulder 26 21.0
slab 42 33.9
bedrock 3 2.4
wall 51 41.1
complex 2 1.6
total 124 100
Table 1.6 Number of surfaces.
N of surfaces N %
1 99 79.8
2 11 8.9
3 7 5.6
4 1 0.8
6 3 2.4
8 1 0.8
15 1 0.8
24 1 0.8
total 124 100
Table 1.7 Significance of sites
significance N %
average 43 34.7
high 46 37.1
very high 35 28.2
total 124 100
Table 1.8 Techniques (*total here is not 124,

since various techniques may occur at a single site)
technique N %
pecked 113 60.8
carved 31 16.7
pecked+carved 38 20.4
painted 4 2.2
total 186* 100
As a whole, the Acacus repertoire looks rather modern. The Tadrart Acacus is
inhabited by a single lineage of Tuareg, the Kel Tadrart, whose existence has
been noted since the first colonial-period reports.26 There is no evidence that
26 Biagetti, Ethnoarchaeology of the Kel Tadrart Tuaregi; Ugo Gigliarelli, Il Fezzàn (Tripoli:
in the last century other groups regularly frequented the Acacus, although
there may have been occasional “incursions”. If this suggests that the Kel
Tadrart are the likely authors of the modern inscriptions, it does not tell us
who wrote the texts in the Islamic age. The low proportion of the sites for
which dating can be securely determined makes development of further
historical hypotheses difficult.
Fig. 1.6 Significance and context of Tifinagh sites.
Going back to our landscape approach, a considerable proportion of high

importance Tifinagh texts are located in sites that have a connection to water,
whether the gueltas, the etaghas, or the sole well (Fig. 1.6). The aqbas also have
a large number of sites, but these are generally less complex and their texts
shorter than those recorded around water. Even so, these texts can be used
to better understand the use of landscape by its inhabitants. For example, in
the Tadrart Acacus there are at least six main mountain trails that connect
the large wadis of the east to the oasis set along the wadi Tanezzuft to the
west of the Tadrart Acacus (see Fig. 1.2). The occurrence of Tifinagh is a clear
sign of the use of a determined route (Fig. 1.7), as in the case of wadi Tasba.
Governo della Tripolitania, Ufficio Studi, 1932); Mori, Tadrart Acacus; and Emilio Scarin,
“Nomadi e seminomadi del Fezzan”, in Il Sahara italiano: Fezzan e Oasi di Gat. Parte prima, ed.
by Reale Società Geografica Italiana (Rome: Società Italiana Arti Grafiche, 1937), pp. 518-90.
Fig. 1.7 3D view of the aqba of wadi Tasba on the western escarpment of the Tadrart Acacus
(map from Google Earth).
In spite of their relatively low number, the sites connected with water are far
more complex in the Tadrart Acacus. Research undertaken by Savino di Lernia
and his colleagues highlighted the role of the gueltas — the traditional water
reservoirs that still play a key role in shaping the Kel Tadrart — in the inhabitants’
successful adaptation to the rugged environment of the Acacus massif.27
Fig. 1.8 Site 09/74, close to the guelta of wadi Bubu (EAP265/1/74).
It has been demonstrated that the Kel Tadrart settlements are located close
to gueltas;28 however, not all the “main gueltas”,29 i.e. the gueltas recognised as
very important for water supply by the current Kel Tadrart, feature Tifinagh
inscriptions. As a matter of fact, only half of the gueltas recorded for the EAP
project corresponded to the “main gueltas” as identified by the current Kel
Tadrart Tuareg (Fig. 1.8). On the other hand, other gueltas with Tifinagh were not
included among the main gueltas. Similarly, among the four etaghas recognised
by di Lernia et al. as locales for temporary cultivation in the case of exceptional
floods,30 only one — Ti-n-Lalan (Fig. 1.9) — bears a significant number of Tifinagh
inscriptions at the edges of the crop field. The case of the etaghas looks quite
similar to that of the gueltas. It is intriguing to note that dates of inscriptions at

28 Ibid., pp. 113-15; Biagetti, Ethnoarchaeology of the Kel Tadrart Tuareg; and Biagetti and
Chalcraft, “Imagining Aridity”.
30 Ibid.
one site can range from pre-Islamic, through Islamic to modern times (Table 1.2).
This raises the issue of the enduring importance of this locale from historical,
and possibly late prehistoric, to the present day.31 The discovery of the remains
of a settlement inhabited in 2005 testifies to the current use of this area by the
Kel Tadrart Tuareg.32
the dots indicate the Tifinagh sites, and the triangle refers to the Kel Tadrart settlement
Fig. 1.9 Etaghas Ti-n-Lalan: the white line borders the etaghas,
(map from Google Earth, adapted from di Lernia et al., 2012).
31 Ibid.
32 Ibid., and Biagetti, Ethnoarchaeology of the Kel Tadrart Tuareg, ch. 5.
Recent research shows that the late Holocene rock art follows a clear pattern
of spatial distribution in the Tadrart Acacus.33 The later phase that includes
the so-called “Camel style” can be considered as roughly contemporary to the
earliest Tifinagh inscriptions in the Tadrart Acacus. Dating rock art, like dating
Tifinagh, poses many challenges. However, scholars agree that the Camel phase
began before the end of the Garamantian age (AD 700) and further developed
until modern times.34 In some areas of the Acacus, concentrations of Camel
style subjects have been identified35 and these overlap with several Tifinagh
sites, with the exception of those set on the aqbas along the western side of
the mountain. According to di Lernia and Gallinaro, 83.5% of Camel phase
rock art is to be found within caves and/or rock shelters, whilst the Tifinagh
inscriptions mainly appear on open air sites (89.5%).36 An anthropogenic
deposit from a rock shelter along wadi Teshuinat (central Acacus) allowed to
obtain the C14 date (1260±60 uncal. BP, i.e. some 1,000 years ago) placing it in
the Islamic period.37 It is the only securely dated material in the Acacus valleys
but, given the occurrence of Camel phase rock art, it seems likely that the top
archaeological layers in Tifinagh inscription sites would yield a similar date.
Changing landscape: the role of the Tifinagh

Tadrart Acacus is often thought of as being poorly frequented in historical and
modern times, but in fact resilient human groups have developed a variety
of adaptive strategies to flourish in its hyper-arid conditions. The Tifinagh
evidence adds previously unknown data to our understanding of the cultural
landscape of the massif over the past two millennia. In spite of the issues of
both dating and translation, the Tifinagh inscriptions allow us to distinguish
between different forms of frequentation in the Tadrart Acacus, at least in
historical and modern times. Humans have used rock art to mark their presence
in this area at least since early Holocene times. In spite of the socio-cultural
context that gave birth to rock markings, the subjects depicted or inscribed
33 Savino di Lernia and Marina Gallinaro, “Working in a UNESCO WH Site: Problems and
Practices on the Rock Art of the Tadrart Acacus (SW Libya, central Sahara)”, Journal of
African Archaeology, 9 (2011), 159-75; and Marina Gallinaro, “Saharan Rock Art: Local
Dynamics and Wider Perspectives”, Arts, 2 (2013), 350-82.
34 Tertia Barnett and David J. Mattingly, “The Engraved Heritage: Rock-Art and
Inscriptions”, in The Archaeology of Fazzan. Volume 1: Synthesis, ed. by David J. Mattingly
(London: Society for Libyan Studies, 2003), pp. 279-326; and di Lernia and Gallinaro,
“Working in a UNESCO WH Site”.
35 Di Lernia and Gallinaro, “Working in a UNESCO WH Site”, Fig. 6, p. 170.
36 Ibid., Table 2, p. 167.
37 Cremaschi and di Lernia, “The Geoarchaeological Survey in the Central Tadrart Acacus
and Surroundings”.
in the Tadrart Acacus articulate and give formal visibility to the relationship
between humans and the landscape. The fact that some aqbas were marked
by Tifinagh inscriptions alone, with no rock art, suggests that the texts were
marking a passage, the movement of people through the rugged mountain
trails. These people were likely to be connected with the small-scale trade
traditionally linking the Kel Tadrart to the oases on the Tanezzuft. It is no
surprise, then, that the most relevant aqbas are those on the northern sector of
the Tadrart Acacus, intercepting and overlapping with longer regional east-west
routes. These trade routes were in use from Garamantian times onwards.38
As well as being markers of human movement, the Tifinagh inscriptions of
the Tadrart Acacus are also signs of permanence, as indicated by their occurrence
along some of the largest and most relevant wadis, such as Raharmellen and
Teshuinat. These are the places where better pastures are to be found,39 and
they continue to be the sites of current Kel Tadrart occupation. The discovery
that cultivation was practiced in the etaghas has opened a window on what was
until recently thought to be an exclusively pastoral landscape. Overriding the
traditional dialectic between the desert and the sown, between nomads and
farmers, the etaghas of the Acacus offer promising avenues of interpretation of
the cultural trajectories in arid lands.40 Not dissimilarly, the use of the gueltas
is highlighted by the presence of Tifinagh. From an ethnoarchaeological
perspective, it is highly significant to unveil the relationships between current
inhabitants of the Acacus and the major features of the landscape. This is
relevant to our view of a previously undifferentiated landscape, punctuated
by dozens of gueltas, and cut by a number of aqbas. The study of the Tifinagh
evidence is thus as significant as that of rock art and other archaeological and
historical data. The Tifinagh inscriptions emerge as one of the most tangible
remains of the heritage of intangible knowledge that has allowed humans
to inhabit the harsh land of the Tadrart Acacus in recent and modern times.
The current situation in the Sahara is likely to pose new threat to the
remains of the past (see Fig. 1.10) in the desert. Acts of vandalism occurred in
2009 and others have been recently reported.41 Nevertheless, this broad set of
traditional technologies deserves to be understood and preserved, and further
taken into account by stakeholders charged with the design of development
plans in arid lands. Human groups living in extreme environments have
38 Liverani, “Imperialismo, colonizzazione e progresso tecnico”; and Wilson.

39 Biagetti, Ethnoarchaeology of the Kel Tadrart Tuareg, ch. 4.
40 Di Lernia, N’siala and Zerboni, “Saharan Waterscapes”, pp. 117-19.
41 Savino di Lernia, Marina Gallinaro and Andrea Zerboni, “Unesco World Heritage Site
Vandalized: Report on Damages to Acacus Rock Art Paintings (SW Libya)”, Sahara, 21
(2010), 59-76, Fig. 10. We were told of further acts of vandalism by Ali Khalfalla, DoA
representative in Ghat-Acacus area.
developed effective strategies to survive and minimise the risks that arise from
drought and continual fluctuation of natural resources. Far from representing
the shadow of past civilisations, the contemporary inhabitants of Sahara are
the evidence of continued successful adaptation over the last 3,000 years. In
this spirit, a new season of investigation in the now barely accessible central
Sahara would be most welcome, at least for focusing on the materials so far
collected and integrated with remote sensing techniques.42
Fig. 1.10 Site 09/73, Ti-n-Anneuin, vandalised in 2009 (EAP265/1/73).

42 The research for this article was funded by a Major Project Grant from the Endangered
Archives Programme of the British Library (Savino di Lernia as Principal Investigator),
and included in the activities of the Italian-Libyan Archaeological Mission in the Acacus
and Messak Sapienza University of Rome and the Libyan Department of Archaeology
(Tripoli and Sebha), directed by S. di Lernia and funded by Grandi Scavi di Ateneo
(Sapienza), and the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs (DGPCC/DGPS) entrusted to S.
di Lernia. We thank Lucia Mori, who took part in the research project. We wish to thank
Giuma Anag and Salah Agahb, former chairmen of the DoA, for their support of the
project, and Saad Abdul Aziz for his help and advice. We are very grateful to Mohammed
Hammadani for his contribution in the field. We are indebted to Cathy Collins and
Lynda Barraclough from the EAP for their support and co-operation. We express our
gratitude to Maja Kominko, who has enthusiastically followed all the editing, showing
strong support and patience. Ultimately, we thank the anonymous reviewers for their
thoughtful and useful comments.
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2. Metadata and endangered archives:
lessons from the Ahom
Manuscripts Project
Stephen Morey
Since 2011, the project EAP373: Documenting, conserving and archiving the Tai
Ahom manuscripts of Assam has been, with the help of the British Library’s
Endangered Archives Programme, digitising and documenting the written
legacy of the Tai Ahom.1 It has done this in three ways: by photographing
1 Since 2007, this work on Ahom was funded first by the DoBeS Documentation of
Endangered Languages project, financed by the Volkswagen Stiftung, based at the Max
Planck Institute in Nijmegen, and later by the Australian Research Council under the
Future Fellowship Scheme. The project EAP373: Documenting, conserving and archiving
the Tai Ahom manuscripts of Assam (http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.
a4d?projID=EAP373), which is on-going, has been funded by the Endangered Archives
Programme, whose support for my work is much appreciated. I am very grateful to
members of the research team, particularly Ajahn Chaichuen Khamdaengyodtai whose
work on Ahom manuscripts has provided so much enlightenment. The main task of
photography and metadata collection has been undertaken by Poppy Gogoi and Medini
Madhab Mohan, whose expertise in locating and identifying manuscripts has been
invaluable. In the early stages of this project Zeenat Tabassum, Karabi Mazumder, Iftiqar
Rahman, Jürgen Schöpf and Palash Nath all gave great assistance. The leading Ahom
pandits, Tileshwar Mohan and Junaram Sangbun Phukon, in particular have given
enormous help over the years. The support of the Centre for Research in Computational
Linguistics at the University of Maryland, and its director Doug Cooper has been very
beneficial for a long time. I am very grateful also to the editors of this volume, particularly
Maja Kominko and the anonymous reviewers for many helpful comments, and to Bianca
Gualandi for her work on images. Finally, I want to thank all the manuscript owners, the
Institute of Tai Studies and Research, and its director Girin Phukan; Bhim Kanta Baruah,
David Holm, B. J. Terwiel, Wilaiwan Khanittanan, Ranoo Wichasin, Thananan Trongdi,
Anthony Jukes, Pittayawat Pittayporn and Atul Borgohain, the last being my mentor and
supporter in Ahom studies for many years.
© Stephen Morey, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.02

and cataloguing Ahom manuscripts, and archiving the resulting digital

materials at the British Library; by archiving digital photographs with our
partners at the Institute for Tai Studies and Research (Moran, India), Gauhati
University (Guwahati, India) and Dibrugarh University (Dibrugarh, India);
and by making images and metadata universally available online through
the Center for Research in Computational Linguistics, where they will be
integrated with existing search tools developed under the Ahom Lexicography
project2 and the Tai and Tibeto-Burman languages of Assam website.3
Between October 2011 and the middle of 2014, the project photographed
411 manuscripts owned by around fifty different persons — a total of nearly
15,000 images. All materials will be available online through the EAP website
in combination with basic metadata. Around twenty different manuscripts
have been transcribed, of which around ten have been translated in full or
in part.4
The methodology of the project followed these steps:
• Locating the manuscripts
• Seeking permission from the owners for them to be copied
• Cleaning and ordering the manuscripts
• Photography
• Data management
• Metadata preparation
• Transcription
• Translation and revision of metadata
While it may seem obvious that the photographing, archiving and long-term
preservation of these manuscripts is a good idea, this has not always been
apparent to the manuscript owners, who are members of the Tai Ahom
priestly caste. Not all of them have allowed us to take photographs for a
variety of reasons. For example, there is a belief among some of some of the
priestly families that the knowledge contained in the manuscripts should
2 http://sealang.net/ahom
3 http://sealang.net/assam
4 As these translations are made ready, they will be published in searchable form on the
Tai and Tibeto-Burman languages of Assam website (http://sealang.net/assam).
Metadata and endangered archives 33
not be shared, and this belief has to be respected; however, the injunction
presented as Example 14 below, in our opinion, shows that in the minds of
earlier copyists and custodians the knowledge in these manuscripts should
be made available. Secondly, since many aspects of Tai Ahom culture have
been lost in the last 300 years, those portions of the culture that remain — of
which the manuscripts are a large part — become even more important to
the community, and there is a sense in which these should not be shared
casually with outsiders.
We had a number of meetings with community leaders in different villages
to discuss and explain the project, answer questions, and present our work. One
of the achievements of the overall project, the online Tai Ahom dictionary,5 was
a big argument in favour of our project. Despite some difficulties, most of the
manuscript owners have been pleased to have the manuscripts photographed
and those photographs preserved and available for study.6
The actual photography itself is not always an easy process. We used a
camera with a fixed distance lens to avoid distortion at the edges of the shot.
For most manuscripts this worked well. Ban Seng manuscripts, for example,
were often only approximately 5 cm wide and 8 cm long. But with a large
manuscript it was often necessary to stand far above the manuscript to get a
shot of the whole page. Du Kai Seng manuscripts were typically much larger,
as much as 12 cm wide and 47 cm long. Even bigger were cloth manuscripts
(usually with the text Phe Lung Phe Ban). The following photograph (Fig. 2.1)
shows Iftiqar Rahman taking photos of a large nineteenth-century paper
manuscript, a Phe Lung Phe Ban belonging to Hara Phukan of Amguri Deodhai
village, in which each page was approximately 35 cm wide and 45 cm long.7
6 Kamol Rajkonwar, who lives on the banks of the Disangpani River at Lakwa, was
particularly keen to get his manuscripts photographed and delighted that the work was
being undertaken. When we arrived at his house, he surprised me by producing a copy
of my 2002 doctoral thesis on the Tai languages of Assam. Disangpani is an example
of a name with elements from possibly three different languages. Di is a word for
the Boro or Dimasa language, the language of the pre-Ahom inhabitants of the area,
meaning “water”. Most of the rivers in the Ahom area have names with Di- as a prefix.
The meaning of sang is not known but could be Tai Ahom, and pani is Assamese for
“water”. The place where Rajkonwar lives is near a large outdoor area sacred to the Tai
Ahoms, containing altars to some of the deities mentioned in some manuscripts. The
exact function of this sacred area is not known and, as far as I know, it has not been
investigated in a scholarly manner.
7 Iftiqar Rahman is a Master’s graduate in linguistics who assisted Poppy Gogoi with
photography on several occasions.
Fig. 2.1 Iftiqar Rahman photographing the Phe Lung Phe Ban paper manuscript
belonging to Hara Phukan. Photo by Poppy Gogoi, CC BY.
Before taking the photographs, a good deal of time was needed to organise
the manuscripts at every site so that they were photographed in page
order, whenever possible (see below for a more in depth discussion of the
issues involved in page ordering). For example, in one house we found one
complete text (which was probably a nineteenth-century copy of a text not
yet photographed anywhere else), and all the older manuscripts arranged
by the owner into two groups. But these two groups turned out to be parts
of at least six different manuscripts, and portions of the two largest of these
were found in each of the two groups. None of them were complete, and so
before we could photograph them, it was essential to group them as best we
could, a process that took a great deal more time than the photography itself.
The Tai Ahom

The Tai Ahom are descendants of Tai speaking people, led by King Siukapha,
whose traditional date of arrival in Northeast India is 1228.8 Linguistically,
8 Edward Gait, A History of Assam (Guwahati: Lawyers Book Stall, 1992 [1905]); and Golap
Chandra Barua, Ahom Buranji: From the Earliest Time to the End of Ahom Rule (Guwahati:
Spectrum, 1985 [1930]).
Tai Ahom is one of a group of Tai languages that is classified as part of

Southwestern Tai, because the historical home of speakers of these varieties is
in the southwestern area of the Tai speaking world (Thailand, southwestern
China, Laos and Myanmar).9
Unlike Tai Ahom, most of other communities speaking Southwestern Tai
languages are Buddhist.10 Several of them, for example the Tai Khamyang
and Tai Phake in India, also still practice ancient Tai rituals described in Tai
Ahom manuscripts, such as spirit calling. These rituals, together with chicken
bone augury, are observed by more distantly related linguistic groups, such
as Zhuang in China.11
The linguistic forms and the literature recorded in Tai Ahom manuscripts
are believed to represent one of the oldest examples of Tai language for which
we have records. Where a Tai Ahom manuscript is dated, the date is that of
its copying, and most of these are late eighteenth or early nineteenth century.
In the opinion of Chaichuen Khamdaengyodtai, who has assisted with the
identification and translation of some manuscripts, the texts are much older,
although there is no way of ascertaining their exact age.
The Ahom Kingdom ruled in Northeast India until the early nineteenth
century, but over time the Ahom community assimilated with the Assamese
speaking majority, and the Tai Ahom language was lost as a mother tongue
by about 1800.12 Today, most Tai Ahom people are Assamese speaking,
probably mostly monolingual, and are followers of Hinduism. Nevertheless,
the language does survive in some ritual contexts, such as the Me Dam Me
Phi ritual celebrated on 31 January every year. This festival became a public
event in the 1970s, and the date of 31 January was gazetted as a public holiday
in Assam some time after that. The authenticity of rituals such as this is not
uncontested. For example, B. J. Terwiel reported that “So far I have come
across no record of the state ritual of Medam Mephi being performed before
9 Li Fang-Kuei, A Handbook of Comparative Tai (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press,

1977). The other two main divisions of Tai, according to Li, are Central and Northern, and
both of these are to be found in China — in Yunnan, Sichuan and particularly Guangxi
provinces — as well as northern Vietnam. Speakers of Central and Northern Tai varieties
are not generally Buddhist. The modern location of the Tai Ahom is in fact north of most
of these areas, but that is due to migration since the thirteenth century.
10 A large proportion of Tai people in Vietnam and some in Laos practice what has been
described as “traditional religion”. For example, the White Tai (Tai Dón) are said to be
mostly animist.
11 Linguistically Zhuang is very diverse, and languages subsumed under this name fall
into both Central Tai and Northern Tai.
12 B. J. Terwiel, “Recreating the Past: Revivalism in Northeastern India”, Bijdragen: Journal
of the Royal Institute of Linguistics and Anthropology, 152 (1996), 275-92; and Stephen
Morey, “Ahom and Tangsa: Case Studies of Language Maintenance and Loss in North
East India”, Language Documentation and Conservation, 7 (2014), 46-77.
the 1970s,” adding that he believed the Ahom rituals were “created” in the
1960s.13 On the other hand, my consultants have maintained that the Me
Dam Me Phi ceremony was held since time immemorial in private houses
prior to its becoming a public ritual in the 1970s, using some of the prayers
found also in manuscript form.
The Ahom manuscripts

Regardless of the authenticity of these rituals, there is no doubt about the
authenticity of the manuscripts that preserve the Tai Ahom language in
a wide range of styles. While a number of manuscripts are held in public
institutions in Assam, such as the Department of Historical and Antiquarian
Studies in Guwahati, the Tai Museum in Sibsagar, and the Institute of Tai
Studies and Research in Moran, the large majority of Tai Ahom manuscripts
are kept in the homes of members of the Ahom priestly caste, many of whom
no longer know the language and cannot read the texts. These manuscripts
are often kept very well — nicely wrapped and regularly cleaned and kept
free of insects. However, by the time we came to see some of the manuscripts,
they were seriously damaged by water, damp or insects, with pages out of
order and portions of different manuscripts kept together. Our photography
sessions thus often involved time spent on cleaning manuscripts.14
Most of the surviving manuscripts photographed in the project were
copied in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth centuries, although the
tradition of manuscript copying is continuing. These older manuscripts are
overwhelmingly written on bark from the sasi tree (Aquillaria Agallocha),
which is cut, scraped and dried for some time before it can be used. In many
traditional Tai Ahom gardens, a sasi tree can still to be found. Apart from
the bark manuscripts, there are a smaller number of manuscripts written
on Assamese style silk, or other cloths. These usually contain the Phe Lung
Phe Ban text of calendrically related predictions (discussed in more detail
below). An example of one such silk manuscript is owned by Tileshwar
Mohan of Parijat village, measuring approximately 50 cm wide and 68 cm
long (Fig. 2.2).15
13 Terwiel, “Recreating the Past”, p. 286.

14 Mustard oil was found to be the best available substance to clean off generations of dirt
in order to be able to read the text. Often the first page of the manuscript was the one that
was most exposed to the elements and was virtually unreadable. This, not surprisingly,
made the identification of manuscripts even more difficult.
15 Usually it was necessary to photograph the silk manuscript both in full and in parts —
generally each of the four corners — in order to have a detailed enough photograph of
it. In the case of this manuscript, we decided to hold it up against the wall of the owner’s
Fig. 2.2 The Phe Lung Phe Ban cloth manuscript

belonging to Tileshwar Mohan (EAP373), CC BY.
For the modern day Tai Ahom community, these manuscripts represent a
link to their long history, commencing with the arrival of King Siukapha in
1228 AD. From at least the late nineteenth century and throughout the early
twentieth century, members of the Tai Ahom priestly caste continued copying
the manuscripts,16 but although a small number of manuscripts are still copied
onto sasi bark, in most of the collections that we have been able to study and
photograph, the later manuscripts are written on paper. This paper was usually
of a much poorer quality than the bark, as can be seen in the image below (Fig.
2.3). Most of the paper manuscripts are probably not as important as the old
bark manuscripts, from the point of view of the texts they contain at least, but
we have photographed them when possible. Sometimes they contain versions
of texts that are incomplete in the bark manuscripts, and when eventually
these are studied in detail, the paper manuscripts may become invaluable.
house for photographing.

16 We cannot be sure that the tradition of manuscript copying was continuous throughout
the nineteenth century, although members of the Tai Ahom priestly caste assured us
many times that they were. We can say with confidence, based on dates found in the
manuscripts, and information about the copyists, that there has been a continuous
tradition of copying texts since at least the late nineteenth century. For example, in some
cases the copyist was identified as the great-grandfather of the present owner, and, in
combination with the Lakni date, we could establish that the book was copied in the last
third of the nineteenth century.
An example of such a manuscript is the Phe Lung Phe Ban belonging to Hara
Phukan, mentioned earlier.
Fig. 2.3 The Phe Lung Phe Ban manuscript

belonging to Hara Phukan (EAP373), CC BY.
Apart from the sasi bark, cloth and paper manuscripts, the Ahom script was
also used on brass plates, coins17 and some inscriptions on stone, the most
famous of which is the Snake Pillar at Guwahati Museum.18 We did not
photograph any examples of these. In the manuscripts that we did photograph,
17 The inscriptions on the coins are usually in Sanskrit or Persian, but a very small number
have inscriptions in the Ahom script. The coins are comprehensively listed in Anup
Mitra, Coins of the Ahom Kingdom (Calcutta: Mahua Mitra, 2001). Mitra lists a coin of
King Pramataa Simha (Sunenpha) (1744-1751) as an example of a coin with a Tai Ahom
inscription (p. 76,).
18 For an illustration of the pillar, see Raju Mimi, Arunachal Times, 6 February 2011, http://
www.roingcorrespondent.in/the-sadiya-snake-pillar-mishmi-ahom-friendship
the copying date and the name and location of the copyist are often given,
occasionally together with the name of the manuscript.
The dates are usually in the sixty-year Lakni cycle, a calendrical cycle used
for both years and days. The Lakni cycle names the year by means of two series
of terms used in combination, as in Kat Kau. The first element, Kat is one of ten
words that are used in the first position, combining with the second element,
Kau, which is one of twelve terms used in second position.19 Altogether sixty
combinations are used and the cycle starts again after sixty years. With a Lakni
date alone, such as Kat Kau, we cannot tell if a manuscript was copied in 1805
or sixty years early in 1745, or even sixty years earlier than that. Sometimes
additional information is given and the date can be more certain. For example,
on line four of the last page of manuscript Khun Lung Khun Lai, owned by Tulsi
Phukan of Sibsagar district (Fig. 2.4), the date is given as Lakni era Kat Kau,
eighth month, in the time of King Kamaleshwar Singh (reigned 1795-1811).
Thus this particular Kat Kau year corresponds to 1805.20
Fig. 2.4 Folio 33r of the Khun Lung Khun Lai manuscript
belonging to Tulsi Phukan (EAP373), CC BY.
The section containing the name and date and other information, including the
name of the text, Khun Lung Khun Lai commences with several ru lai symbols,
19 For an explanation of the Lakni system and a comparison with other calendars in
Southeast Asia, see B. J. Terwiel, The Tai of Assam and Ancient Tai Ritual, Volume II: Sacrifices
and Time-reckoning (Gaya: Centre for South East Asian Studies, 1981).
20 Taking the accession of King Siuhummiung in the year Rung Bau as equivalent to 1497,
the year 1805 corresponds to Kat Kau.
illustrated below as the opening of Example 9. This symbol is used to mark a

new paragraph or section within a manuscript. This section begins with the date,
lkq nI ktq ko] (lak ni kat kau). The second sentence names the king as eka emo lasq porq
(ko mo las por), the nearest Tai Ahom spelling for the Assamese name. It also
names the location as Song Su Kat, an old name for the city of Jorhat.
The pages of the manuscripts are usually numbered, using either Ahom
numerals or Ahom numbers spelled out in letters, or a combination of both;
in a few cases the Lakni cycle is used to number pages. Generally pages are
numbered on the verso side, but not always. The manuscript Sai Kai owned
by Padma Sangbun Phukan of Amguri has numbering on the recto side.21 We
did not realise this when the manuscript was photographed. At that time it
was arranged in order assuming that pages were numbered on the back so
that, after photographing the cover (images 0001 and 0002), the correct order
of the images is 0004, 0003, 0006, 0005, 0008, 0007, etc, something that was only
discovered as a result of working on a translation of the whole text. There are
probably other manuscripts photographed in the wrong order, because we
did not have the chance to carefully examine the text.
Most of these manuscripts have never been translated, because (a) Tai
Ahom language is no longer spoken or indeed understood by most of the
manuscript owners, (b) most of the manuscripts have never been photographed
or published in any way and have not been available for study, (c) much of the
ritual connected with the manuscripts is no longer practiced, making some of
the references in the texts impossible to understand, and (d) the Ahom script
under-specifies the sound distinctions in the languages, meaning that often a
single syllable represents several different pronunciations and meanings. The
EAP project has to a large extent overcome (b), by making photographs of over
400 texts. Before discussing points (c) and (d) in detail, the following section
will briefly survey the kind of manuscripts that have been found.
Types of Ahom manuscripts

The Tai Ahom manuscripts that we have photographed are of the following
types:
a. History (Buranji)22
b. Creation stories
21 This manuscript will be archived as EAP373_PadmaSangBunPhukan_SaiKai_0001 to

0058.tif.
22 This is an Assamese term, of possible Tai origin, referring to histories.
c. Spirit calling texts

i. Khon Ming Lung Phai (lung “large”)
ii. Khon Ming Kang Phai (kang “middle”)
iii. Khon Ming Phai Noi (noi “small”)
d. Mantras and prayers

e. Predictions and augury
i. Phe Lung Phe Ban
ii. Du Kai Seng (chicken bone augury)
iii. Ban Seng
f. Other priestly texts, relating to the performance of rituals, such as

those translated in Tai Ahoms and the Stars23
g. Calendar (Lakni)
h. Stories
i. Traditional Tai stories
ii. Stories of Buddhist origin
i. Lexicons (Bar Amra, Loti Amra)24

j. Writing Practice, manuscripts that involve copying the written syllables
of Tai Ahom in alphabetical order, presumably used to teach the script
The most common texts are probably those relating to prediction and augury
(e), with each of the three manuscript types listed there being found in multiple
copies from a variety of owners.25 For example, one manuscript owner, Kesab
23 Tai Ahoms and the Stars: Three Ritual Texts to Ward off Danger, ed. and trans. by B. J. Terwiel
and Ranoo Wichasin (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992). This is an excellent and
well-notated translation.
24 These are Assamese terms for two lexicons composed in the late eighteenth century at
the time when the Ahom language was in decline as a mother tongue. Both are written
in Ahom script. The Bar Amra is a Tai Ahom-Assamese lexicon, mostly of monosyllabic
words, presented in the Ahom alphabetical order with Assamese words transcribed in
Ahom script. The Loti Amra is arranged in semantic fields commencing with body parts
and contains mostly multisyllabic expressions. Also written entirely in Ahom script, the
Loti Amra puts Assamese words first then Tai words second. These two lexicons formed
the basis of our online dictionary (http://sealang.net/ahom).
25 Once the project is completed, and all the texts identified, it will be possible to quantify
these claims. The texts in category (e), Phe Lung Phe Ban, Du Kai Seng, and Ban Seng, are
all very easy to identify, but some of the other categories are not.
Baruah of Amguri Deodhai village, possesses no fewer than nine separate

versions of the Du Kai Seng text, which is used for the interpretation of chicken
bones after sacrifice. There are multiple examples of each of the categories
listed above, and future students of these manuscripts will, in time, be able
to compare different versions of the same text.
The most widely known texts, both among the Ahom community themselves
and among the wider community, are the histories or Buranjis. One set of
Buranji manuscripts was translated by G. C. Barua, with two parallel texts,
one in Ahom (using Ahom script) and the other an English translation.26 It
is relatively easy to match the two texts and thus make an in-depth study of
the translation, but because Barua’s knowledge of Ahom was sketchy, the
translation is not reliable. It is, however, a widely available book that has
been reprinted several times. The Buranji texts have been translated more
recently into Standard Thai by Ranoo Wichasin.27 To illustrate the problems
with Barua’s translation, consider Example 1.28 Our analysis, based on Ranoo’s
translation relies on the reading of the phrase khai che as “shift city”.
Example 1) lkqnI kpqmitq cMwfa sEwkEnqmE[q xj ec]

lak ni kap mit cham chau pha sv kvn mvng khai che
year Kap Mit nfin-king pn shift city
m; yU tj mE[q /
ma ju tai mvng
come stay at Tai country
“In the year Kap Mit, King Svkvnmvng shifted his (capital)
city to Tai Mvng”.
26 Golap Chandra Barua, Ahom Buranji: From the Earliest Time to the End of Ahom Rule
(Guwahati: Spectrum, 1985 [1930]).
27 Ranoo Wichasin, trans., Ahom Buranji (Bangkok: Amarin, 1996).
28 We will present examples here in four lines: (1) Ahom script, (2) suggested phonemic
reading, (3) English gloss, and (4) free translation into English.
We use the symbol <v> to mark an unrounded back vowel /ɯ/ or /ɤ/ in IPA script. Some
Tai languages like Phake have a distinction between these two sounds, but there is
reason to believe that in Ahom this distinction had been lost by the end of the Ahom
Kingdom. This is discussed in Stephen Morey, The Tai Languages of Assam: A Grammar
and Texts (Canberra: Pacific Linguistics, 2005), p. 176. We write <ⱱ> to encourage the
members of the Ahom community not to pronounce it as /u/ or /e/, a practice that can be
seen in Barua’s translation, where the same vowel is present in all three syllables of the
king’s name, written as /u/ in the first and third syllables, with the second syllable being
read as having an /e/ vowel with an initial consonant cluster.
As we will see in more detail below, the same syllable in Tai Ahom can
have a number of meanings, and khai could mean “shift”, “ill”, “tell” and
several other possibilities. Barua’s original translation for this line was “In
Lākni Kapmit (i.e., in 1540 AD) Chāophā Shuklenmung fell ill. He proceeded
to Tāimung and stopped there”, reading khai as “ill” which- would make
sense if not for the fact that it is followed by che. The combination of khai che,
however, only makes sense in the meaning “shift city”.
One of the surprising findings of our project so far is the significant
number of manuscripts containing stories that appear to be of Buddhist
origin. For example, the Nemi Mang story, one of the previous lives of the
Buddha,29 is found on folios 47r-66v of the manuscript owned by Gileswar
Bailung Phukan of Patsako.30 The greater part of the manuscript is a story
which is ultimately named in the text as Alika,31 which from its form and
content is likely to be a Buddhist story also.32 Only a more in-depth study
of all of the texts identified as stories will be able to establish how many of
them are of Buddhist origin.
The extent of Buddhist influence within the historical Ahom Kingdom
is a matter of controversy among the Ahom community, with some people,
particularly some of those connected with the royal caste (Rajkonwar),
expressing the view that the Tai Ahom were traditionally Buddhist, while
others maintain that this was not so. The place of Buddhism, as distinct from
both the traditional Ahom rituals of sacrifice and prayer to the ancestor
spirits, and the Hindu worship gradually adopted by the Ahoms after 1500,
is a matter for further research, but the manuscripts can help with this. Not
only are there Buddhist texts, like Nemi Mang, but also, as we will discuss in
more detail below, Buddhist features are found in some of the Ahom prayers
(mantras) that are still in use.
The Buddhist manuscripts and histories are relatively easy to translate
because in the case of histories, much of the detail is confirmed by Assamese
language sources,33 and in the case of Buddhist manuscripts, the stories are
29 The text in Pali is named Nimi Jataka and is no. 541 in the series of Jataka (previous lives of
the Buddha). This is a very famous story, illustrated, for example, in murals in temples in
Thailand, http://www.buddha-images.com/nimi-jataka.asp. An English translation is The
Jataka, Volume VII, trans. by E. B. Cowell and W. H. D. Rouse (1907), http://www.sacred-
texts.com/bud/j6/j6007.htm
30 Archived as EAP373_GileshwarBailung_NemiMang.
31 The naming of both manuscripts is on folio 66r, line 3. It was necessary to read a fair
amount of the text in order to find this.
32 Translations of these two texts are searchable online at the Tai and Tibeto-Burman
Languages of Assam website, http://sealang.net/assam
33 There are a number of Assamese Buranjis. For a discussion of them, see Lila Gogoi, The
Buranjis, Historical Literature of Assam: A Critical Survey (New Delhi: Omsons Publications,
1986).
often known from other Buddhist sources.34 However the other categories are
more challenging. For example the Du Kai Seng (chicken bone augury) and Ban
Seng (augury) texts — listed above under the general category “Predictions
and Augury” — are often very short with little context. In our experience,
both these kinds of texts contain no copying dates and no information about
the copyist. Nothing is known about the age of the texts, but the existence of
similar texts among the Zhuang in China suggests that these are very old. The
Du Kai Seng contains an illustration of the way chicken bones can appear, and
then a short piece of text explaining what this means, usually concluding with
ni jav “it is good” or bau ni “it is not good”. This is exemplified by an example
belonging to Tileshwar Mohan, of Parijat village (Fig. 2.5).
Fig. 2.5 Folio 9r of the Du Kai Seng manuscript

There are small pictures in the manuscript showing chicken bones and small
sticks. After sacrifice and cleaning, the chicken bones are found to have tiny
holes in them. Sticks are then placed in these holes and this is compared with
34 All the Buddhist canonical texts were published in Romanised script by the Pali Text
Society, along with translations. Some of the translations are available online at http://
www.palicanon.org, and the Pali texts are available to be searched at http://www.
tipitaka.org
the drawings in the manuscript to establish the meaning. In the example

illustrated here (Fig. 2.5), we see that both the bone on the left, and that on
the right, are un-auspicious, with both predictions ending in bbq nI (bau ni)
“not good”.
Ban Seng texts are even shorter, containing one page per prediction and
a small piece of bone, or perhaps tooth, that is used to choose one of the
pages when the augurer is searching for the right prediction. We have not
yet translated examples of either of these texts. Ban Seng texts are tiny in
size, and are exemplified by a manuscript owned by Bhim Kanta Phukan
at Simaluguri (Fig. 2.6).
Fig. 2.6 A page from one of the Ban Seng manuscripts

belonging to Bhim Kanta Phukan (EAP373), CC BY.
The challenges of interpreting Tai Ahom

manuscripts
In order to classify the manuscripts photographed, something needs to
be said about the content. As already mentioned at the very beginning of
this paper, the best metadata would be that which allows for the greatest
usability, and the thing that most people will want to be able to do with Ahom
manuscripts is to understand their content. However, the translation of Tai
Ahom manuscripts is a challenging task, and in this section we will detail

the reasons for that, which are related to the structure of the Tai language.
Tai languages are tonal, and most words are single syllables (monosyllables)
consisting of up to five elements:35 an optional initial consonant; an optional
second consonant (/y/, /r/, /w/); a vowel; a tone; and an optional final consonant
(/ŋ/, /n/ or /m/), written followed by a virama,36 or a second vowel (/i/, /ɯ/ or
/u/). The traditional Tai scripts used in Northeast India and most of Myanmar
did not mark all the vowel distinctions, and did not mark tone at all.37 Some
examples of Ahom words are given in Example 2, with their pronunciation
and an explanation of each symbol.38
Example 2 ki[q king k i ng virama
kRitq krit k r i t virama
kj kai k ai
There are several differences between this kind of writing system and
the alphabetic system used in the Roman script. First of all, the vowels,
exemplified here by /i/, are written as diacritics to the consonant, in the case
of /i/ as an oval shaped symbol above the consonant. Secondly, where there
is a consonant cluster, as in the word krit, the second consonant is written
as an attachment to the initial consonant. Standing by itself, /r/ is written as
r , but as the second consonant in a cluster it takes a different form.
All written syllables in Tai Ahom and related languages can be pronounced
in a number of ways with a range of meanings. Consider again the first word
in Example 2, which it is suggested was pronounced /king/. We cannot be
sure that it was not /keng/ or /kɛng/. Several of the spoken languages closely
related to Tai Ahom (Shan, Khamti, Tai Phake) have nine distinct vowels (and
35 There are different linguistic theoretical frameworks for the presentation of the elements
within a syllable. In one theoretical framework, all vowel initial words are actually
preceded by a glottal stop [ʔ], and this is represented in writing by A in the Ahom script.
In our analysis, the glottal stop is not a phoneme of Tai Ahom, and vowel initial syllables
are permitted. For further discussion, see Morey, The Tai Languages of Assam, p. 111.
36 This is the word given to a sign indicating that a consonant has no following vowel.
Consonants without it can be interpreted as being followed by /a/. It is called sāt in Tai
Phake.
37 Morey, The Tai Languages of Assam, ch. 7.
38 We use a digraph <ng> rather than the IPA symbol /ŋ/ to mark the velar nasal. This is
because we are using only Roman letters to transcribe the Ahom script in our work,
to make it easier for the members of the Ahom community to interpret the linguistic
materials.
a length distinction between /a/ and /aa/), but only five or six vowel symbols.
Thus, in Tai Phake a word written <king> would look like kigq (the equivalent
in Phake of the Ahom script above), but this can be pronounced as /keng/
or /kɛng/ as well as /king/, because in stop and nasal final syllables these
three different vowels are all written identically.39 In addition, there are six
contrastive tones in Phake. There are thus eighteen possible pronunciations in
Tai Phake for the word written king, and of those, twelve different meanings
have recorded for eight of the possible pronunciations.
We do not even know how many tones were present in spoken Tai Ahom,
let alone the form of those tones, but the expectation is that, as with the
modern spoken Tai languages, the tones may have exhibited a combination
of features: (relative) pitch; contour (change of pitch); phonation (plain,
breathy and creaky); and duration.40 Furthermore, it is likely that the number
and form of those tones changed over time, whereas because they were not
marked, the writing remained the same.
Native speakers who read Tai manuscripts of this type do so somewhat
differently from the way we read modern English, or the way we read older
manuscripts in the European tradition. Consider the English word horse.
When this is written in isolation, the meaning is clear to all native English
speakers. This is not so with the Ahom word ma (also written m; ) /ma/, which
can mean “horse” but can also mean “dog”, “to come”, “shoulder” and,
in compounds, “fruit”. Which of these meanings is correct in a particular
manuscript depends on the context.
The following examples demonstrate the process of translation. We will
discuss this in detail with regard to the manuscript Ming Mvng Lung Phai,
what we term in English a “spirit calling” text. The main translators for
this text were Chaichuen Khamdaengyodtai, whose expertise is in Shan
languages and literature, and myself, with knowledge of comparative Tai
and Tai grammar. After the text had been transcribed for the first draft
translation in 2007, Chaichuen and I worked for a week with Nabin Shyam
Phalung, a speaker of the related Tai Aiton language, thoroughly experienced
in reading Tai Aiton texts, and for many years the Head of the Tai section at
the Department of Historical and Antiquarian Studies in Guwahati.41 The
39 For a discussion of the writing of vowels in the Tai Phake script, and how the script
under specifies the vowel contrasts, see Morey, The Tai Languages of Assam, pp. 190-94.
40 Stephen Morey, “Studying Tones in North East India: Tai, Singpho and Tangsa”,
Language Documentation and Conservation, 8 (2014), 637-71.
41 Nabin’s skills as both a native speaker of a closely related Tai language and his decades
of experience working with Tai Ahom manuscripts were not enough to allow him to
undertake the task of translating this text alone.
translation was then revised in 2008, in the Ahom village of Parijat, working
together with other members of the research team and also with several
members of the Tai Ahom priestly caste, including the manuscript’s owner.
This translation method, while probably the most reliable, was also
exceptionally time consuming and expensive, requiring the physical presence
of people from different countries in the same location. Subsequent texts have
been translated by Chaichuen doing a draft translation into Shan, after which
I translate the Shan into English; then Chaichuen and I meet, discuss and
revise the translation line by line. The new methodology has the advantage of
including a gloss in Shan as well as English, as we will see below in Example
8. Using one or other of these methods, we have completed translations of
the following manuscripts: Alika,42 Lakni,43 Ma Likha Lit,44 Ming Mvng Lung
Phai, Nemi Mang,45 Pvn Ko Mvng,46 running to approximately 4200 lines. All
the translations are searchable online at the Tai and Tibeto Languages of
Assam website.47
Returning to the Ming Mvng Lung Phai text, in Tai belief, if the spirit
(khon or khwan) of a person, of the paddy rice or of the country, or some
other entity, goes away, this causes difficulty. The spirit therefore has to be
recalled at a ceremony that includes the reading of an appropriate text. We
have never experienced an Ahom spirit calling ceremony, but have witnessed
the calling of the spirit of both an ill person and of rice in the Tai Phake and
Tai Khamyang communities. In the first case, a young person was ill, which
was attributed to the absence of the khon from the ill person; in the second
case an individual had a poor harvest, which was attributed to the absence
of the khon of the paddy rice. The ceremony, in which sweets and fruit were
offered to the spirit, included the reading of the appropriate spirit calling
text three times. In the case of the calling of the spirit of the ill person, which
42 This text, containing what we believe is probably a Buddhist story, forms the first two
thirds of EAP373_GileshwarBailung_Nemimang_0001 to 0139.tif.
43 This text was translated from a photocopy. The location of the original of this manuscript
is not known.
44 This text, containing what we believe is probably a Buddhist story, has yet to be
photographed for the project.
45 This text, a Buddhist story, forms the last third of EAP373_GileshwarBailung_
Nemimang_0001 to 0139.tif.
46 This text, which tells the story of the creation of the world, is archived as EAP373_
TileshwarMohan_PvnKoMvng_0001 to 0038.
47 This website (http://sealang.net/assam) is updated from time to time and additional texts
will be added as the translations are completed. The next one to be completed will be
the Nang Khai manuscript owned by the late Baparam Hatibaruah, the photographs of
which will be archived as EAP373_BaparamHatiBaruah_NangKhai_0001.tif to 0078.tif.
was held inside, at the conclusion of the third reading of the text the spirit
was felt to have returned, and the doors of the house were shut to keep it in.48
Ming Mvng Lung Phai is one of a number of such texts that we believe were
to be read when the whole country is in difficulty. The date of composition
of these texts is not known, but, in view of the related texts in the Zhuang
speaking areas of China, it is felt that they are very old. The version of the
text that we studied is owned by one of the most senior Tai Ahom priests
or Deodhai, Chaw Tileshwar Mohan, who has been a great supporter of this
research for many years. The project has identified other examples of this
text, but his version is by far the most complete and most reliable,49 as Fig.
2.7 below shows.
In the section of the text discussed below, the possible locations to which
the spirit has gone, and from which it will need to be recalled, are being
presented. One example of this is the passage of two lines: men ru ri nang
ru ba, men na cha nang lin kang. The poetics of this is clear. The first word is
parallel in both lines, as is the fourth word, and in addition there is a “waist
rhyme” between the end of the first line, ba, and the third syllable of the
second line, cha.
Our first translation of the two lines is given in Examples 3 and 4. Both
translations assumed that men was the word for non-Tai tribal people who live
in mountainous areas. This is assumed by people in Assam to refer to people
living on the border of India and Myanmar, an area mostly populated by
Naga people; therefore this word is usually translated as “Naga”. However,
if the text had been composed in the original home of the Tai Ahoms, on the
Myanmar-China border, this word would refer to a different tribal group,50
so we have glossed it as “Hill Tribal”.
48 For a more detailed discussion of spirit calling among the Ahom, see B. J. Terwiel, The
Tai of Assam and Ancient Tai Ritual, Volume I: Life Style Ceremonies (Gaya: Centre for South
East Asian Studies, 1980), p. 53. For the practice among the Zhuang in China, see David
Holm, Recalling Lost Souls: The Baeu Rodo Scriptures, Tai Cosmogonic Texts from Guangxi in
Southern China (Bangkok: White Lotus, 2004).
49 Unfortunately the first folio was damaged by insects between 2007, when I first
photographed it in JPG format, and 2012, when the EAP-funded project was able to take
raw format files and convert them to TIF format for archiving.
50 In Assam the word men is mostly associated with the people now called Naga, but in
Shan State the cognate word refers to the “ethnic group inhabiting the mountains of
Muang Ting”. Sao Tern Moeng, Shan-English Dictionary (Kensington, MD: Dunwoody
Press, 1995). The phrases “head like horses” and “roll up their chins” might refer to
people who wear long-necked decorations, such as the Kayan people in Shan state, i.e.
in the mountain areas on the China-Myanmar border. Photographs of women wearing
these decorations can be found on the Wikipedia page “Kayan people (Burma)”, http://
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kayan_people_%28Burma%29. Equally these might be ways of
Having decided on this reading for men, the first draft translation assumed
that nang was a verb meaning “sit”, which is certainly one of its possible
meanings, along with “back”, “extend”, “lady”, “loud”, “be like” and “nose”.
Chaichuen then assumed that the phrase ru ba, which in Example 3 follows
nang, would be a location, and proposed on the “top of the shoulder”.
Syntactically this would have to mean that the long-headed Hill Tribal was
sitting there.
Example 3) miNq rU rI n[q rU ba /

men ru ri nang ru ba
Hill Tribal head long sit head shoulder
“The long headed Hill Tribals sit on the shoulder”.
Example 4) miNq n; c; n[q linq k[q /

men na cha nang lin kang
Hill Tribal face bad sit plain middle
“The bad faced Hill Tribals sit in the middle of the plain”.
Since these two lines should relate to the location where the spirit was, these
translations were plainly not satisfactory. At the time of this work, the research
team were staying in Parijat, which is where the manuscript is kept. Chaichuen
excitedly came in one morning, having thought about the translation over
night, with the suggestion that nang should be read as “like”, and that these
two lines were thus similes. With this in mind, we could translate Example
3 as “[The spirit is] with the long headed Hill Tribals whose heads are like
dogs”, reading the last word ma as “dog”. This involves reading the first
letter of that word, the last in Example 3, as having initial m- m rather than
initial b- b. In many manuscripts, such as Ming Mvng Lung Phai, these two
letters are not distinguished.
After listening to Chaichuen’s suggestion, I then suggested that reading
ma as “horse” made even more sense — the heads of horses being long —
and thus both lines were re-translated as similes describing the Tai Ahom
referring to the headdresses of the Naga people on the India-Myanmar border.

scribes impression of the appearance of the Hill Tribals. Our final translation
is given in Examples 5 and 6:
Example 5) miNq rU rI n[q rU ma /

men ru ri nang ru ma
Hill Tribal head long like head horse
“With the long headed Hill Tribals, whose heads are like horses”.
Example 6) miNq n; c; n[q linq k[q /

men na cha nang lin kang
Hill Tribal face bad like roll up chin
“With the bad faced Hill Tribals who roll up their chins”
(EAP373_TileshwarMohan_MingMvngLungPhai, 6v1).
Fig. 2.7 Folio 6v of the Ming Mvng Lung Phai manuscript

The translation process demonstrated here relied on Chaichuen’s substantial

lexical knowledge of large numbers of words from Tai varieties still spoken
in both Shan State in Myanmar, and in the former Mau Long kingdom, the
original home of the Tai Ahom, now inside the Dehong prefecture in Yunnan
Province, China. To get the translation to what we see in Examples 5 and 6
requires a deep knowledge of Tai literature that is rapidly becoming extinct, and
the ability to read texts in the traditional away. The modernisation of the Shan
script since the 1950s, which includes the marking of tone, has made reading
a Shan text much more like reading an English text, because the words with
different tones are now marked differently.51 The last of the expert readers
from the generation brought up before script modernisation are now becoming
elderly, and the younger generation, brought up with the reformed script, are
reported to have great difficulty reading the traditional texts.
This is the key difference between the challenge of interpreting the Tai
Ahom manuscripts and those of interpreting, for example, old English
manuscripts, or Latin manuscripts from a period much older than the Ahom
texts. Old English and Latin are languages where the script is essentially
phonemic, marking most phonemic contrasts. The meaning of a single word
is clear, in all but very uncommon cases of homography (such as the modern
English bear which could be noun (“type of animal”) or verb (“hold up”)
with completely different meaning). In Tai Ahom on the other hand, every
written syllable has multiple meanings — in some cases as many as twenty
have been recorded — and the texts can only be interpreted in context, and
with a very substantial vocabulary at the call of the translator.
One major claim in this paper is that it is of the greatest importance that
good quality translations be made of as many of the manuscripts as possible
because this is unlikely to be possible to the same extent in the future.
Whereas the translation of a Latin or Old English text is likely to be just as
possible in 100 years time as it is now, this is not the case with Tai Ahom,
because the generation of Chaichuen is the last which has been trained in
reading Tai texts in the traditional way, and those are the skills required to
interpret these texts correctly.
Even making basic metadata on a single manuscript is not something that
can be done without considerable effort. We have been fortunate in having
Chau Medini Madhab Mohan as a consultant on our project, not only because
he has knowledge of the location of large numbers of manuscripts, but also
because his experience in studying them has allowed him to identify texts
reasonably quickly. This identification is partly done by reading some portion
51 See Søren Egerod, “Essentials of Shan Phonology and Script”, Academia Sinica: Bulletin
of the Institute of History and Philology, 29 (1957), 121-27. For further details of Shan script
and script reform, see Sai Kam Mong, The History and Development of the Shan Scripts
(Chiang Mai: Silkworm, 2004).
of the texts for meaning, and partly done by comparing stock phrases found
often in the texts. So, for example, in the manuscript Ming Mvng Lung Phai,
and indeed in all spirit calling texts, there are phrases used for calling the
spirit back, which in this manuscript follows the locations where the spirit
might be, as in Examples 5 and 6 above. This stock phrase is give as Example 7.
Example 7) m] eka m; et] na cw h; /

mau ko ma te na chau vi
2sg link come true fin resp voc
“Come, please come, lord!” (EAP373_TileshwarMohan_Ming

MvngLungPhai, 6v1).
The presence of these phrases would be enough to identify the manuscript

as a spirit calling text, a group name for which is khon ming (khon “spirit”;
ming “tutelary spirit”). Medini Mohan has said that there are three main
texts within this genre: Khon Ming Lung Phai (lung “large”); Khon Ming
Kang Phai (kang “middle”); and Khon Ming Phai Noi (noi “small”). It has not
always been possible to say which of the three a particular text belongs to.
The relationship between contemporary ritual and

Tai Ahom manuscripts: The Ai Seng Lau prayer
During our photography sessions, the manuscript owners have sometimes
asked for a prayer to be performed before the work of photography is
commenced.52 This took various forms, sometimes involving the lighting of
an oil lamp (probably a Hindu influence) and the offering of money by the
project, but also included the recitation of the Ai Seng Lau prayer. Examples
of this were recorded in February 2013, in the home of Chau Hara Phukan
at Amguri, where we digitised 21 manuscripts;53 and in the home of Chau
Kamal Rajkonwar at Lakwa, where we digitised eleven manuscripts.54 The
prayer spoken on that occasion was the Ai Seng Lau, led on both occasions by
Medini Mohan. The first section of the Ai Seng Lau prayer, as it was uttered,
is given below as Example 8.
52 We hope that eventually the videos of these short ceremonies can be archived together
with the photographs of the manuscripts.
53 We will not list these here, but the digitised files will have the prefix EAP373_HaraPhukan_.
54 These will be archived with the prefix EAP373_KamolRajkonwar_.
Example 8) fa lj bitq fa pinq bitq

pha lai bet pha pin bet
sky many knife sky be knife
ၾႃႉ လၢႆ မိတ်ႈ ၾႃႉ ပဵၼ် မိတ်ႈ
fa ?Ur; tRa Aalo[q sikqkRa

pha phara tara along sik kya
sky creator creator (Bodhisattva) (Sikkya)
ၾႃႉ ၽူႈလႃ တူဝ်လၢ ဢလွင်း သၵြႃး
ra nipnq boj m] cbq kbq h; /

ra ni pan boi mu chau kau vi
(create) Nirvana pray 2sg resp 1sg voc
လႃ ၼိၵ်ႈပၢၼ်ႇ ဝႆႈ မႂ်း ၸဝ်ႈ ၵဝ် ဢိူဝ်း
“The God who is like many knives, the God who is a knife,
we pray to you, who are the creator of the sky, the peak of the
heaven, oh my Lord”.
There are a number of difficulties in translating this prayer. The first of these
is the translation of the word bit, which can also be read as mit. Here we
have translated it as “knife”, but there is another Ahom word mit, attested
in the Bar Amra lexicon with the meaning “rainbow”. If we take this as the
meaning of mit, we would read lai mit as “pattern of the rainbow”, which is
a plausible meaning here.
Example 8 is part of a longer prayer that is frequently used in Tai Ahom
rituals. While we have not found this exact phrase in a manuscript, we have
found references to a similar passage in manuscripts such as the Sai Kai text
for which there are several versions. The one shown below (Fig. 2.8) belongs
to Chau Padma Sangbun Phukan of Amguri, but we have also consulted two
additional copies belonging to Tileshwar Mohan,55 the owner of the Ming
Mvng Lung Phai manuscript. None of these manuscripts have the dates of
copying, or information about the copyist. None of them is complete, but
55 These will be archived as EAP373_TileshwarMohan_SaiKai_0001 to 0032.tif and

EAP373_TileshwarMohan_SaiKai__02_0001 to 0038.jpg.
careful comparison of the three versions means that the text is in the process
of being reconstructed. The first line of this text is presented in Example 9.
This example confirms the reading of “knife”, in a metaphorical sense, as the
one who is carving out the earth, because there cannot have been a rainbow
at the time when the creation of the sky had not yet happened.
Example 9) @ yM i mEw fa pinq

ru lai jem mv pha pin
opening word beginning time sky.God be
ၸဵမ် မိူဝ်း ၾႃႉ ပဵၼ်
bitq eka l[q dinq Aonq fa cM /

bit ko lang din on pha cham
knife begin ground before sky n.fin
မိတ်ႈ ၵေႃႈ လင်လိၼ် ဢွၼ် ၾႃႉ ၸမ်း
“Long ago when the God who is a knife was beginning to

create the ground, and before the sky was created” (EAP373_
PadmaSangBunPhukan_SaiKai1_0004).
Fig. 2.8 Folio 1r of a Sai Kai manuscript

belonging to Padma Sangbun Phukan (EAP373), CC BY.
Returning to Example 8, the second line contains a number of Buddhist terms:

phura (Buddha), tara (teaching of the Buddha or dharma), along (Bodhisattva,
previous incarnation of the Buddha), sikkya (Sakya, creator God in the Buddhist
texts) and nipan (Nirvana, the state of enlightenment). The presence of these
terms in the prayer suggests Buddhist influence on the Tai Ahom rituals.
Chaichuen has suggested that these words can be interpreted as replacing
original Tai expressions, as we see in Table 2.1:
Table 2.1 Buddhist terms in the Ai Seng Lau prayer and Tai equivalents
Buddhist Tai term (Shan)

term
?Ur; phura ၽူႈလႃ phu:la person-create
tRa tara တူဝ်လႃ tola body-create
Aalo[q along ယွတ်ႈၸဝ်ႈ yot;chau; peak-respected
sikqkRa sikkya လႅင်လွၼ် laenglon Lengdon (crea-
tor God)
nipnq nipan မိူင်းသႅင်မိူင်းၶမ်း moeng:saeng country-di-
moeng:kham amond
country-gold
A few lines later in the Ai Seng Lau prayer, we see the following, in which
a deity or entity called ji (first daughter) is invoked, as seen in Example 10:
Example 10) yI n[q lukq Ni[q xEbq boj

ji nang luk nying khv boi
1st daughter lady child female big worship
ယေႈ ၼၢင်း လုၵ်း ယိင်း ၶိုဝ်ႉ ဝႆႈ
m] cbq kbq h;
mav chau kau vi
you resp 1sg voc
မႂ်း ၸဝ်ႈ ၵဝ် ဢိူၺ်း
“We pray to you, the first great daughter, oh my Lord”.

The same entity is found in the Sai Kai manuscript in the line that immediately
follows Example 9, presented here as Example 11:
Example 11) h] mnq yI n[q lukq Ni[q

hav man ji nang luk nying
give 3sg first daughter lady child female
ႁႂ်ႈ မၼ်း ယေႈ ၼၢင်း လုၵ်း ယိင်း
xEw mnq eka tj pinq dinq sEbq t] /

khiuw man ko tai pin din sv tav
big 3sg link die be ground straight under
ၶိုဝ်ႉ မၼ်း ၵေႃႈ တၢႆ ပဵၼ် လိၼ် သိုဝ်ႈ တႂ်း
“He made the first daughter, the big one, after she died
she became the ground directly under” (EAP373_ Padma
SangBunPhukan_SaiKai1_0004).
Both the Ai Seng Lau prayer and the Sai Kai manuscript have the same phrase
to refer to this deity, ji nang luk nying khiuw (the first daughter, the big one).
In the Sai Kai manuscript, it goes on after Example 11 to refer to the three
younger sisters of ji, namely i (second daughter), am (third daughter) and ai
(fourth daughter). These four words occurring in the same position in four
successive lines confirm for us the reading that we have given in Example 11.
This brief discussion of Ahom prayers has been presented to show the
relationship between these manuscripts and the living tradition of Ahom prayers.
The similarity between the Ai Seng Lau prayer and the Sai Kai manuscripts
confirms that the language of those prayers is not the “Pseudo Ahom language”
that Terwiel has suggested was in use for some Ahom rituals.56 It remains
possible that the prayers such as Ai Seng Lau have been newly created after
studying the manuscripts, although members of the Tai Ahom priestly caste
specifically say that this prayer has been handed down from father to son over
many generations, though without knowing the full meaning of the prayer.
What we can say is that the close study of the manuscripts has allowed for a
translation of the prayers that are in use in contemporary ritual to be undertaken.
56 Terwiel, “Recreating the Past”, p. 283.

Stories
In addition to the Buddhist stories mentioned earlier, there are a number of
Tai stories whose storyline is not necessarily known from other sources and
whose translation is thus more challenging. One example of these is the Nang
Khai story, from a manuscript owned by the late Baparam Hati Baruah of Hati
Gaon (Fig. 2.9).57 The manuscript, one of the first photographed in the project,
has the name of the copyist, and the name of the text, but no date. On fol 20v
(image 0042) it is written: “In the seventh month, his father who was Serela
Baruah and his son Mekheli, he wrote this Nang Khai scripture which should
not be allowed to disappear, should not be hidden [lest] you fall into the forks
of hell”. The name of the manuscript is given as n[q xj pUvI [Nang Khai Puthi],
where puthi is an Assamese word meaning “sacred text”. Altogether there
are 37 folios in this text, and so it is curious that the scribe gave his name only
a little over half way through. Although we have not yet finished translating
the whole text, it does appear to be one story; perhaps in writing his name in
the middle of the text, the copyist was confused about the contents.
Fig. 2.9 Folio 20v of the Nang Khai manuscript

belonging to Baparam Hati Baruah (EAP373), CC BY.
Since the translation of the manuscript is not yet complete,58 we do not yet
know the meaning of “nang khai”. It could be “lady egg”, referring to a lady
57 Baparam Hati Baruah passed away in 2014 before the translation of his manuscript could
be completed and presented to him. His house was one of very few Ahom houses that
maintained the Tai tradition of building on stilts, but with the special feature that the
bamboo floors on the upper level were rendered with mud. This manuscript is archived
as EAP373_BaparamHatiBaruah_NangKhai_0001 to 0078.tif.
58 We hope this will be completed in early 2015.
who is related to the king, one term for whom is khai pha (“the egg of the
sky”). So while we know the name of this manuscript because it is explicitly
stated, we will not know what that means until the whole text has been
studied. The story of this manuscript is about a river creature, or Naga, and
a man, referred to as “the single man”, who casts his fishing net over the
river and accidentally catches that Naga.59
This text gives some clues as to its place of origin. If our translation is
correct, it refers to the Mekong River, as we see in Example 12, reproduced
in Fig. 2.10.
Example 12) xnq eta [iukq xoj[q ro[q ba /

khan to ngvk khai khong rong ba
thus Naga egg-Mekong call say
ၶၼ်တေႃႈ ငိူၵ်ႈ ၶႆႇၶွင် ႁွင်ႉ ဝႃႈ ။
“Thus the Naga who was the egg of Mekong called out, saying”
(EAP373_BaparamHatiBaruah_NangKhai_0008).
Fig. 2.10 Folio 3v of the Nang Khai manuscript

belonging to Baparam Hati Baruah (EAP373), CC BY.
59 There is another manuscript, EAP373_SandicharanPhukan_OdbhutKakhotNangKhai,

which shares the name Nang Khai. We have not been able to compare the two texts to
see if there is any similarity. In March 2014, we photographed yet another manuscript
in fragments, also entitled Nang Khai (EAP373_ DhamenMohanBoruah_NangKhai), but
once again we have not been able to connect the text of that version to the version of
Baparam Hati Baruah.
Chaichuen observed that this text, which he has never heard of in Shan
areas, refers to the history of Tai people in the Mekong river area, and
consequently must have been brought to Assam rather than composed
there. In his view, this would have to have been done before the destruction
of the kingdoms of Muang Mau Lung, Muang Kong and Muang Yang in
the year 1555. This campaign was led by the Burmese King Bayinnaung
of Toungoo (1550-1581). Thus our assumption is that the manuscript
must have been composed before 1555 and that it may not survive in
Mau Lung. Chaichuen said that this story could not have been brought
later, because all of the old manuscripts were burned during the wars
waged by King Bayinnaung. So far this is the only text we have analysed
that can definitely be associated with the Mau Lung area, but we expect
there are more among the manuscripts that have been photographed.
Scholarly outcomes
The major scholarly outcomes of EAP373 are: the transcription and
translation of a number manuscripts; the further development of the
online Tao Ahom Dictionary; the preparation of a descriptive grammar
of Tai Ahom; and the realization of the proposal to include Tai Ahom
script in the Unicode.
As we have seen, the process of transcribing and translating texts is very
time consuming, but they form the basis for the continued development
of the online Ahom Dictionary.60 At present the dictionary contains over
4,500 head words and many subentries for multiple senses of a word
and for compounds. Each word listed in the dictionary is sourced to an
Ahom manuscript, in many cases the Bar Amra, a Tai-Ahom to Assamese
lexicon. There are a number of copies of the Bar Amra, of which the most
important is kept at the Department of Historical and Antiquarian Studies
in Guwahati. The version that we were able to consult is that owned by
Junaram Sangbun Phukan, one of the most senior Ahom priests (Deodhai)
from Parijat village. The manuscript, written completely in Ahom script,
gives a word in Tai and then a translation in Assamese. An example is
given below (Fig. 2.11).
Fig. 2.11 Folio 1v of the Bar Amra manuscript

belonging to Junaram Sangbun Phukan (EAP373), CC BY.
This page, folio 1v, is divided into three columns. The Assamese meanings
of the word kj kai are given on the left hand side (lines 1-6). The fifth line is
the word for “chicken” which reads as in Example 13, with the Assamese
translation written in Ahom script and marked by the case marker -ɔk,
which marks some direct and indirect objects.
Example 13) kj cM ba ku ku rkq /

kai cham ba ku ku rak
chicken prt say chicken-K
“For a fowl, kai is said”.
The entire manuscript was transcribed by Zeenat Tabassum,61 and formed the
basis for a dictionary in the Toolbox format.62 All words that occur in the Bar
61 Tabassum is a Master’s graduate in linguistics from Gauhati University. This work

was done between 2005 and 2008 some years before the EAP project commenced. The
translation was conducted taking into account the earlier translation in Bimala Kanta
Barua and N. N. Deodhari Phukan. Ahom Lexicons, Based on Original Tai Manuscripts
(Guwahati: Department of Historical and Antiquarian Studies, 1964).
62 Toolbox is a dictionary-writing program produced by the Summer Institute of
Linguistics, http://www-01.sil.org/computing/toolbox
Amra are included, but in addition words that we find in other manuscripts
are added when their meanings are confirmed. Each of those words is
sourced back to at least one example in the manuscripts. The online dictionary
includes the sentence containing an example of the word, in Ahom script,
transliteration, with English, Shan and sometimes Assamese translations.63
All the manuscripts referenced in the dictionary are also in the EAP archive.
The writing of a descriptive Ahom grammar, based on the language
examples as found in the manuscripts, whose translation is possible because
of their identification through this project. A sketch grammar, running to
around 34 pages has been already published: it is available in a published
article, and has been archived online as part of the DoBeS website.64
Finally, there is the development of a Unicode encoding for the Ahom
script, which has been jointly developed by Martin Hosken and myself.65 The
final version of the Ahom Unicode proposal was presented to the Unicode
consortium in October 2012 and approved. A first draft Tai Ahom unicode
font has been produced, together with a keyboard, and since July 2014 the
font has been in use by community members on Facebook and in some email
formats. There are some remaining technical issues to ensure that the font
renders correctly in word-processing programs like Microsoft Word or Open
Office.66 Nevertheless the fact that the Tai Ahom language can now be used
63 We are working towards making the dictionary truly quadrilingual (Tai Ahom, English,
Shan, Assamese) but this will take some time. Some entries are already quadrilingual, as
with the entry for kai (chicken).
64 For the published version, see Stephen Morey, “A Sketch of Tai Ahom”, in Axamiya aru
Axamar Bhasa [Assamese and the Languages of Assam], ed. by Biswajit Das and Axamar
Bhasa (Guwahati: AANK-Bank, 2011). At present the best way to access the online
Ahom materials is to follow a link to projects on the DoBeS website (http://www.mpi.
nl/DoBeS), then Tangsa, Tai and Singpho in Northeast India, then click on corpus and
then the node “Ahom”. All of the materials that we have deposited on the website are
available for download.
65 Martin Hosken and Stephen Morey, “Revised Proposal to add the Ahom Script in the
SMP of the UCS”, Working Group Document, 14 September 2012, http://www.unicode.
org/L2/L2012/12309-ahom-rev.pdf
66 The Ahom font renders perfectly on Facebook using the Mozilla Firefox browser, once
it is set as the default font. In other browsers and other platforms it may not work so
well, as yet. The reason for these rendering issues is the way in which characters are
coded. For example, the vowel /e/, is written before the consonant that it sounds after. So
the word ke is written ek which is e k. Unicode requires the /e/ to be encoded after the
consonant and therefore the fonts have to be designed so that the vowel appears in front
of the consonant even though it is encoded after. At present the Ahom Unicode font will
not work properly in Microsoft Word, and for that reason in this paper and in our online
dictionary and texts we are still using the old legacy font, designed by me in the 1990s.
on social media has the potential to lead to a great expansion in the use of
this script and further strengthen the revival of the language.
Coda: a manuscript’s injunctions

Sometimes at the end of a manuscript, following the section containing the
name of the copyist and the date of the copying, there is an injunction from
the copyist about what should happen to the text. Example 14 is a line of
text from the end of the Khun Lung Khun Lai manuscript belonging to Tulsi
Phukan (see Fig. 2.4).
Example 14) f] yonq y; h] rj lkq

phav jon ja hav rai lak
who beg proh give disappear steal
ၽႂ် ယွၼ်း ယႃႉ ႁႂ်ႈ ႁၢႆ လၵ်ႉ
bj sE[q y; AM /
bai svng ja am
keep hide proh keep silent
ဝႆႉ သိူင်ႇ ယႃႉ ဢၢမ်း
“If someone begs [to take it] don’t give it lest it disappear, keep
it hidden, but don’t keep silent [about the story]”.
This translation was done by Chaichuen and myself, and the meaning
emerged after some discussion. The grammatical structure of this line is:
phav jon, ja hv rai lak, bai svng, ja am. The sentence consists of a condition
(phav jon “[if] someone begs [it]”), followed by three commands: ja hav
rai lak (“don’t let it be lost and taken away”), bai svng (“keep it hidden”
or perhaps “keep it safe”), and ja am (“don’t keep silent about it”). This
we interpret as a request to the future owners of the book to keep it in its
proper location, not to let it be taken away, keep it safe, but not to hide
its contents and meaning from the wider community. I consider that our
work is exactly in accord with this injunction.
Abbreviations
fin final particle
give grammaticalisation of the word “give” to imply causation, or
allowing something to happen
link linking word, sometimes translatable as “also”
n.fin non-final, a particle indicating that another phrase or clauses is
to follow
pl plural
pn proper name
proh prohibitive, “don’t do X”
resp respect particle
sg singular
true literally “true”; this particle is largely bleached of meaning but
conveys that the statement is believed to be true
voc vocative
References
Barua, Bimala Kanta, and N. N. Deodhari Phukan, Ahom Lexicons, Based on Original
Tai Manuscripts (Guwahati: Department of Historical and Antiquarian Studies,
1964).
Barua, Golap Chandra, Ahom Buranji: From the Earliest Time to the End of Ahom Rule
(Guwahati: Spectrum, 1985 [1930]).
Egerod, Søren, “Essentials of Shan Phonology and Script”, Academia Sinica: Bulletin
of the Institute of History and Philology, 29 (1957), 121-27.
Gait, Edward, A History of Assam (Guwahati: Lawyers Book Stall, 1992 [1905]).
Gogoi, Lila, The Buranjis, Historical Literature of Assam: A Critical Survey (New Delhi:
Omsons, 1986).
Holm, David, Recalling Lost Souls: The Baeu Rodo Scriptures, Tai Cosmogonic Texts from
Guangxi in Southern China (Bangkok: White Lotus, 2004).
Li Fang-Kuei, A Handbook of Comparative Tai (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii
Press, 1977).
Mitra, Anup, Coins of the Ahom Kingdom (Calcutta: Mahua Mitra, 2001).
Morey, Stephen, The Tai Languages of Assam: A Grammar and Texts (Canberra: Pacific
Linguistics, 2005).
—, “A Sketch of Tai Ahom”, in Axamiya aru Axamar Bhasa [Assamese and the Languages
of Assam], ed. by Biswajit Das and Phukan Basumatary (Guwahati: AANK-Bank,
2011).
—, “Ahom and Tangsa: Case Studies of Language Maintenance and Loss in North
East India”, Language Documentation and Conservation, 7 (2014), 46-77.
—, “Studying Tones in North East India: Tai, Singpho and Tangsa”, Language
Documentation and Conservation, 8 (2014), 637-71.
Nathan, David, and Peter K. Austin, “Reconceiving Metadata: Language
Documentation Through Thick and Thin”, Language Documentation and
Description, 2 (2004), 179-88.
Sai Kam Mong, The History and Development of the Shan Scripts (Chiang Mai:
Silkworm, 2004).
Sao Tern Moeng, Shan-English Dictionary (Kensington, MD: Dunwoody Press, 1995).
Terwiel, B. J., The Tai of Assam and Ancient Tai Ritual, Volume I: Life Style Ceremonies
(Gaya: Centre for South East Asian Studies, 1980).
—, The Tai of Assam and Ancient Tai Ritual, Volume II: Sacrifices and Time-reckoning
(Gaya: Centre for South East Asian Studies, 1981).
—, “Reading a Dead Language: Tai Ahom and the Dictionaries”, in Prosodic Analysis
and Asian Linguistics: To Honour R. K. Spriggs, ed. by David Bradley, Eugénie J. A.
Henderson and Martine Mazaudon (Canberra: Australian National University,
1989), pp. 283-96.
—, “Recreating the Past: Revivalism in Northeastern India”, Bijdragen: Journal of the
Royal Institute of Linguistics and Anthropology, 152 (1996), 275-92.
—, and Ranoo Wichasin, eds. and trans, Tai Ahoms and The Stars: Three Ritual Texts to
Ward off Danger (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992).
Wichasin, Ranoo, trans., Ahom Buranji (Bangkok: Amarin, 1996).
3. Unravelling Lepcha manuscripts
Heleen Plaisier
Lepcha is a Tibeto-Burman language spoken in the Indian state of Sikkim,

the Darjeeling district in West Bengal, the Ilām district in Nepal, and in
a few villages of the Samtsi district in southwestern Bhutan. The Lepcha
people are regarded as the native inhabitants of Sikkim, and most of the
areas in which Lepcha is spoken today were once Sikkimese territory. The
exact position of Lepcha within the clade of Tibeto-Burman languages is still
unclear. The current number of Lepcha speakers is estimated to be around
30,000, but many Lepchas today never mastered the language fluently and
give preference to Nepali and English.1
Fig. 3.1 Prayers to the Choten. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/9), CC BY.
1 Heleen Plaisier, A Grammar of Lepcha (Leiden: Brill, 2007), p. 1.
© Heleen Plaisier, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.03

Although there are still areas in which the Lepcha language flourishes, the
culture has been losing ground for over 100 years. Lepcha manuscripts
represent the oldest stages of the Lepcha literary tradition and with the
endangerment of the Lepcha language and culture, the survival of these texts
is at risk. Many Lepcha texts are based on Tibetan originals and combine
elements of non-Buddhist native Lepcha religious beliefs with Tibetan
Buddhist values and traditions (Fig. 3.1). Any study of Lepcha civilisation
cannot ignore the enormous impact of the Tibetan language and culture, a
research topic that has so far received little attention.
Fig. 3.2 Worship of Ekádoshi. Tamyong Collection (EAP281/3/1), CC BY.
Many aspects of Lepcha culture, literature and religion are as yet undocumented.
It is of paramount importance to document and describe these traditions before
they become too eroded, and to work towards a balanced interpretation
of their precise nature. This chapter presents the first steps in unravelling
the Lepcha materials that were recently digitised through the Endangered
Archives Programme (EAP), in order to highlight their significance and
encourage further research.2
2 The author gratefully acknowledges the Endangered Archives Programme for

funding the pilot project EAP281: Locating and identifying Lepcha manuscripts as a
first step towards their preservation, http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.
a4d?projID=EAP281. The digitised Lepcha titles mentioned in this chapter are available
at http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP281, and their EAP catalogue
numbers are given in footnotes.
Unravelling Lepcha manuscripts 69
Written Lepcha
The native Lepcha orthography

The Lepcha people maintain a literary tradition that dates back to the eighteenth
century. The Lepcha script is understood to have been devised at the time of
the third chogyal of Sikkim, Chador Namgyal, who reigned from 1700-1716.
According to Lepcha tradition, the native Lepcha orthography was created
by the Lepcha scholar Thikúng Mensalóng, who is believed to have been a
contemporary of Lama Lhatsun Chenpo, i.e. Lama Lhatsun Namkha Jigme
(1597-1654), the patron saint of Sikkim, who played a definitive part in the
Sikkimese conversion to Buddhism. Since sources mention that Mensalóng
and Lhatsun Chenpo met each other,3 they may well have worked together
on the Lepcha orthography, which would account for a Tibetan tradition
which ascribes the introduction of the Lepcha script to Lhatsun Chenpo. The
Lepcha tradition that credits Mensalóng with the invention of the Lepcha
script seems even more plausible when we realise that the Limbu or Kiranti
script was also developed during the reign of Chador Namgyal, not by
Chador Namgyal himself, but by the Limbu monk Śirijaṅgā.4
It has been suggested that there was a literary tradition amongst the
Lepcha before the arrival of Buddhism, and that Lepcha texts were destroyed
by Tibetan Buddhist monks in the seventeenth century.5 These suggestions
are not supported by evidence, but it is important to point here to a striking
parallel in Limbu history, where Limbu books that reflected the shamanistic
Limbu religion were forbidden and destroyed by the regime, and the inventor
of the Limbu script, Śirijaṅgā, was killed by Buddhist monks after having
used the script to write down non-Buddhist Limbu traditions.6
The native Lepcha orthography is systematically treated in a work entitled
Lazóng,7 which is traditionally used to teach the first steps of reading and
3 Arthur Foning, Lepcha: My Vanishing Tribe (New Delhi: Sterling, 1987), p. 152.
4 George van Driem, Languages of the Himalayas: An Ethnolinguistic Handbook of the Greater
Himalayan Region (Leiden: Brill, 2001), pp. 674-75. The origin of the Lepcha orthography
is discussed in detail in Plaisier, A Grammar of Lepcha, pp. 32-44.
5 George Byres Mainwaring, A Grammar of the Rong (Lepcha) Language as it Exists in the
Dorjeling and Sikim Hills (Calcutta: Baptist Mission Press, 1876), p. xi.
6 Van Driem, Languages of the Himalayas, pp. 675-76.
7 Lazóng: EAP281/1/11. Titles and direct quotations from Lepcha are transcribed
according to the conventions of the transliteration described in Plaisier, A Grammar of
Lepcha, pp. 38-44.
writing Lepcha.8 Customarily, Lazóng is recited by a teacher in a set melody,

which enables his audience of students to read and chant along, memorising
the values of the letters and syllables in the process. Although this work might
seem to be a rather insignificant list of letter combinations to the outsider, the
Lazóng represents an old, powerful and important Lepcha tradition. It is said
that the next step in the traditional approach would be to practise writing
by using a work entitled shuyuk hlápjen, but no surviving copies of this book
have yet been identified. Although most people nowadays learn to read and
write Lepcha through different methods, the traditional method based on
recitation of the Lazóng is still practised in some areas. The traditional order
of the Lepcha alphabet in the Lazóng is different from the order found in
modern primers and textbooks, and even modern versions of the Lazóng,9
which follow the order of the devanāgarī alphabet.
Lepcha literature comprises various literary genres, such as folk tales,
poetry, fiction and religious works. The subject has as yet received little
scholarly attention and only a few transcriptions, translations and analyses of
Lepcha works have been published to date. Albert Grünwedel, the Tibetologist
who edited the Lepcha dictionary manuscript left behind by George Byres
Mainwaring, published several Lepcha texts that display clear links to Tibetan
works.10 An excellent account of traditional Lepcha stories was published by
C. de Beauvoir Stocks,11 and René de Nebesky-Wojkowitz wrote an article on
the Lepcha, “Legende vom Turmbau [Legend of the Building of the Tower]”.12
Several Lepcha legends are described in the publications of Geoffrey Gorer,
Matthias Hermanns, Amal Kumar Das, George Kotturan and Richard Keith
Sprigg.13 Halfdan Siiger and Jørgen Rischel include descriptions of various
8 Plaisier, Catalogue of Lepcha Manuscripts in the van Manen Collection (Leiden: Kern Institute,
2003), pp. 31-32.
9 Khárpú Támsáng, Róng Chomíng ân Lâzóng (Kalimpong: Mani Printing Works, 1982).
10 Albert Grünwedel, “Drei Leptscha Texte, mit Auszügen aus dem Padma-than-yig
und Glossar”, T’oung Pao, 7 (1896), 522-62; idem, “Ein Kapitel des Ta-she-Sung”,
Festschrift für Adolf Bastian (Berlin, 1896); idem, “Leptscha-Text mit Übersetzung”,
Veröffentlichungen aus dem Königlichen Museum für Völkerkunde zu Berlin, 4 (1897), 118-
26; idem, “Padmasambhava und Mandarava: Leptscha Übersetzung des Mandarava-
Legende”, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 52 (1898), 447-61; and
idem, “Padmasambhava und verwandtes”, Baessler-Archiv, 3 (1913).
11 C. de Beauvoir Stocks, “Folklore and Customs of the Lap-chas of Sikkim”, Journal and
Proceedings of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, new series 21 (1925), 325-505; and idem, “A
Rong Folk Tobacco Story”, Folklore, 37 (1926), 193-95.
12 René de Nebesky-Wojkowitz, “Die Legende vom Turmbau der Lepcha”, Anthropos, 48
(1953), 889-97.
13 Geoffrey Gorer, Himalayan Village: An Account of the Lepchas of Sikkim (London: M. Joseph,
1938); Matthias Hermanns, The Indo-Tibetans (Bombay: Fernandes, 1954), pp. 30-96; Amal
Kumar Das, The Lepchas of West Bengal (Calcutta: Editions Indian, 1978), pp. 216-33;
Lepcha myths in their book, as well as analyses and translations of over

forty short Lepcha texts.14 I published a transcription and translation of two
Lepcha resurrection texts,15 and Arthur Foning provides a translation and
discussion of various important Lepcha legends.16 Of particular value are
Khárpú Támsáng’s books on Lepcha mythology, which capture traditional
stories in the Lepcha language.17
Lepcha manuscripts
The oldest handwritten materials in Lepcha to have been identified were
written in the second half of the nineteenth century. Lepcha texts are written
on paper and are usually in book form, either handmade volumes or machine-
made exercise books. Some Lepcha manuscripts are in concertina form, and
occasionally they consist of loose sheets. Dog-ears, small stains, mould, insect
and worm demage (Fig. 3.2), weakened paper, discoloration of ink, grease
stains, damp stains and water spots occur in almost all Lepcha manuscripts.
Over the centuries, religious Lepcha texts have been meticulously copied
by hand by devoted scribes, a tradition which continues to date. Copies are
made to ensure the survival of the texts and to pass them on to others. The
act of copying these books by hand is considered to be a devoutly religious
task that should not be undertaken without respect for the meaning of the
text. The copyist may add a short colophon to the work, which is a text
passage in which the name of the scribe, the place, year, month, day and in
some cases even the time of the transcript is given.
If the text was not copied per se, but written down by the scribe whilst
being narrated or recited by someone else, this may also be mentioned in
the colophon. The colophon is a personal contribution of the scribe and is
generally written in a style different from the rest of the work — it is usually
George Kotturan, The Himalayan Gateway: History and Culture of Sikkim (Delhi: Sterling,
1983), pp. 122-24; Folk Tales of Sikkim (Delhi: Sterling, 1989); Richard Keith Sprigg, “The
Lepcha Language and Three Hundred Years of Tibetan Influence in Sikkim”, Journal of
the Asiatic Society, 24 (1982), 16-31; and Sprigg, “Hooker’s Expenses in Sikkim: An Early
Lepcha Text”, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 46/2 (1983), 305-25.
14 Halfdan Siiger and Jørgen Rischel, The Lepchas: Culture and Religion of a Himalayan People
(Copenhagen: Gyldenal, 1967).
15 Heleen Plaisier, “Two Lepcha Delúk Texts”, in Medieval Tibeto-Burman Languages IV, ed.
by Nathan Hill (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 23-109.
16 Foning, Lepcha, pp. 85-109 and 265-80.
17 Khárpú Támsáng, Róng Tóm Sung: A Treasure of the Lepcha Moral Stories (Kalimpong:
Lyangsong Tamsang, 1999); and idem, Róng Sung Gyom (Kalimpong: Lepcha
Association, 2002).
more personal and more direct. In addition to a few personal words, the
colophon typically contains certain solemn and honorary phrases and prayers,
which are used by the scribe to urge the reader to treat the text with respect
and to take to heart its moral lessons.
Over 200 Lepcha manuscripts are held in European libraries, universities
and museums. This number relates to the number of physical manuscript
volumes, but one manuscript volume often contains several literary works.
The largest collection of Lepcha manuscripts can be found in the collection
of the Kern Institute at Leiden University, and consists of 182 manuscripts
collected by Johan van Manen (1877-1943).18 The Museum für Völkerkunde in
Vienna houses seven manuscripts collected by René de Nebesky-Wojkowitz
(1923-1959), and the National Museum in Copenhagen has twelve manuscripts
collected by Halfdan Siiger (1911-1999). The School of Oriental and African
Studies in London houses five Lepcha manuscripts. There are a further seven
in the British Library; six of these volumes were collected by Brian Houghton
Hodgson (c. 1800-1894) and one by Lawrence Augustine Waddell (1854-1938).
Fig. 3.3 The Legend of the Goddess Queen. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/20), CC BY.
18 Plaisier, Catalogue of Lepcha Manuscripts.

For three months in 2009, with the support of EAP, I explored the Lepcha
manuscripts surviving in private collections in Sikkim, Darjeeling and
Kalimpong. The aim of this project was to locate collections of manuscripts,
identify the texts, and discuss with owners the possibility of digitising their
materials for preservation. The project was supported by a local partner,
the Namgyal Institute of Tibetology in Gangtok (Sikkim, India), which itself
houses thirty Lepcha manuscripts, the description and digitisation of which
were included in the project.
During the project we have consulted and described six private collections
of Lepcha manuscripts.19 These are the collections of the late Arthur Foning
of Chyu-Pundi Farm in Mongbol Basti in Kalimpong, Óng Tshering Namchu
of Mane Gombú village in Kalimpong, Dendrúp Adyenmú Lepcha of Mane
Gombú, now residing in Gangtok in Sikkim, Chuksung Lepcha of Lower
Burtuk in Sikkim, Tamyong Lepcha of Luknyi (Linge Payong) in Sikkim,
and Chong Róngkup of Pulungdung near Darjeeling. Foning (1913-1987)
was a renowned Lepcha scholar who published various works on Lepcha
culture. Chuksung Lepcha works as a government official in Sikkim and is
active in several groups with a vested interest in the preservation of Lepcha
heritage. Dendrúp Lepcha is a well-known literary figure, researcher and
journalist in Gangtok with an enduring passion for Lepcha cultural studies.
Óng Tshering Namchu, Tamyong Lepcha and Chong Róngkup all practice
as bóngthíngs, traditional Lepcha religious specialists, and as such regularly
use their Lepcha manuscripts for recitation during religious ceremonies.
These collections contain 89 manuscripts altogether, of which forty were
selected for digitisation.20 Preference was given to rare and unusual titles, and
only a few copies were included of better-known works. Some manuscripts
were too fragile to be included in the digitisation. The manuscripts we have
digitised were produced between 1894 and 1963 by Rapdensíng Foning,
Núrshíng Lepcha, N. S. Kárthák, Nákphye Lepcha, Khámbú Singh Lepcha,
Tshángdo Tshering Lepcha, P. T. Lepcha, Thilok Lepcha and other unnamed
or presently unidentified scribes. All manuscripts remain in the owners’
private collections. The digitised copies of these manuscripts are available
19 A further 125 manuscripts were located in Kalimpong but not described, and reports of
up to 420 manuscripts in Sikkim, Darjeeling, Nepal and Bhutan were noted.
20 2448 digital images were created using a Nikon D80 digital camera with a Sigma DC
17-70 mm lens, using a tripod to stabilise the camera. Images were made in RAW format
and converted to TIFF 300 ppi TIFF, 3872 x 2592, Adobe RGB (1998), 10.0 MP.
online through the EAP, and copies are also accessible upon request at the
Namgyal Institute of Tibetology.21
Lepcha literature
Lepcha religious beliefs

The central religious roles in the Lepcha community are traditionally occupied
by the mun and bóngthíng, who both function as shamans. The bóngthíng is
traditionally a male shaman who presides at recurring religious ceremonies
and seasonal festivals and may heal acute illness. The mun, often but not
necessarily a female shaman, is a healer who exorcises demons, helps to
heal illness and guides souls to the afterlife. It is possible for a bóngthíng
to develop into a mun; in Sikkim such healers are known as padem. The
indigenous religious beliefs of the Lepchas were undoubtedly influenced by
Tibetan Buddhist values and traditions since the introduction of Buddhism
in Sikkim, but especially since the establishment of the Namgyal dynasty
in the seventeenth century.22 Indigenous Lepcha shamanism coexists with
Buddhist customs and beliefs, so that at many important ceremonies in
Lepcha life, both Buddhist lamas and Lepcha bóngthíngs preside, each to
perform their own rituals.
Popular Lepcha texts

It is generally assumed that the majority of religious Lepcha texts are of
a Buddhist nature, but since the texts also appear to display at least some
elements of the native Lepcha religious beliefs, they are generally regarded
as adaptations rather than direct translations of Tibetan Buddhist texts:23
If one goes through these books carefully, it will be seen unmistakably that,
apart from the plain copying down from the original Tibetan texts, the stories
have been presented and given out to the readers in a complete Lepcha
21 Namgyal Institute of Tibetology, Deorali, Gangtok, Sikkim 737 101, India.

22 van Driem, Languages of the Himalayas, pp. 904-05.
23 See Piotr Klafkowski, “Rong (Lepcha), the Vanishing Language and Culture of Eastern
Himalaya”, Lingua Posnaniensis, 23 (1980), 105-18 (p. 112); and Plaisier, Catalogue of Lepcha
Manuscripts, pp. 37-40.
aura. The readers will feel that these stories etc. were written by the Lepchas
themselves, and for themselves, exclusively.24
No research to date has compared these Lepcha adaptations with the Tibetan
originals. The lack of adequate dictionaries and relevant text editions
make the translation of Lepcha texts a challenging affair and only few
transcriptions, translations or analyses of Lepcha manuscript texts have
been published to date. Also, the abundant spelling variations or spelling
errors that are present in Lepcha manuscript texts can be problematic. The
identification of strands of native traditions in Lepcha literature is further
complicated by our limited knowledge of the ancient Lepcha religious
beliefs. Moreover, only few Lepchas can still read the handwriting and
comprehend the language used in old texts.
In the titles of Lepcha works we often find an indication of genre, such
as sung (story, narrative), cho (book, learning), munlóm (prayer, blessing),
or námthár (legend, biography). These designations are obviously direct
loans from equivalent categories in Tibetan literature, i.e. Tibetan Gsuṅ,
Chos, sMon-lam and rNam-thar. Indeed, a Lepcha book, referred to as cho,
typically conveys a canonical message, whereas a munlóm is usually a
prayer book of some kind. A Lepcha námthár is generally a text containing
a sacred legend, some chapter of native lore or a hagiography about the life
of a saint or miracle-worker. The Lepcha term sung is used specifically for
traditional stories that were originally not written down, but transmitted
orally. In a broader sense, sung refers to narratives or stories in general.
Some Lepchas indicate any text with a Buddhist connection by adding
the designation námthó námthár or námthár cho. Most popular works exist
under different titles, such as tashe thíng sá námthar, tashe thíng sá cho, and
tashe sung, or chotyen munlóm, chotyen námthár, or even chotyen munlóm sá
sung and chotyen munlóm sá námthár. Whether these different titles represent
different versions of the text is still an open question. In colloquial Lepcha,
designations such as munlóm and námthár are pretty interchangeable, and
appear to be used not so much because of their literal meaning, but rather
their connotation of indicating some kind of sacred text.
24 Arthur Foning, “A Short Account of the Lepcha Language and Literature”, Bulletin of the
Cultural Research Institute, 13/3-4 (1979), 20-30 (p. 24).
The pivotal work in Lepcha literature is entitled Tashe sung [The Story
of Lord Tashe].25 This book describes the legendary life of Tashe thíng (Lord
Tashe), who is equalled to Padmasambhava in the Tibetan Pad-ma thaṅ-yig.
The book describes different events in Lord Tashe’s life, his extraordinary
powers and knowledge, his views on life and death, his battle against evil
and the blessings he was able to spread around. Parts of this work are
traditionally recited twice a day by Lepcha people: in the early morning
and late evening. Lepcha texts are recited or chanted in a specific manner,
referred to as nyumjó (melody, tune). There is a range of such chanting styles,
of which the simplest and most commonly used is referred to as shímvunmú
ʔúng tasót nyumjó (flowing melody).26
There are other Lepcha works that are subsidiary to the Tashe sung, and
in a sense all these texts form part of a large epos about Lord Tashe’s life and
work. For example, the work Rum pundi sá námthár [The Legend of the Goddess
Queen] describes how Lord Tashe is struck by the troubles and suffering of
human beings on earth, and how he sends his wife to earth to fight the bad
influences that prevail there (Fig. 3.3).27 She tries to lead three wicked kings
to a righteous and more religious path by taking birth as one of the king’s
daughters. Since her suffering is so great, Lord Tashe himself takes birth as
one of the king’s sons, and ultimately succeeds in fighting evil.
Another work found in many copies is Chotyen munlóm [Prayers to the
Choten], a book of prayers, ritual ceremonies and offerings, which is intended
to demonstrate the formulae for showing devotion and expressing worship.28
The book explains that the reading of prayers procures blessings. Chotyen
munlóm is partly written in the form of a dialogue between sángge kungáwu
(Lord Buddha) and tukbo thíng (Lord Tukbo). This is a book of prophecy,
which predicts and describes calamities that mankind will have to suffer.
According to René de Nebesky-Wojkowitz, this text corresponds to the Tibetan
text mChod-rten sMon-lam, about the Bya-ruṅ kha-śor stūpa at Kathmandu.29
In several manuscripts we have found the work entitled Lopân birútsáná
[The Learned Master Birutsana], which contains wise sayings, moral and ethical
instructions of a contemporary of Padmasambhava, who in Tibet is known
25 Tashe sung: EAP281/1/8, EAP281/1/22, EAP281/1/23, EAP281/2/2, EAP281/4/1,

EAP281/5/6, EAP281/5/10. Plaisier, Catalogue of Lepcha Manuscripts, p. 41.
26 Pâsóng Choríng Simik, “Rhythmic Tones in Reading Lepcha Religious Books”, Aachuley:
A Quarterly Lepcha Bilingual News Magazine, 2/3 (1998), 17-18.
27 Rum pundi sá námthár: EAP281/1/20.
28 Chotyen munlóm: EAP281/1/9, EAP281/5/3.
29 Plaisier, Catalogue of Lepcha Manuscripts, pp. 34-35 and 41.
as Slob-pdon Vairocana.30 Foning pointed to this title as the source of many

expressions in the Lepcha language, often referred to as tungbór (idiom) and
ríngdyul (metaphor).31
Another example of a popular work attested in manuscripts we digitised,
Cenrejú sá námthár [The Legend of Cenrejú], is based on the legend of Cenrejú, the
Boddhisattva of compassion (Tibetan Spyan-ras-gzigs, Sanskrit Avalokiteśvara)
(Fig. 3.4).32 Cenrejú tries to liberate all living beings from all kinds of suffering,
but eventually has to accept that his goal cannot be reached without help.
He despairs and consequently his head splits into many pieces. The Buddha
(Amitābha) puts his body back together and creates a body with many different
arms and heads, which will enable Cenrejú to fight many different kinds
of suffering all at the same time. Cenrejú is sometimes portrayed with a
thousand arms and eleven heads, and is then called Ekádoshi.
Fig. 3.4 The Legend of Cenrejú. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/6), CC BY.
30 Lopân birútsáná: EAP281/1/15, EAP281/1/18.

31 Foning, Lepcha, pp. 166-70.
32 Cenrejú sá námthár: EAP281/1/6.
We have also found texts related to the worship of Ekadoshi (Sanskrit

Avalokiteśvara Eka-daśa-mukha) such as Ekadoshi sa munlom [Worship of
Ekadoshi] (Fig. 3.2).33 The text describes the life of the virtuous king Bírbáho
and explains the cult of Ekádoshi, in which it is customary to fast and
pray once a year for two whole days and one whole night. In the book,
the existence of different religions in the world is explained, and the
need for tolerance towards other religions, such as Hinduism, is strongly
emphasised. This Lepcha title may correspond to the Sanskrit-Tibetan
work I-kā-da-śa sMon-lam.
Other popular texts we found are Tángku námthár [The Legendary
Origin of Tobacco] which explains the demonic origins of tobacco and the
dangerous consequences of its use,34 and Tukfíl sá námthár [The Legend of
the Ants], a popular story that demonstrates the value of mutual respect
between living creatures.35 The latter text describes how, while a priest is
meditating, an ant walks over the table in front of him. The priest flicks
the insect off the table, and nearly kills it. The ant is shocked and asks
the priest angrily if he realises that he came close to killing it. The priest
is not moved and the ant takes the matter to the ant-king who attacks
the priest with his army, in order to teach him a lesson. The terrified
priest prays for help and is rescued by a magic light which frightens the
ants away. In the end no one is hurt, but the priest and the ants learn to
respect each other.36
Another lively story is recounted in the book Guru choʔóng which
contains the records of the pious Guru Choʔóng and his sinful mother
Gompúkít.37 This work may be based on the Tibetan Gu-ru Chos-dbaň
gi rNam-thar, a story about Padmasambhava. Trímík kunden sá námthár
[The Legend of Trímík Kunden] is the Lepcha version of the Tibetan legend
Dri-med Kun-ldan rNam-thar, based on the Viśvantara or Vessantara Jātaka,
the last great birth of the Buddha, and describes many heroic sacrifices
made by the charitable prince.38
33 Ekádoshi sá munlóm: EAP281/1/23, EAP281/2/3, EAP281/3/1.

34 Tángku námthár: EAP281/1/18.
35 Tukfíl sá námthár: EAP281/1/9.
36 Plaisier, Catalogue of Lepcha manuscripts, p. 50.
37 Gúrú choʔóng: EAP281/1/8.
38 Trímík kunden sá námthár: EAP281/1/21.
Fig. 3.5 The Legend of the Goddess Nángse. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/13), CC BY.
Lepcha resurrection texts

In Lepcha literature we also find a group of texts in which people relate
their experiences in the afterlife. This literature describes the experiences
of those who meet their death and are subsequently sent back to the living
to recount the torments to which sinners are subjected after dying. In the
Lepcha language, their accounts are referred to by the term delúk, literally
“resurrection” or “revenant”. The term delúk is akin to the Tibetan phrase
ḥDas-log, which is used for Tibetan narratives of a similar nature. These tales
are found in Tibetan as early as the seventeenth century and in Lepcha since
the eighteenth century. The genre is generally understood as a mediation of
Buddhist doctrine through traditional Tibetan beliefs. 39
While a number of Lepcha delúk texts are clearly based on Tibetan originals,
others may be original Lepcha texts in the ḥDas-log tradition. Two delúk texts
that are well-known from Tibetan literature were frequently copied in their
39 Plaisier, Two Lepcha Delúk Texts, pp. 24-25.

Lepcha versions; these are the stories of Língse chokít and Kármá ʔóngjun. Other
examples of Lepcha delúk texts are Sakon delúk sá sung [The Story of the Resurrection
of Sakon], Nungyang mun delúk [A Nun’s Return from Hell], Phyukbú pake sá
námthár [The Legend of the Wealthy Man Pake], Thóngsál Drámmo námthár [The Life
of Thóngsál Drámmo], Mun Tembú sá delúk [The Resurrection of the Priestess Tembú]
and Rummít Nángse sá námthár [The Legend of the Goddess Nángse] (Fig. 3.5).40
Fig. 3.6 Astrological text. Namchu Collection (EAP281/2/1), CC BY.
Fig. 3.7 Astrological text. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/10), CC BY.
40 Sakon delúk sá sung: EAP281/5/1. Rummit nángse sá námthár: EAP281/1/13.

Lepcha astrological texts

There are many astrological works in Lepcha, in fact the majority of the
forty manuscripts digitised through the EAP contain texts belonging to this
category. In traditional Lepcha life, astrology is used in many different ways.
Astrology concerns itself with the prediction of the many different things
to happen in a person’s life and focuses on the reading of auspicious and
inauspicious signs and omens. It is believed that the fate of a human being
can be influenced by his actions. Astrology can help to support religion by
suggesting appropriate religious practices. It is also connected to the field
of medicine, because it can help in diagnosing and curing diseases. Apart
from casting horoscopes and offering an analysis of a person’s character or
personality, astrology is also used in determining the suitability of marriage
partners, and to advise travellers and farmers.41
Fig. 3.8 Astrological text. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/14), CC BY.
41 Plaisier, Catalogue of Lepcha Manuscripts, p. 57.

Lepcha astrological texts, sometimes simply referred to as tsu (astrology;

Tibetan rTsis)42 have not yet been studied at all, and it has not yet been
possible to identify many of the digitised material (Figs. 3.6, 3.7, 3.8
and 3.10). There appear to be clear links between Lepcha astrology and
traditional Tibetan astrological traditions, for example the text Parkhó sá
tsu [Parkhó Calculations] (Fig. 3.9) appears to relate directly to the Tibetan
tradition of geomantic diagrams, described in sPar-kha-hi rTsis.43 One of the
astrological works in Lepcha that is often encountered in manuscript form
is called in full khyenrúng díngngá sá tsu kyân sá cho, but is often referred to
simply as tsu kyân sá cho [Book of Astrology].44 It is thought that this book
consists of several volumes relating to birth, journeys and marriage, some
of which have been found copied independently, e.g. ʔágek ʔálát sá tsu (birth
horoscopes) and brí sá tsu (marriage horoscopes).45
Fig. 3.9 Parkhó Calculations. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/7), CC BY.
42 Tsu: EAP281/1/10.
43 Parkhó sá tsu: EAP281/1/4, EAP281/1/12, EAP281/2/1.
44 Khyenrúng díngngá sá tsu kyân sá cho: EAP281/1/14.
45 Brí sá tsu: EAP281/1/19.
Funerary texts relate to death and funerary traditions that are read aloud or
chanted from memory in the presence of a person who is dying or has just
passed away. In Lepcha literature, the title thókdra serves as a cover term for
all Lepcha funerary texts, among which is the book entitled thókdra itself, but
also works such as ʔámák sá munlóm, nyúthíng lóm frón, and possibly some of
the titles designated shang sá tsu.46
The Lepcha designation shang sá tsu refers to “death horoscopes”. The
reading of the death horoscope is essential for the organisation of the funeral
ceremony. Every ritual action is based on the conclusions reached by the
astrologer. Among the most significant of the calculations are the immediate
cause of death, the prediction of the future destiny of the spirit and the
handling and timing of the removal of the deceased body.
The Tibetan Buddhist tradition is such that traditionally, to help the
deceased travellers gain insight into their situation, a monk or skilled
layperson will recite guiding instructions and inspirational prayers from
special funerary texts, sometimes referred to as Bar-do Thos-sgrol, or the
Tibetan Book of the Dead. The term thókdra appears to be the Lepcha spelling
of the Tibetan Thos-sgrol. The Lepcha thókdra contains words of guidance and
consolation to the departed spirit, and is recited by the mun at the time the
funeral pyre is lit. Some versions of this text or parts of it are written in the
second person, as if speaking directly to the deceased. The first part of this
book emphasises that the belief in the holy scriptures alone will guide the
departed soul to heaven. In the second part, the departed soul is consoled
by the words that death is inevitable. The deceased is persuaded to have
left the world of the living; it is pointed out that the deceased cannot cast
any more shadows, and can step silently on dried leaves or twigs without
breaking them. In the third part, the departed soul is cautioned against
the tricks of evil spirits who will take the form of loved and near ones,
and is directed to pay homage to the gods. In the last part, the deceased
has been guided to the abode of gods and the text concludes by consoling
the departed soul.
Although they generally coexist, the native Lepcha religious beliefs and
Tibetan Buddhist beliefs sometimes contradict each other. The Lepchas use
the term sanglyon to refer to both the Tibetan Buddhist and the Lepcha rituals
for guiding the soul of the deceased from this world to their next destination.
For the Lepchas there is traditionally no judgement in the afterlife, and once
46 Shang sá tsu: EAP281/1/1, EAP281/1/2, EAP281/1/4, EAP281/1/9, EAP281/1/16, EAP281/1/17.

the soul reaches its destination it lives on forever among all other immortal
spirits.47 The Lepchas traditionally believe that people who have died shall
never return to our world benevolently: they can only ever have contact with
our world again in the form of múng (evil spirits). After death a soul can be
converted into an evil spirit while it is in tongdek márdek lyáng (the netherworld),
and the risk of this happening is provoked when death occurs suddenly,
violently, at a young age, or when the proper funerary ceremonies are not
conducted. In contrast, the Tibetan Buddhist soul is judged after death and
consequently guided to its next incarnation. From glancing at the contents
of the funerary texts, it appears that belief in a judgement of the soul by the
Lord of the Dead, choge pano (Tibetan Chhos-kyi rGyal-po); the migrations of
the soul through the perils of the Bar-do, the stage between death and new
life, to its rebirth in one of the “six worlds”; the punishment of sinners in hell
or nyó lyáng (Tibetan dMyal ba); and other well known traditions of Tibetan
Buddhism are now widespread among the Lepchas.
Fig. 3.10 Astrological text. Dendrúp Adyemnu Collection (EAP281/4/3), CC BY.
47 Gorer, Himalayan Village, p. 346.

Conclusion
The discussion above illustrates the richness of the religious and literary tapestry
of the Lepcha people that is perpetuated in their manuscripts. Preservation of
the archival materials that represent the earliest stages of the Lepcha literary
tradition not only ensures that the Lepcha people continue to have access to
their own heritage, but also enables further research into the various strands
of influence of Tibetan Buddhist traditions, non-Buddhist Tibetan beliefs and
linguistic evidence that can be unravelled in Lepcha traditions.
The study of Lepcha manuscripts is still in its early days, but it is expected
to shed light on the nature of indigenous Lepcha religious beliefs and the
spread of Buddhism in the area, while from a linguistic point of view the
language used in these old texts is of historical interest. One impediment to
progress in establishing the exact position of Lepcha within the Tibeto-Burman
languages is the limited understanding of historical phonological borrowing
of Tibetan into Lepcha. Linguistic analysis can also engage our literary
and cultural questions; a comparative study of loanwords and calques will
elucidate which Tibetan Buddhist concepts the Lepcha regarded as foreign
and which they saw as parallel to their own traditions.
Elaborating such linguistic and literary influences will, in turn, promote
more general insight into the way a foreign religion may be adapted to a
local culture. The complex influence Tibetan Buddhism has exercised on the
religion, literature and language of the Lepcha people has parallels with the
experience of many other indigenous peoples in the region.
References
Das, Amal Kumar, The Lepchas of West Bengal (Calcutta: Editions Indian, 1978).
Driem, George van, Languages of the Himalayas: An Ethnolinguistic Handbook of the
Greater Himalayan Region (Leiden: Brill, 2001).
Folk Tales of Sikkim (Delhi: Sterling, 1989).
Foning, Arthur, “A Short Account of the Lepcha Language and Literature”, Bulletin
of the Cultural Research Institute, 13/3-4 (1979), 20-30.
—, Lepcha: My Vanishing Tribe (New Delhi: Sterling, 1987).
Gorer, Geoffrey, Himalayan Village: An Account of the Lepchas of Sikkim (London: M.
Joseph, 1938).
Grünwedel, Albert, “Drei Leptscha Texte, mit Auszügen aus dem Padma-than-yig
und Glossar”, T’oung Pao, 7 (1896), 522-61.
—, “Ein Kapitel des Ta-she-Sung”, Festschrift für Adolf Bastian (Berlin, 1896).
—, “Leptscha-Text mit Übersetzung”, Veröffentlichungen aus dem Königlichen Museum
für Völkerkunde zu Berlin, 4 (1897), 118-26.
—, “Padmasambhava und Mandarava: Leptscha Übersetzung des Mandarava-
Legende”, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 52 (1898), 447-
61.
—, “Padmasambhava und verwandtes”, Baessler-Archiv, 3 (1913).
Hermanns, Matthias, The Indo-Tibetans (Bombay: Fernandes, 1954).
Klafkowski, Piotr, “Rong (Lepcha), The Vanishing Language and Culture of Eastern
Himalaya”, Lingua Posnaniensis, 23 (1980), 105-18.
Kotturan, George, The Himalayan Gateway: History and Culture of Sikkim (Delhi:
Sterling, 1983).
Mainwaring, George Byres, A Grammar of the Rong (Lepcha) Language as it Exists in
the Dorjeling and Sikim Hills (Calcutta: Baptist Mission Press, 1876).
Nebesky-Wojkowitz, René de, “Die Legende vom Turmbau der Lepcha”, Anthropos,
48 (1953), 889-97.
Plaisier, Heleen, Catalogue of Lepcha Manuscripts in the van Manen Collection (Leiden:
Kern Institute, 2003).
—, A Grammar of Lepcha (Leiden: Brill, 2007).
—, “Two Lepcha Delúk Texts”, in Medieval Tibeto-Burman Languages IV, ed. by
Nathan Hill (Leiden: Brill, 2012).
Róng sung gyom (Kalimpong: Lepcha Association, 2002).
Siiger, Halfdan and Jørgen Rischel, The Lepchas: Culture and Religion of a Himalayan
People (Copenhagen: Gyldenal, 1967).
Simik, Pâsóng Choríng, “Rhythmic Tones in Reading Lepcha Religious Books”,
Aachuley: A Quarterly Lepcha Bilingual News Magazine, 2/3 (1998), 17-18.
Sprigg, Richard Keith, “The Lepcha Language and Three Hundred Years of Tibetan
Influence in Sikkim”, Journal of the Asiatic Society, 24 (1982), 16-31.
—, “Hooker’s Expenses in Sikkim: An Early Lepcha Text”, Bulletin of the School of
Oriental and African Studies, 46/2 (1983), 305-25.
Stocks, C. de Beauvoir, “Folklore and Customs of the Lap-chas of Sikkim”, Journal

and Proceedings of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, new series 21 (1925), 325-505.
—, “A Rong Folk Tobacco Story”, Folklore, 37 (1926), 193-95.
Támsáng, Khárpú, Róng Chomíng ân Lâzóng (Kalimpong: Mani Printing Works,
1982).
—, Róng Tóm Sung: A Treasure of the Lepcha Moral Stories (Kalimpong: Lyangsong
Tamsang, 1999).
Archival resources 48
EAP281/1/6
Cenrejú sá námthár.
EAP281/1/9, EAP281/5/3
Chotyen munlóm.
EAP281/1/23, EAP281/2/3, EAP281/3/1
Ekádoshi sá munlóm.
EAP281/1/8
Gúrú choʔóng.
EAP281/1/14
Khyenrúng díngngá sá tsu kyân sá cho.
EAP281/1/11
Lazóng.
EAP281/1/15, EAP281/1/18
Lopân birútsáná.
EAP281/1/4, EAP281/1/12, EAP281/2/1
Parkhó sá tsu.
EAP281/1/20
Rum pundi sá námthár.
EAP281/5/1
Sakon delúk sá sung.
EAP281/1/13
Rummit nángse sá námthár.
EAP281/1/1, EAP281/1/2, EAP281/1/4, EAP281/1/9, EAP281/1/16, EAP281/1/17
Shang sá tsu.
EAP281/1/18
Tángku námthár.
48 http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP281
EAP281/1/8, EAP281/1/22, EAP281/1/23, EAP281/2/2, EAP281/4/1, EAP281/5/6,

EAP281/5/10
Tashe sung.
EAP281/1/21
Trímík kunden sá námthár.
EAP281/1/10
Tsu.
EAP281/1/9
Tukfíl sá námthár.
4. Technological aspects of the
monastic manuscript collection at
May Wäyni, Ethiopia1
Jacek Tomaszewski and Michael Gervers
Located in the Horn of Africa, Ethiopia is one of the most ancient civilisations in
the world, a place where traditional culture, firmly fixed in the past, is continually
challenged by the customs of the modern world. One of the treasures of this
country is its manuscript culture, inseparably tied to the Christian tradition.
There are thousands of churches in Ethiopia, and stored in nearly every one
are parchment manuscripts which contain ancient and sometimes unknown
religious texts. This rich cultural heritage is particularly vulnerable to damage,
loss and destruction, and requires a variety of approaches for its preservation.
One otherwise inconspicuous place is the village and ancient monastic site
of May Wäyni in the northern province of Tigray. The complete collection
of manuscripts there was digitised in 2013 under the auspices of the British
Library’s Endangered Archives Programme (EAP).2 The site is located on a
steep slope at a distance of nearly fifty kilometres south from Tigray’s capital
city of Mekelle. It is situated a few kilometres away from the main road and is
1 The transliteration of Ge’ez and Amharic words in this chapter is based on the system
used by the Encyclopaedia Aethiopica (EAe).
2 EAP526: Digitisation of the endangered monastic archive at May Wäyni (Tigray, Ethiopia),
http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP526. The digitisation was
undertaken by Michael Gervers (University of Toronto, Canada), Ewa Balicka-
Witakowska (Uppsala University, Sweden), Jan Retsö (Gothenburg University, Sweden)
and Jacek Tomaszewski (Polish Institute of World Art Studies, Warsaw). The expedition
was greatly facilitated by the cooperation of Ato Kebede Amare, General Manager for the
Agency of Culture and Tourism in the National State of Tigray. The authors would like
to thank Ewa Balicka-Witakowska for her important contributions towards the accuracy
of this chapter.
© J. Tomaszewski and M. Gervers, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.04

barely accessible by vehicle. The monastic enclosure stands alone on relatively

flat terrain. According to local tradition, the monastery was founded by the
saintly monk Father Qäsäla Giyorgis3 and flourished at the end of the fourteenth
and the beginning of the fifteenth centuries. He was one of the companions
of the important Ethiopian monastic figure Yohannes Käma, abbot of Däbrä
Libanos Monastery in Šäwa.4
A provincial Ethiopian church library may generally contain about forty
manuscripts, so the May Wäyni collection of 91 items is considered large.5 It
consists not only of the standard set of books needed to perform the liturgy and
other services, but also of important texts for the study of the history of Ethiopia
and the Ethiopian Church, the literature of the Christian and Ethiopian Church,
and the history of the manuscript book. Most of the manuscripts appear to have
been copied in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries;6 only a few are decorated.
The old church of May Wäyni and its storage facility collapsed in recent
years, and the construction of the new church has been delayed due to lack
of funds. The manuscripts are presently stored in a relatively new “treasury”
building made of mud and mortar, where most of them are stacked on a
rough wooden rack, kept in heavy wooden boxes or hung on wall pegs (Fig.
4.1). Regularly-used liturgical books reside in the altar unit of the unfinished
sanctuary of the new church. To prevent further damage to the manuscripts,
the monks have distributed those not used during the daily services among
3 We are grateful to Denis Nosnitsin for pointing out that the monastic rules he wrote are
to be found in the nineteenth-century manuscript HMML, Hill Museum and Manuscript
Library, Pr. No. 5000, for which see Getatchew Haile, A Catalogue of Ethiopian Manuscripts
Microfilmed for the Ethiopian Manuscript Microfilm Library, Addis Ababa and for the Hill
Monastic Manuscript Library, Collegeville, 10 (Collegeville, MN: Saint John’s University,
1993), p. 383.
4 Stéphane Ancel, “Yohannes Käma”, Encyclopaedia Aethiopica (hereafter cited as EAE), ed.
by Siegbert Uhlig et al., 5 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2014), p. 81f.
5 By way of comparison, Däbrä Sälam Mikaᵓel in Tigray is noted to have had 44
manuscripts in 1974 (EAE II, p. 39); Däbrä Baḥrәy in Wollo has 54 (ibid., p. 11); the old
Aksumite church of Däbrä Libanos in Eritrea is known to have had at least 84 in 1994
(ibid., p. 29); Däbrä Ṣärabi in Tigray has 98. In the second quarter of the sixteenth century,
Däbrä Bәśrat in Šäwa was said to have had hundreds (EAE II, p. 15). The monastery
of Gundä Gunde currently has 219 manuscripts (see below, n. 7), having previously
given an additional 65 to the re-established nunnery of Asir Matira. Gianfrancesco Lusini
reports that the greatest manuscript collection in Eritrea is at Däbrä Bizän, holding 572
manuscripts (EAE II, p. 17a).
6 No information about dating was found in the colophons of the manuscripts.
Furthermore, differences in the handwriting of the mid-seventeenth century to the mid-
nineteenth century have proved difficult to distinguish, the more so since around 1800:
“From about 1800 onward, the art of handwriting entered into a state of flux and styles
developed which are parallel to those of the recent past and the present”. Siegbert Uhlig,
Introduction to Ethiopian Palaeography (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1990), pp. 87-115 (p. 103).
Technological aspects of the monastic manuscript collection at May Wäyni 91
themselves and the villagers. This arrangement is particularly unfortunate as

it may lead to the increased dispersal and consequent loss of volumes.
Fig. 4.1 May Wäyni. Treasury building interior with

cased manuscripts on pegs. Photo CC BY-NC.
During an initial visit to May Wäyni in 2009, only some of the manuscripts
were available to us in evaluating the extent of the collection and determining
the scope of spiritual activity carried out in the compound. A prior inspection
of the rugged terrain around the church and surroundings ruled out the
possibility of setting up camp for the time required to digitise the books.
Lack of water for cooking and drinking, or electricity for powering and
charging the photographic and computer equipment, necessitated daily
travel to and from Mekelle. On the one hand, these daily expeditions had
their drawbacks — three hours a day were spent traveling, and because the
churchyard was also used for religious purposes, the field station had to be
established and dismantled daily. On the other hand, the evenings could
be spent in the city downloading and backing up image files on computers,
charging batteries and making necessary repairs to equipment.
Having made a positive assessment of the content of the archive, we
agreed with the monks and representatives of the local community on how
to establish the conditions for digitising the collection. These discussions
substantially improved the efficiency of the process and at the same time
allowed the benefits of the project to be presented to the local inhabitants. The
previous experiences of teams studying or digitising manuscripts in various

places in Ethiopia have shown that, despite lengthy negotiations ending in
consensus, work may be frequently interrupted, often for trivial reasons.7
The assumption is that any collection of manuscripts is the property of the
entire community, both lay and ecclesiastical, and the opposition of even a
single member may bring all digitisation activity to a sudden halt. In such
circumstances, no governmental or church authority can legally impose a
decision on the community.8 Objective factors of this sort, in addition to
the difficult field conditions, render the process of digitising in Ethiopia
extremely complicated.9
With participation from representatives of the local church authorities,
we established a detailed plan for the digitisation of the manuscripts and
prepared all materials, tools, equipment and procedures. The recording of
any collection in such difficult conditions as were encountered at May Wäyni
requires elaborate preparation and the development of appropriate methods
7 EAP254 was diverted from the Shire region of Tigray Province, following an unexpected
episcopal decision, and redirected to Romanat (Enderta region) with the assistance of
the civilian Commissioner of Culture and Tourism. EAP340 was interrupted after the
digitisation of only four manuscripts due to a dispute between the local community at
Däbrä Sarabi (Tigray Province) and the regional agency responsible for repairing their
church. An attempt carried out there by Ethio-spare in May 2014 was also unsuccessful.
8 The problem was presented by Ewa Balicka-Witakowska at the COMSt (Comparative
Oriental Manuscript Studies) conference: “La circulation des collections” (team 5,
workshop 4), Paris, 12 January 2012.
9 An early project to preserve the content of manuscripts in Ethiopia was the Ethiopian
Manuscript Microfilm Library (or EMML), which administered the microfilming, in Addis
Ababa, of nearly 10,000 volumes from Šäwa province between 1973 and 1987. Since the
introduction of digital photography, field expeditions have been mounted by Michael
Gervers, Ewa Balicka-Witakowska, Denis Nosnitsin, Mersha Alehegne Mengistie, Meley
Mulugetta Bazzabeh, Hasen Said and Steve Delamarter. Gervers and Balicka-Witakowska
digitised the entire manuscript collection (219 items) of the monastery of Gundä Gunde
in 2006 with the support of the Hill Museum and Manuscript Library at Saint John’s
University (Collegeville, Minnesota); the collection is presently being prepared for open
access over the internet by the Library of the University of Toronto Scarborough. In 2007,
they digitised a further 65 manuscripts at Asir Matira (Tigray), which formerly belonged
to Gundä Gunde, for the Hiob Ludolf Centre for Ethiopian Studies in Hamburg. More
recently, digitisation in Ethiopia has been sponsored by the British Library’s Endangered
Archives Programme (EAP254, the library of Romanat Qeddus Mika’el; EAP286, the
collection of the Institute of Ethiopian Studies, Addis Ababa; EAP336, manuscripts of the
lay bet exegetical tradition [about which see EAE II, p. 473]; EAP340, manuscripts from the
monastery of Ewosṭatewos at Däbrä Särabi; EAP357, manuscripts from the Säharti and
Enderta regions of Tigray; EAP401, Islamic manuscripts; EAP432, monastic collections
from East Gojjam; EAP526, the monastic collection of May Wäyni) and by the European
Research Council’s European Union Seventh Framework Programme (see: http://www1.
uni-hamburg.de/ethiostudies/Ethio-spare).
to facilitate the recording process.10 In the absence of on-site electricity, the

team depended on a portable, gasoline-fuelled generator to run cameras and
laptop computers. At May Wäyni, digitisation began in the ambulatory of the
new, not yet finished church of St George, situated several hundred metres
from the monastic buildings where the manuscripts were stored. Because the
four-member team included a woman, work could not be conducted within
the monastic compound itself. The manuscripts were therefore transported
back and forth along a rough and narrow track.
The ambulatory, which is, fortunately, roofed, provided daylight suitably
diffused by reflection from the bare stone walls. The team was thus able to
operate relatively smoothly along a makeshift “assembly line” in the cambered
space running below the oblong arcades through which the light passed.
Fig. 4.2 May Wäyni. Church ambulatory, assembly line set-up. Photo CC BY-NC.
10 Cf. Ewa Balicka-Witakowska, “Recording Manuscripts in the Field,” Comparative Oriental

Manuscript Studies, ed. by A. Bausi et al. (Hamburg: COMSt - Norderstedt: BOD, 2014), pp.
626-31.
Other places were also organised: a temporary stocking of the manuscripts as

they were successively transported from the treasury (Fig. 4.3), a provisional
conservator’s field studio, a position where one could sit to paginate the
manuscripts and prepare the metadata and, finally, two recording stations.
Dusty ground, an incline and a rough floor were the negative aspects of
this space, although these problems were resolved by spreading reed mats
provided by the monks which, in turn, were covered with large tarpaulin
sheets, and by propping boards on stones so that they could be rendered
parallel to the camera lenses.
Fig. 4.3 May Wäyni. Preparing manuscripts in the iqabet for preliminary observation.
Photo CC BY-NC.
No sooner had the team been established at this site than some members of
the local community deemed it inappropriate, either for the kind of activity
being carried out or because religious services were to be held there. As
always in Ethiopia, there was an alternative, which in this case took the
form of a large British army bell tent left behind by the Napier Expedition
of 1868;11 it was there that most of the digitisation took place. Foliation and
11 On the Napier expedition, see Clements R. Markham, A History of the Abyssinian Expedition
other preliminary activities continued in the open air, with a fallen tree trunk
serving as the studio workbench.
As each manuscript arrived from the treasury, it was checked by the
conservator to determine how best to digitise it, while the condition of
the folios, the handwriting and the painted decoration were recorded. All
manuscripts were cleaned with a soft brush or small vacuum to remove
impurities from the folios and the bindings. Some manuscripts required
modest repairs to the leather which covered the wooden binding boards,
or a strengthening of the sewn structure. The foliation and preparation of
metadata provided a final opportunity to study the individual manuscript
and to determine in which order the digitisation was to be executed. At a
subsequent stage, recommendations for conservation focused mainly on
protecting the book block and binding against cracking and on avoiding
damage to the folios as digitisation proceeded. The shooting of manuscripts
with damaged leather covers and spines, or manuscripts with leaves in an
advanced state of deterioration caused by rodents, worms, damp, dirt, mold
and tearing due to overly tight or inadequate stitching, had to be constantly
monitored.12
Each of the two digitisation posts was equipped with a modest set of tools.
In order not to have to change focal length more than a minimal amount
from one manuscript to the next, large manuscripts were digitised at one
post and smaller ones at the other. Volumes were stabilised on styrofoam
or light plywood baseboards wrapped with black fabric, while custom-
made velcro angle brackets held the covers in place. The construction of
Ethiopian codices, whose book blocks are sewn with a chain stitch, allowed
the volumes to be opened relatively easily and safely, although when tight
bindings were encountered it was invariably difficult to capture fully the
words written on the inner margins. In such cases, verso and recto folios
were photographed separately rather than as a single image. It was possible
to maintain an even plane for facing verso and recto folios by placing soft
bags filled with styrofoam pellets below the side of the manuscript with the
fewest folios turned.
Badly damaged manuscripts in which loose folios had been reattached
by sewing with a stabbing technique, or where the cover was missing and
the sewing which held the quires together had loosened or disappeared,
presented particular difficulties.
(London: Macmillan, 1869). For images of the bell tent, see William Simpson, Diary of a
Journey to Abyssinia, 1868, ed. by Richard Pankhurst (Los Angeles, CA: Tsehai, 2002), p. 87.
12 The digitised manuscripts mentioned in this chapter are available at http://eap.bl.uk/
database/results.a4d?projID=EAP526.
Fig. 4.4 May Wäyni. A monk re-stitches a manuscript binding

in the church courtyard. Photo CC BY-NC.
In such cases, the positioning of the open folios had to be constantly manipulated
in order to keep them within the frame of the angle fasteners. Depending
upon the format and condition of the manuscript, folios could be kept in place
manually by applying pressure to the margins with one to four transparent
quarter-inch plexiglass rods with rounded bodies and polished ends. In especially
arduous cases it was occasionally necessary for the entire four-person team to
manage a single manuscript, with one person on the camera, a second on the
computer and two holding down verso and recto sides of facing folios using
the transparent rods.
In remote parts of the world, storage conditions are usually unsatisfactory
and adequate means of preservation unavailable. Experience in the preservation
of written materials from such areas has shown that attempts to transfer
unrealistic recommendations and high standards invariably fail. Sometimes a
simple, fundamental change to the method of storage, such as raising volumes
from the floor, can effectively improve manuscript security. Guidance about
simple and correct remedial treatments at May Wäyni showed that, with
minimum effort, those responsible for the books could effectively protect them
from further damage by improving their storage conditions. Traditionally, as
in the case of a few codices at May Wäyni, Ethiopians have hung their cased
manuscripts from wooden pegs inserted into the whitewashed earth wall of
a roofed repository (see Fig. 4.1). With passing time, straps have broken and
cases have been lost, leaving the floor as the most available alternative storage
space. It is there, however, that they have become vulnerable to attack from
water, damp and rodents. Increasingly, ecclesiastical libraries in Tigray are

being equipped with closed metal shelving units, but not yet in May Wäyni,
where the wooden shelves and the manuscripts they bear are all the more
vulnerable to fire as well. The team placed most damaged manuscripts and
those lacking their leather cases13 in special boxes made of acid-free cardboard.14
Fig. 4.5 May Wäyni. Particularly vulnerable manuscripts are stored

in acid-free cartons. Photo CC BY-NC.
The examination and recording of manuscripts at May Wäyni permitted a broad

study of the technological aspects of Ethiopian manuscripts. This would not have
been possible without our being able to handle them. Physical examination of
individual manuscripts and the direct assessment of the condition of an entire
collection helped to determine what lay behind their relative states of deterioration.
The results of this survey at May Wäyni were reached through an analysis of
existing damage to the parchment and to the writing and painting layer, as well
as to the construction of the book blocks and the bindings.15
13 Amharic: maḥdär.
14 Some manuscripts were customarily covered with cloth jackets (Amharic: lǝbas and
its types suti, gǝmǧa, šǝfan). See Mersha Alehegne, “Towards a Glossary of Ethiopian
Manuscript Culture and Practice”, Aethiopica: International Journal of Ethiopian Studies, 14
(2011), 145-62 (p. 153).
15 Observations on the nature of Ethiopian binding and its structure were published recently
in Marco Di Bella and Nikolas Sarris, “Field Conservation in East Tigray, Ethiopia”, in
Care and Conservation of Manuscripts 14: Proceedings of the Fourteenth International Seminar
Held at the University of Copenhagen 17th-19th October 2012, ed. by Matthew J. Driscoll
(Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2014), pp. 271-307.
Ethiopian parchment has distinctive features that differentiate it from its

European counterparts. Dissimilarities result mainly from different methods
of manufacturing and indirectly from the type of mainly goat leather used to
produce it.16 A fairly basic way of making parchment, without strong chemical
processing, produces a relatively raw, rigid, uneven and sometimes hairy
product, with large areas of gelatinisation on the surface (Fig. 4.6a and b).
Fig. 4.6 May Wäyni manuscripts. Examples of minimally-prepared parchment showing

(a) hairy surface and (b) gelatinisation (EAP526/1/15 and EAP526/1/44), CC BY-NC.
For this reason, parts of some folios were semitransparent and already deformed
at the time of creation. This effect is clearly visible on a number of pages from
the manuscript containing the Sǝrᶜatä qǝddase [Order of the Mass] (EAP526/1/90),
where ruled lines appear as light impressions because of changes to the
structure of the semi-translucent parchment under the pressure of a metal
16 For the traditional technology of parchment production, see Sergew Hable Selassie,
Bookmaking in Ethiopia (Leiden: Karstens Drukkers, 1981), pp. 9-12; John Mellors and
Anne Parsons, “Manuscript and Book Production in South Gondar in the Twenty-First
Century”, in Proceedings of the Sixth International Conference on the History of Ethiopian Art,
Addis Ababa 5-8 November 2002, ed. by Birhanu Teferra and Richard Pankhurst (Addis
Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies, 2003), pp. 185-89. The results of scientific research
on the properties and character of Ethiopian parchment are noted in W. Liszewska,
Conservation of Historical Parchments: New Methods of Leafcasting with the Use of Parchment
Fibres (Warsaw: Akademia Sztuk Pięknych, 2012), pp. 380-98.
ruler (Fig. 4.7). Visual assessment of the condition of all manuscripts in the
collection indicated that, as a consequence of the progressive gelatinisation
of the parchment, further deterioration appeared in the form of a glass-like
layer on the surface of most of the folios.
Fig. 4.7 May Wäyni manuscript Sәrᶜatä qәddase [Order of the Mass] showing the
structure of the semi-translucent parchment with traces of ruling (EAP526/1/90), CC
BY-NC.
A majority of the manuscripts from the May Wäyni collection have to a large
extent already been very badly demaged. In many cases, the degradation has
affected entire parchment folios. Nearly 30% of the manuscripts bear traces
of water stains caused by poorly-secured storage conditions. The parchment
of these manuscripts has suffered damage mainly to the margins, which have
become very stiff, brittle, fragile and therefore vulnerable to additional injury
during use (Fig. 4.8). Nearly a quarter of the manuscripts have suffered further
harm in varying degrees due to rodents (Fig. 4.9), while 11% of the total are
largely deformed and severely damaged by use. On the positive side, the
volumes showed no serious injury from microbiological agents. Resistance to
the action of microorganisms can be caused by the fairly compacted structure
of the collagen fibers. For the several manuscripts which were in extremely
bad condition, special procedures had to be applied in order to digitise them.
Fig. 4.8 May Wäyni manuscript Mälә’әktä Ṗawlos [Letters of Paul] showing
extensive water damage (EAP526/1/56), CC BY-NC.
Fig. 4.9 May Wäyni manuscript Ṣälotä ᶜәṭan [The Prayer of Incense]
gnawed by rodents (EAP526/1/62), CC BY-NC.
The state of the parchment folios was one problem, while that of the condition
of the book blocks and manuscript bindings was quite another. The sewn
structure of most manuscripts was in urgent need of repair. The binding
boards of 30% of the manuscripts were found to be seriously damaged —
cracking and warping being characteristic features of the wood used for
the purpose in the region.17 It should be noted that the boards are generally
bound in leather, which in over 40% of cases was found to be damaged in
varying degrees. In most cases the leather at the edges of the covers or in
the joints was torn, 16% had lost the leather on the spine, 13% had lost their
leather covering altogether or nearly so, and in an additional 13%, small
residues of leather were still visible on the inner sides of the boards. This
type of damage is typical of Ethiopian bindings and results from a rapid
deterioration of the leather.
The damages can be attributed mainly to such issues as the use of the
book, the natural ageing of the materials and the unfavourable climate, but
also to the use of a relatively weak adhesive.18 It seems that the bindings
of most Ethiopian manuscripts go through similar stages of deterioration,
which can be described as follows: the leather covering between the edges
of the boards and the spine cracks and gradually disappears due to the
weak attachment of the endband sewing to the covers; large losses of leather
then occur at the corners and along all the edges of the boards; the leather
separates completely from the spine and from both covers, remaining only
as turn-ins. Finally, even the traces of the adhesive layers on both sides of
the boards fade (Fig. 4.10).19
17 Species used to produce cover boards for books are mainly Cordia Africana (Wanza),
Juniperus procera (Gatira) and Olea Africana (Weyra). Widespread use of these types of
wood arises from the popularity of these trees in church woodland in Ethiopia. See
Mulugeta Lemenih and Frans Bongers, “Dry Forests of Ethiopia and Their Silviculture”,
in Silviculture in the Tropics, ed. by Sven Günter, Michael Weber, Bernd Stimm and
Reinhard Mosandl (Berlin: Springer-Verlag, 2011), pp. 261-72 (p. 269).
18 Currently, wheat starch paste is commonly used for this purpose (Sergew Hable Sellassie,
Bookmaking in Ethiopia, p. 25), but there is no information on the kinds of adhesives
used in the past. It appears that another type of adhesive was originally used on the
binding of manuscript EAP526/1/48. Survey tests by Raman spectroscopy of a sample
of the binding substance excluded starch glue and gums and confirmed the presence of
elements characteristic of gum resins (tests were carried out by the Faculty of Chemistry
of the Warsaw University of Technology). In the absence of relevant chemical samples,
however, it was not possible to identify the binder.
19 Jacek Tomaszewski, Ewa Balicka-Witakowska and Zofia Żukowska, “Ethiopian
Manuscript Maywäyni 041 with Added Miniature: Codicological and Technological
Analysis”, Annales d’Éthiopie, 29 (forthcoming in 2015).
Fig. 4.10 May Wäyni manuscript book boards showing various stages of cover
deterioration (a (EAP526/1/4) and b (EAP526/1/1), with sewn repairs
to c (EAP526/1/19) and d (EAP526/1/4)), CC BY-NC.
An overview of the collection revealed former methods of traditional

manuscript repair and their scope. These methods were mainly provisional
and were concerned only with maintaining the integrity of the whole book
and its binding rather than with repairs to individual parchment folios. In
16% of the manuscripts, a plurality of sewn repairs were visible in different
kinds of threads and cords, used particularly for connecting the book block
to the covers (Fig. 4.11). Other typical treatments saw repairs to damaged
and broken boards, which in 12% of the cases generally involved tying them
together with string, leather strips, plastic cords or even wire, since other
adhesives were unavailable (Fig. 4.12).20
20 Different types of material for repairing boards are visible on the bindings: EAP526/1/3,
Fig. 4.11 May Wäyni manuscript Arganonä wәddase [The Harp of Praise] by Giyorgis
of Sagla showing a variety of threads and cords used to connect the book block
to the covers (EAP526/1/23), CC BY-NC.
Fig. 4.12 May Wäyni manuscript Qeddus Gädlä Gäbrä Manfäs Qeddus [The Life of Gäbrä
Manfäs Qeddus] showing sewn repairs to the front book board
(EAP526/1/30), CC BY-NC.
The main method of repair, however, was to re-sew the book block entirely
and often to rebind the entire manuscript in new leather. Recent sewing is
evident in 8% of the collection, although a larger number of volumes bound
EAP526/1/14, EAP526/1/19, EAP526/1/30, EAP526/1/32, EAP526/1/33, EAP526/1/40,

EAP526/1/51, EAP526/1/61, EAP526/1/64, EAP526/1/70, EAP526/1/74, EAP526/1/85 and
EAP526/1/86. Other examples are illustrated in Steve Delamarter and Melaku Terefe,
Ethiopian Scribal Practice 1: Plates for the Catalogue of the Ethiopic Manuscript Imaging Project
(Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2009), p. 35, plates 7, 22, 45 and 65.
in new leather were also re-sewn. The procedure is clearly recognisable in

the manuscripts devoid of leather covering and with exposed spines, where
relatively fresh threads are visible (Figs. 4.11 and 4.12). As a rule, thoroughly
repaired manuscripts were rebound using new materials. It was not unusual,
however, to find discarded boards from older manuscripts reused for this
purpose, as evidenced by additional holes located especially on the outer edge
of the boards which formerly connected the cover to the book block.21 Newly
bound manuscripts were covered with new leather and were decorated with
blind tooling, using traditional patterns. As a result of such procedures, it
sometimes proved difficult to determine whether the book had been subjected to
any additional treatment. The only clue might be the relatively good condition
of the binding compared to that of the folios of the manuscript.
Due to the lack of effective adhesives in Ethiopia, any local repairs to
wooden boards or to manuscript folia tend to be rendered by sewing or
linking with string or thongs. A major difficulty at May Wäyni was the state
of damaged folio margins, as well as the gathering of individual folios which
were broken along the folds. The May Wäyni collection exhibited very few
examples of repairs to the margins of parchment folios. Some simple stitching
is visible on the folios of manuscript EAP526/1/61.
Fig. 4.13 May Wäyni manuscript Mäzmurä Dawit [Psalms of David] showing loose
folios held together by stab-stitching (EAP526/1/61), CC BY-NC.
21 Additional lacing holes are visible on opposite sides of the boards of EAP526/1/34 and
EAP526/1/50. The practice is also noted by Di Bella and Sarris, p. 302.
Approximately 8% of the manuscripts which had fallen apart, leaving loose

folios and quires, are currently held together by stab-stitching along the edges
of the inner margins of all folios.22 Stabbing was the only effective means
available for connecting the leaves of deteriorated manuscripts; the practice
is broadly used not only in this collection, but also in many other places in
Tigray and elsewhere in Ethiopia.23 In many cases, additional folded strips
of parchment were inserted in order to span and reinforce individual folios
before sewing.24
These manuscripts proved extremely difficult to photograph because the
degree to which they could be opened was restricted by the stitching, and also
because the folded strips covered words and letters along the inner margins
of the folios. Since multiple photographs needed to be taken in such cases,
an entire day could be spent digitising a single long manuscript of this sort.
In the case of the extremely damaged manuscript containing the Mälǝᵓǝktä
Ṗawlos [Letters of Paul, EAP526/1/56], the thread which was pierced well into
the inner margin, and thus hindered the opening of the book, was removed.
In the absence of adequate methods and means for the effective repair
of the original historic materials, the total rebinding of a manuscript was
the most reasonable solution for its preservation.25 In this context, it was
uncommon to find repairs to bindings in which bookbinders sought to
maintain the original, decorated leather covers. In such cases, repairs were
limited to the attachment of new leather to the spine and to the inner margins
of the book boards, and to introducing new endbands. This type of repair
was observed in 6% of the manuscript bindings in May Wäyni.26 Some of
22 The technique of stabbing is described in detail by Bernard C. Middleton, A History of

English Craft Bookbinding Technique (New York: Hafner, 1963), pp. 11-12.
23 Further examples of stabbing in the May Wäyni collection are visible in manuscripts
EAP526/1/57, EAP526/1/80, EAP526/1/85 and EAP526/1/89. Good examples of this practice
are also to be found in manuscripts from the monastery of Märᵓawi Krәstos, where such
repairs were made systematically. See also Delamarter and Melaku Terefe, plate 22.
24 Additional folded strips (Amharic: sir) appear in EAP526/1/63, EAP526/1/83 and
EAP526/1/91; see also Delamarter and Terefe, plate 25.
25 This observation relates to other book collections observed in Tigray province. Examples
of rebound manuscripts can be found, for example, in the book collections of Däbrä
Abbay and Märᵓawi Krәstos (Shire region), among many others. Total rebinding has been
widely used in Europe in the past. For information on rebinding in the fifteenth century,
see Janos A. Szirmai, The Archaeology of Medieval Bookbinding (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999),
p. 277; and for rebinding in England in the nineteenth century, see Middleton, p. 6. In
modern Europe, many of the medieval ecclesiastical books have received new bindings
made in accordance with contemporary fashion and design.
26 New leather is clearly visible on the spine of the following manuscripts: EAP526/1/2,
EAP526/1/17, EAP526/1/22, EAP526/1/41 and EAP526/1/67. See also Delamarter and
Terefe, plate 85.
these books may have been re-sewn previously, as evidenced by ruptures

to the original leather covering around the spine of the volume providing
free access to the lacing holes in the boards. Very clear traces of such actions
are visible on the binding of the Mäṣḥafä Tälmid [The Book of the Disciple]
manuscript (EAP526/1/45).27
Fig. 4.14 May Wäyni manuscript Mäshafä Tälmid [The Book of the Disciple] showing
the ruptures to the original leather covering around the spine of the volume that
provide free access to the lacing holes in the boards, holes made for resewing the book
(EAP526/1/45), CC BY-NC.
In this case, however, the repair did not include the pasting of new leather
onto the spine. In examples where the repair was comprehensive, the
original leather on the boards near the spine was trimmed and a new piece
of leather was pasted on or under the edge of the old leather.
Direct contact with the May Wäyni manuscripts provided an opportunity
to analyse their codicological and technological aspects. As the pages were
27 Such repairs were observed on manuscripts EAP526/1/1, EAP526/1/9, EAP526/1/23,

EAP526/1/25 , EAP526/1/34, EAP526/1/45, EAP526/1/46 and EAP526/1/3.
prepared for writing, prick holes and metal point rulings were applied
to designate the layout of columns and lines, invariably on the flesh side
of each bifolio. The holes were predominantly round and were probably
made with a locally produced awl (wäsfe). Folio rulings were made in two
ways. In most cases (77%) each bifolium was ruled individually on the
flesh side, after which the bifolia were assembled in quires (see Fig. 4.7).
In the remaining 33% of manuscripts, another ruling system was applied.
Once quires had been assembled and tacketed, they were ruled on the flesh
sides which invariably faced each other. This system is clearly evident,
especially in the middle bifolio of a quire with the hair side open, where
lines on both pages do not coincide on the facing verso and recto folios.
In most May Wäyni manuscripts (about 70% of the collection), numeric
quire signatures appear as guidelines for binding, but the system was not
applied consecutively. The signature was most frequently placed on the
first page of each quire, at the top of the inner margin (58% of cases); they
also appear in the middle of the upper margin (34%). The system of quire
signatures is sometimes more complex. In a few cases, for decorative purposes,
ornamented numbers could be repeated three times in the upper margin.
The signature occasionally appears in the upper right corner of the last
page of one quire, and in the upper left corner of the first page of the next.
Generally, the numeric signatures are turned into decoration, encircled by
black and red dots and strokes, and often arranged in the form of a cross.28
Decorated manuscripts are relatively few in the collection. The aniconic
decoration, called ḥaräg in Ethiopic,29 used to mark the headings, chapters
or a section of the text, is present in barely 15% of the manuscripts.30 Figural
decoration as a full-page miniature or drawing appears very rarely, in only
eight manuscripts.31 An exception is the richly decorated manuscript of
Dǝrsanä Mikaᵓel [Homily in Honour of the Archangel Michael, EAP526/1/7],
where six miniatures and a drawing are included.
28 See, for example, EAP526/1/53 ff. 11v and 12r, and EAP526/1/91 f. 8r; and Delamarter and
Terefe, plates 4, 12, 30, 32 and 48.
29 Carla Zanotti-Eman, “Linear Decoration in Ethiopian Manuscripts”, in African Zion: The
Sacred Art of Ethiopia, ed. by Roderick Grierson (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press,
1993), pp. 63-67; Ewa Balicka-Witakowska, “Ḥaräg”, in EAE II, pp. 1009a-1010b.
30 EAP526/1/5, EAP526/1/6, EAP526/1/8, EAP526/1/13, EAP526/1/21, EAP526/1/24,
EAP526/1/28, EAP526/1/30, EAP526/1/39, 40, EAP526/1/42, EAP526/1/61, EAP526/1/65,
EAP526/1/67 and EAP526/1/78.
31 Painted miniatures are found in manuscripts EAP526/1/7, EAP526/1/23, EAP526/1/41,
EAP526/1/49 and EAP526/1/79. Some small drawings are also to be found in manuscripts
EAP526/1/18, EAP526/1/22 and EAP526/1/40.
Fig. 4.15 May Wäyni manuscript Dәrsanä Mikaᵓel [Homily in Honour of the Archangel
Michael]. Full-page miniatures (EAP526/1/7), CC BY-NC.
Fig. 4.16 A rare fifteenth-century illumination of the Virgin and Child bound
between folios 171 and 172 of a seventeenth-century copy of Täᵓammәrä Maryam
[The Miracles of Mary] (EAP526/1/41), CC BY-NC.
Other manuscripts contain miniatures which were added at a later

time. For example, a much earlier miniature originating from another
manuscript was added to Täᵓammǝrä Maryam [The Miracles of Mary]
(EAP526/1/041) (Fig. 4.16).32 Mary is depicted in the miniature nursing
Jesus, a type popular in the art of Coptic Egypt and known throughout
the Byzantine world as Galaktotrophousa or Maria lactans.33 Colour and
patterning add a decorative quality to the clothing of the highly stylised
figures. The limited scale of colours applied in the miniature include
red (cinnabar), blue (indigo), yellow (orpiment), light green (composed
of two pigments: indigo and orpiment), light brown (the natural earth
pigment modified by the addition of a small amount of cinnabar) and
black (soot). An organic yellow appears also to have been applied to
paint Mary’s maphorion and halo.34 All of these stylistic and technological
features associated the miniature with a series of illustrated manuscripts
attributed to the fifteenth century.35
The book blocks and the binding structures of all manuscripts in
May Wäyni were analysed on site.36 The number of quires37 is usually
a consequence of the contents of the volume. 38 In practice, however,
depending on when and by whom a particular version of the manuscript
was copied, and on individual additions to it, the number of pages and
quires can vary substantially (see Table 4.1).39
32 Both the manuscript and the miniature itself have been subjected to detailed codicological
analysis in Tomaszewski, Balicka-Witakowska and Żukowska, “Ethiopian Manuscript
Maywäyni 041” (forthcoming in 2015).
33 Ibid.
34 For the identification of the pigments, the non-destructive methods of μ-Raman and
Fourier Transform Infrared (FTIR)-spectroscopy were used by Zofia Żukowska from the
Faculty of Chemistry of the Warsaw University of Technology.
35 Ewa Balicka-Witakowska, “Un Psautier Éthiopien Illustré Inconnu”, Orientalia Suecana,
33-34 (1984-86), 17-48 (Figs. VII, 13, 15, 32, 35, 43, 44); Tomaszewski, Balicka-Witakowska,
and Żukowska, “Ethiopian Manuscript Maywäyni 041” (forthcoming in 2015).
36 For basic information on the structure of Ethiopian bindings, see Szirmai, pp. 45-50.
37 Amharic: gǝbbi or qǝș.
38 Ewa Balicka-Witakowska, Alessandro Bausi, Claire Bosc-Tiessé and Denis Nosnitsin,
“Ethiopian Codicology”, in Comparative Oriental Manuscript Studies, ed. by A. Bausi et al.
(Hamburg: COMSt - Norderstedt: BOD, 2014), pp. 168-191.
39 The authors are grateful to Emmanuel Fritsch and Jan Retsö for their assistance in
identifying the manuscripts appearing in the table.
Table 4.1 List of the manuscripts showing details of construction of the book blocks.
Number of Number of Number Number of bifolia

Title of the Manuscript
manuscript folios of quires in quires*
Mäṣḥafä täklil [Ritual of 01 82 9 (3/5; 6/4)
Matrimony]
Arbaᶜətu wängelat [Gospel 02 158 19 (9/5; 9/4; 1/2)
Book] 22 133 18 (12/4; 5/3; 1/2)
Orit [Octateuch] and Mäṣḥafä 03 170 16 (1/6; 14/5; 1/4)
kufale [The Book of Jubilees]
Nägärä Maryam [Mariology] 04 112 14 (13/4; 1/3)
Mäṣḥafä ṭәmqät [Ritual of 05 148 16 (1/7 4/5; 11/4)
Baptism]
Rәtuᶜa Haymanot [The 06 291 38 (2/5; 31/4; 1/3; 3/2; 1/1)
Orthodox One]
Dərsanä Mikaᵓel [Homily 07 133 14 (9/5; 5/4)
in Honour of the Archangel 26 88 11 (11/4)
Michael]
Baḥrä ḥassab [Sea of 08 90 9 (7/5; 2/4)
Computation]
Zәmmare [Antiphonary for the 09 136 14 (1/6; 12/5; 1/2)
Eucharist]
Gädlä Kiros [Life of Our Father 10 56 7 (6/4; 1/2)
Kiros] 16 54 6 (6/4)
Mäṣḥafä qәddase [Missal] 11 112 13 (1/6; 5/5; 5/4; 1/3; 1/2)
17 130 15 (1/5; 14/4)
25 115 15 (14/4; 1/0,5)
54 292 23 (20/7; 3/6)
58 65 8 (1/5; 7/4)
82 58 (incomplete) 9 (5/4; 2/3; 2/2)
Mälkәᵓ [Portraits] 12 202 26 (24/4; 1/3; 1/2)
Täᵓammәr [Collection of 13 73 10 (8/4; 1/3; 1/2)
Miracles]
Gädlä Gäbrä Manfäs Qeddus 14 60 8 (1/5; 5/4; 2/3)
[Life of Gäbrä Manfäs Qeddus] 20 130 14 (13/5; 1/4)
30 100 14 (10/4; 2/3; 1/2; 1/1)
Ṣälotä ᶜәṭan [Prayer of Incense] 15 54 8 (7/4; 1/2)

51 34 4 (3/4; 1/3)
Täᵓammәrä Iyasus [Book of the 18 142 18 (17/4; 1/2)
Miracles of Jesus] 38 147 17 (17/4)
44 41 6 (3/4; 2/3; 1/2)
72 57 7 (1/5; 4/4; 2/3)
75 70 10 (9/4; 1/2)
Täᵓammәrä Maryam [The 19 59 8 (5/4; 3/3)
Miracles of Mary] 28 77 11 (9/4; 1/3; 1/2)
33 73 9 (9/4)
41 177 22 (3/5; 16/4; 1/3; 1/2; 1/1)
74 84 9 (4/5; 5/4)
Śәrᶜatä Yaᶜәqob zäśәrug [Order 21 102 13 (12/4; 1/2)
of James of Sarug]
Arganonä wәddase [The Harp of 23 175 22 (1/7; 21/4)
Praise by Giyorgis of Sagla]
Gäbrä ḥawaryat [Acts of the 24 91 15 (3/4; 10/3; 2/2)
Apostles]
Dәggʷa [Antiphonary (Proper 27 60 6 (6/5)
for the Divine Office)] 40 261 27 (3/6; 22/5; 1/4; 1/2)
Dәrsanä arba‘әtu әnsәsa 29 69 13 (9/4; 2/3; 1/2)
[Homily on the Four Celestial
Creatures]
Gubaᵓe qana [Collection of 31 149 18 (1/6; 2/5; 14/4; 1/3)
Hymns]
Miscellanea. Collection of 32 55 10 (3/4; 2/3; 4/2; 1/1)
Marian Texts
Gәbrä Ḥәmamat [Ritual of the 34 184 21 (6/5; 15/4)
Holy Week]
Ṣomä dәggʷa [Antiphonary 35 88 9 (7/5; 2/4)
Proper for the Great Lent]
Sәrᶜatä qәddase [Order of the 36 76 9 (9/4)
Mass] 90 26 (incomplete) - -
Qәddase [Missal] 37 117 12 (1/6; 9/5; 1/4; 1/3)
Gädlä Täklä Haymanot [Life of 39 101 13 (1/5; 8/4; 4/3)
St. Täklä Haymanot]
Zena śәllase [Narrative Teaching 42 116 14 (14/4)

on the Holy Trinity] 66 95 11 (11/4)
73 61 8 (6/4; 2/3)
Gәnzät [Funeral Ritual] 43 118 16 (15/4; 1/3)
55 125 15 (5/5; 6/4; 2/3; 2/2)
Mäṣḥafä Tälmid [The Book of the 45 192 18 (18/5)
Disciple]
Gädlä sämaᶜәtat [Martyrology or 46 193 21 (13/5; 8/4)
Synaxarion] 47 210 24 (17/5; 4/4; 1/3; 1/1)
Mar Yәsḥaq [Book of St. Isaac 48 104 12 (12/4)
the Syrian, of Nineveh]
Dәrsanä Gäbrәᵓel [Homily on 49 78 12 (5/4; 5/3; 2/2)
Gabriel]
Mäṣḥafä Mädḫané ᶜAläm [Book 50 82 (incomplete) 11 (1/5; 5/4; 5/3)
of the Saviour of the World]
68 76 9 (8/4; 1/3)
Ṣälotä ᶜәṭan [The Prayer of 70 47 6 (5/4; 1/3)
Incense] 62 120 14 (3/5; 11/4)
Collection of Prayers 52 53 3 (1/4; 2/3)
Haymanotä abäw [The Faith of 53 174 23 (21/4; 1/3; 1/2)
the Fathers]
Mälәᵓәktä Ṗawlos [Letters of 56 51 (incomplete) - -
Paul]
71 35 7 (4/4; 2/3; 1/2)
Mäzmurä Dawit [Psalms of 59 50 5 (5/5)
David] 61 149 15 (12/5; 3/4)
85 191 18 (11/5; 5/4; 1/3; 1/2)
81 68 (incomplete) 8 (3/5; 4/4; 1/3
Prayers to Mary 57 50 (incomplete) - -
Collection of Prayers for 60 86 (incomplete) 7 (1/4; 6/3)
Weekdays
Gädlä ḥawaryat [The 63 22 (incomplete) 3 (1/6; 1/4; 1/3)

Contendings of the Apostles]
Täᵓammәrä Mikaᵓel [Miracles of 64 36 4 (2/5; 1/4; 1/3)
Michael]
Gädlä Ṗeṭros zä-Däbrä Abbay 65 65 8 (8/4)
[Acts of Petros of Däbrä Abbay]
Zena Mikaᵓel [Story of Michael] 67 108 12 (4/5; 8/4)
Mäṣḥafä krәstәnna [Ritual of 69 40 5 (5/4)
Baptism]
Mäftәḥe śәray [Against the 76 38 5 (4/4; 1/2)
Magical Charms]
Dәrsanä Sәnbät [Homily of the 77 52 8 (2/5; 5/4; 1/3)
Sabbath]
Dәrsanä Yaᶜәqob zäśәrug 78 40 5 (4/4; 1/3)
[Homilies of Jacob of Serug]
Sälam Śәllase [In Praise of the 79 30 5 (3/4; 1/2; 1/1)
Holy Trinity]
Raᵓәyä Yoḥannәs [Apocalypse 83 11 (incomplete) - -
of John]
Keśtätä aryam [“Revelation on 84 16 2 (2/4)
the Highest Heaven”]
Mäṣḥafä Ziq [Lesser Antiphony] 86 52 7 (6/4; 1/1)
89 21 2 (2/5)
Dәrsanä maḥyäwi [Homily of 87 74 10 (8/4; 1/2; 1/1)
the Life-Giver]
Säyfä Mäläkot [The Sword of the 88 100 12 (1/6; 11/4)
Divinity]
Arbaᶜətu wängelat [New 91 55 (incomplete) 8 (5/5; 3/4; 1/3)
Testament], Mäləᵓəktä [Letters],
Yoḥannәs Afäwärq [Homily of
John Chrysostom]
*The number of bifolia in quires are included in the right column: number of quires/number of
bifolia in a single quire. Simplified data do not reveal the exact arrangement of irregular quires.
In well-preserved manuscripts, the number ranges from two to 38, but the
majority of volumes are of medium thickness and contain from seven to
fifteen quires (63%). In 57% of all manuscripts the number of folios in each
quire is irregular, while the remainder are of quaternion format (33%), with
eight leaves in each quire, and in quinion format with ten (10%). In most cases,
books with disparate numbers of quires have leaves inserted at the end of the
book block, rarely at its beginning. Manuscripts with an irregular structure
are usually constructed of quires in quaternion and quinion format, with far
fewer in formats of three and six bifolia. In one case, a relatively new paper
manuscript with quires in seven or six bifolia was observed.40
All manuscripts, whether of regular or irregular construction, consist of
bifolia and single leaves. In books with quires of mixed construction, the number
of folios in a given quire is generally even, although odd number systems are
not unusual; for example: 6/5, 4/5, 3/4, 2/3, and in the reverse order of 5/6, etc.
The use of differing numbers of folios in quires is largely practical. It reflects
the need to adapt quire structures to the content of the text and provides the
opportunity to use smaller pieces of parchment by attaching single leaves on
narrow strips between bifolia (Fig. 4.17).
Fig. 4.17 Drawing of a combined quire structure.
Protective flyleaves are widely used in book-block construction, and are most
often added at the beginning of the manuscript, while the final protective sheet
tends to be part of the last quire of the book. This last folio is often blank on
both sides, although cases of leaves with text on the recto side were also noted.
These records, frequently including small memorial texts and documents, could
be very important for a local community. In many manuscripts, protective
flyleaves are also present at the end of the book block, in which case they
tend to have the same structure as those placed at the beginning. On occasion,
however, their folio composition is irregular, indicating that no particular
attention was paid to the consistent arrangement of the book.
40 EAP526/1/54.
Lower quality parchment was generally used in the preparation of

flyleaves. Numerous stains, discolorations, defects and semi-transparency
tend to be the main features of this material, whether inserted as separate
protective flyleaves at the beginning of the manuscript (Fig. 4.18) or as the
final unwritten folio of the last quire.41 In the latter case, the outer bifolio
of the quire was chosen for the purpose. In this manner, the part used for
the first written leaf could be of good quality parchment, while the last leaf
of this bifolio (derived from the outer edge of the hide) would be less well-
prepared, often damaged and gelatinised.
Fig. 4.18 May Wäyni manuscript Orit [Octateuch] and Mäṣḥafä kufale [The Book of Jubilees]
showing low-quality folios used as protective flyleaves (EAP526/1/3), CC BY-NC.
Separate protective end flyleaves were observed in 73% percent of all

manuscripts. However, because many of the manuscripts are preserved
in bad condition and are incomplete, it is likely that a significant number
originally had additional folios which have not survived. Nine variants of
flyleaves were observed, generally resulting from quires made of one or two
bifolia. Nearly half of all manuscripts (48%) have a single bifolio as protective
end flyleaves (Fig. 4.19c), and sixteen have two (Fig. 4.19i). There are other
variants, in which single sheets of parchment retained by folded strips are
sewn together to create bifolia (Fig. 4.19d and e).
41 See Delamarter and Terefe, plate 35.

Fig. 4.19 Distribution of flyleaf arrangements in the May Wäyni collection.
With but two exceptions, all the manuscripts were originally bound between
wooden boards. In one example (EAP526/1/89), the manuscript has a limp
binding made of thick parchment. This volume is rather small (12.5 × 15.5
centimetres) and contains only two quires bearing the text known as the
Mäṣḥafä Ziq [Lesser Antiphony or Book of Antiphonal Chants]. Its cover is made
of the same kind of parchment as that used to prepare the whole manuscript,
with a similar disposition of ruled lines indicating that it could represent the
original construction of the binding. Quires are attached to the covering material
by means of straight long stitches, carelessly executed, running through the
first and second quires. This simple and transitory way of binding is relatively
rare, occurring mainly in small books of limited content (Fig. 4.20).
Fig. 4.20 May Wäyni manuscript showing straight long stitches on the spine
(EAP526/1/89), CC BY-NC.
A second exception to the common form of binding between wooden boards is

to be found in contemporary liturgical manuscripts written on machine-made
paper (for example, Mäṣḥafä qәddase [Missal], EAP526/1/54). These covers were
prepared from cardboard. Despite the use of modern materials, the form of
the book, the writing materials used and the techniques for decorating its
leather covers are still traditional.
12% of all manuscript bindings have been completely destroyed. Their folios
are not secured and require urgent protection. It can only be assumed that,
like most of the manuscripts, they were once secured by wooden covers. 21%
have bare board bindings, a type showing no evidence of having previously
been covered with leather. The remaining 66% are bound in leather-covered
wooden boards.42 Of those currently bound only in boards, some presumably
had leather covering in the past which has since disappeared.
Over 90% of the books from the May Wäyni manuscript collection were
sewn with thick thread43 on two pairs of sewing stations, while only two small
manuscripts were sewn on one pair and one on three pairs. Another group,
comprising six manuscripts of small format, had three sewing stations (1.5
pairs).44 The clear tendency to use two pairs of sewing stations was common
for small and relatively large manuscripts, regardless of their format.
The construction of the spine could be assessed for two-thirds of all
the leather-bound volumes. In the remaining cases, both the spine and the
endbands have been lost. A characteristic feature of Ethiopian bindings is the
very simple spine structure. It is flat, untreated and covered only by leather,
which is glued to the wooden boards. An exception is the Dǝrsanä Mikaᵓel
[Homily in Honour of the Archangel Michael] manuscript (EAP526/1/7), in which
an additional wide strip of leather has been applied to the spine. Threads
connecting the covers to the book block have been stitched through the strip of
leather, which was folded over the edges of the first and last quire, indicating
that this feature was added at the time the book was sewn (Fig. 4.21).
42 A smooth goat leather used to cover wooden manuscript boards bears the name baḥǝr
c
aräb because it was imported from Arabian countries in the past, and its current
manufacture is based on the Arabic tradition. See Alehegne, p. 149. Another, native
version, called baḥǝr tanbǝn, presumably from the Tämben region of Tigray province,
was considered to be more durable, but less attractive. See Sergew Hable Sellassie, pp.
24-25; and Richard Pankhurst, “Ethiopian Manuscript Bindings and their Decoration”,
Abbay, 12 (1983-1984), 205-57 (p. 207).
43 Amharic: ǧәmmat.
44 This system is described by Dan Peterson, “An Investigation and Treatment of an
Uncommon Ethiopian Binding and Consideration of its Historical Context”, The Book
and Paper Group Annual, 27 (2008), 55-62 (p. 55).
Fig. 4.21 May Wäyni manuscript Dәrsanä Mikaᵓel [Homily in Honour of the Archangel
Michael] showing spine lining with a wide strip of leather (EAP526/1/7), CC BY-NC.
At the top and bottom of the spine, this piece of leather was folded and braided
endbands were sewn through it. As a result, on the back of a fully leather-bound
book, the seams connecting the endbands to the leather spine and quires are
invisible. Such use of additional material to strengthen the spine appears to
have been rare in the Ethiopian bookmaking tradition. Further research may
determine the extent to which bookbinders resorted to this solution or whether
it appeared incidentally as a relic of the early Coptic technique.45
In the majority (70%) of well-preserved leather bindings, one finds endbands
sewn on after the covering was complete. As in the previously-mentioned
example, they are usually made of a two-thonged slit braid, stitched with
threads to each quire and to the leather spine.46 As a rule, the longer ends of
the braided endbands are sewn between the covers and the book block to the
nearest book-sewing station. Although this is a common way of strengthening
the construction of the binding, simple folded strips of leather were often used
in place of braided thongs.47 This type of endband, though less decorative,
provides considerably more strength to the binding as the covering material at
the top and bottom of the spine is stitched not through two, but through four
layers of leather (Fig. 4.22). Apart from these two predominant types, there
45 A similar solution was used in the first multi-quire Coptic codices by way of separate
leather strips attached to the inner sides of the covers. See Szirmai, pp. 24-25. Parchment
lining of the spine was mentioned by Di Bella and Sarris, p. 301, Fig. 178.
46 Some basic information, with drawings, about typical Ethiopian endbands is provided
by Monika Gast, “A History of Endbands, Based on a Study of Karl Jäckel”, The New
Bookbinder, 3 (1983), 42-58 (p. 58). Additional illustrations appear in Delamarter and
Terefe, plates 11 and 56.
47 This far less frequent type of endband was observed in the binding of the Dǝrsanä
arba‘ǝtu ǝnsǝsa [Homily on the Four Celestial Creatures] manuscript (EAP526/1/29) and the
Täᵓammәrä Iyasus [Book of the Miracles of Jesus] manuscript (EAP526/1/72).
are also numerous examples of manuscripts without any endbands (20%),

resulting in a substantially weakened binding structure.
Fig. 4.22 May Wäyni manuscript Dәrsanä arba‘әtu әnsәsa [Homily on the Four Celestial
Creatures] showing the endband made of a folded strip of leather (EAP526/1/29), CC BY-NC.
Another striking feature of Ethiopian manuscript bindings is the manner in

which the inner face of the boards is finished. In 46% of cases, the surface of the
boards between the wide leather turn-ins is inlaid with decorative textiles (Fig.
4.23),48 and less frequently with paper, in order to secure the book block and to
decorate the manuscript. In other cases, the inner surfaces of the boards have been
entirely covered with leather (30%), while in a number of cases the boards were
left bare (24%). The types of fabrics used for this purpose are worthy of note. In
addition to the relatively modest fabric of tabby or twill weave, monochrome
(EAP526/1/25, 45, 46, 47) or with vertical stripes (EAP526/1/4, 87), examples of
more decorative cloths occur. Fragments of Indian Masulipatam cloths (Fig.
4.23d),49 imported from the eighteenth to at least the early twentieth century,
are recognisable because of their characteristic design and colour, along with
other types of fabric carried to East Africa by Gujarati traders.50 Two small
48 Textiles may in some cases provide evidence for the dating of a binding. See Richard
Pankhurst, “Imported Textiles in Ethiopian Eighteenth Century Manuscript Bindings
in Britain”, Azania: Journal of the British Institute in Eastern Africa, 16 (1981), pp. 131-50
and plates I-VIII. See also Michael Gervers, “The Portuguese Import of Luxury Textiles
to Ethiopia in the 16th and 17th Centuries and their Subsequent Artistic Influence”, in
The Indigenous and the Foreign in Christian Ethiopian Art: On Portuguese-Ethiopian Contacts
in the 16th-17th Centuries: Papers from the Fifth International Conference on the History of
Ethiopian Art (Arrabida, 26-30 November 1999), ed. by Manuel João Ramos with Isabel
Boavida (Burlington: Ashgate, 2004), pp. 121-34 and plates 10-12.
49 In Masulipatam, a special type of Kalamkari (Hindu temple hangings; literally, “pen-
work”), the outlines and main features of the designs are printed with hand-carved
wooden blocks. See Krishna Chaitanya, A History of Indian Painting: The Modern Period
(New Delhi: Shakti Malik Abhinav, 1994), pp. 93-94.
50 Pedro Machado, “Awash in a Sea of Cloth: Gujarat Africa, and the Western Indian Ocean,
1300-1800”, in The Spinning World: A Global History of Cotton Textiles, 1200-1850, ed. by
fragments of this plain-weave fabric, decorated with a black block-printed

plant design and probably hand-painted brownish background, are used on
the inner side of the binding of a manuscript containing the Gǝnzät [Funeral
Ritual, EAP526/1/43,1; Fig. 4.23d]. Decorative shuttle-woven textiles bearing
the “buta” motif also come from North India or Persia (Fig. 4.23a). Recognisable
types of textiles used in bindings include satin (EAP526/1/42,1,117), damask
(EAP526/1/23,1) and even tapestry weave (EAP526/1/37,1,118).51 Unique in
this collection is a modest, dark blue-striped plain-weave textile insert made
up of six narrow strips with their selvedges (Fig. 4.23b).52
All but one of the leather bindings from the May Wäyni collection are
tooled with a variety of decorative motifs which are unusually well made.
The preparation of the leather and the quality of the decorative tooling
illustrate well-developed skills arising out of a long tradition. As a rule, the
tooled decoration is based on a large, centrally-positioned cross, framed by an
ornamental border. A limited number of tools with relatively simple patterns are
used for decorating the leather-bound book covers of Ethiopian manuscripts.53
It is believed that the simple structure of Ethiopian binding is very similar
to that of early Coptic codices.54 Presumably, all decorative elements of the
binding also stem from this early period in the development of the codex.
As the tradition of writing and bookbinding spread, patterns travelled with
it such that similar ornamentation can be found on Syrian, Armenian and
even European bindings from the Romanesque period. However, the limited
number of examples from the early Coptic period makes it difficult to trace
unambiguously the direction of influence. Richard Pankhurst found the closest
similarity between Ethiopian and Armenian bindings, especially in the decoration
of the central panel, the use of one or more bands in ornamental fringes and the
employment of a number of similar tools.55 Despite the differences in binding
Giorgio Riello and Prasannan Parthasarathi (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011),
pp. 161-80 (p. 167). See also Richard Pankhurst, “Indian Trade with Ethiopia, the Gulf of
Aden and the Horn of Africa in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries”, Cahiers
d’Études Africaines, 14/55 (1965), 455-97.
51 We are grateful to Katarzyna Zapolska for her help in identifying the types and technical
details of the textiles found among manuscripts of the May Wäyni collection.
52 Sarah Fee (Department of Textiles and Costume, Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto)
confirms that such weft-faced, warp-striped bands, only 2.4 centimetres wide, are known
from the Western Indian Ocean region and could have been woven on the braid loom or
even produced by pit-loom weavers in Ethiopia.
53 The technique of decorating leather bindings with iron tools is called mädäggwäs in
Amharic. See Alehegne, p. 153.
54 Szirmai, p. 45.
55 Pankhurst, “Ethiopian Manuscript Bindings”, pp. 212-13.
and decorative techniques that have evolved through the centuries between
these two traditions, a significant feature common to both is the application
of decorative textiles to the inside of the covers.56
Fig. 4.23 Different types of textiles used as lining for the inner side of the manuscript
bindings: (a) Indian plain-weave, shuttle-woven fabric (?) – with “buta” (Persian) or
“boteh” (Indian) motif (EAP526/1/18); (b) six narrow strips of plain-weave fabric each
with both selvedges (EAP526/1/48); (c) tapestry, plain-weave fabric (EAP526/1/37); (d)
Indian Masulipatam plain-weave fabric, block-printed (EAP526/1/43), CC BY-NC.
56 Jacek Tomaszewski, Oprawy haftowane i tekstylne z XVI—XIX wieku w zbiorach polskich, t. 1,

Kontekst historyczny [Embroidered and Textile Bookbindings from the 16th to the 19th Century
in Polish Collections, I: Historical Context] (Warsaw: Akademia Sztuk Pięknych, Biblioteka
Narodowa, 2013), p. 23, Fig. 6.
The literature mentions no more than ten basic tooled designs used by
bookbinders (kwättač) for the decoration of Ethiopian bindings.57 The existing
classification of individual patterns is, however, imprecise and needs to
be systematised, especially in the context of early examples.58 The simple
iron tools are all used for decorating the central, rectangular motif and
surrounding frames (Fig. 4.24). The principal divisions of the composition
are created using drawn pallets,59 giving the impression of single, double
and triple lines. Equally popular are traditional motifs of diagonal crosses
or X-form type,60 a motif resembling a palm tree or its leaf,61 an undulating
or wave pattern, also called “mother of water”,62 and the rosette.63
Fig. 4.24 Set of iron tools for decorating bindings, CC BY-NC.
57 Currently, in the region of Tigray, tools are usually obtained in the market place in
Aksum. Mellors and Parsons, Ethiopian Bookmaking, p. 17.
58 Pankhurst, “Ethiopian Manuscript Bindings”, p. 207.
59 Amharic: masmäriya (Alehegne, p. 155).
60 Amharic: märgäs (ibid., p. 154).
61 Amharic: balä—zämbaba (ibid., p. 160).
62 Amharic: yä—wǝha ǝnnat (ibid.). This decoration, consisting of two concentric ellipses, is
similar to the water insect of that name (Pankhurst, “Ethiopian Manuscript Bindings”, p.
251).
63 Amharic: ṭǝmǝzz (Alehegne, p. 159).
One of the oldest border designs, frequently appearing on the outer edge
of the fringe, consists of an oblique chequered patterning or crisscross
ornament. Because of its importance, this decoration is called Ge’ez, “head”
or “principle”.64 Different strapwork or braided elements, used to build
so-called zigzag type patterns65 are commonly enclosed in a square or
rectangular shape. The typical tool set also includes a double wheel, called
“dove’s eye”66 or corniform, which is also known as a single curved element
in the form of a crescent.67 Other motifs occur, but they are less popular
and tend to be used incidentally by local craftsmen.68
Virtually all the basic variations of decorative motifs are visible on
the bindings in the May Wäyni collection. The most popular binding
tools are those used for creating the framing fillets. Nine varieties of
cross motifs could be identified, among which is a tool for producing a
circle superimposed on a cross and complemented by four dots (Fig. 4.25:
19). Seven basic varieties of crisscross patterning are supplemented by a
grid pattern which has not previously been noted in sets of bookmakers’
tools (Fig. 4.25: 29-31). The crisscross is used in conjunction with the
above-mentioned patterns to create fillets. A variety of simple strap-work
elements in the form of straight (Fig. 4.25: 32-33) and wavy shapes (Fig.
4.25: 34-36) together serve as the basis for a large group of tools used
solely to create fillets as well as more complicated patterns arising from
a broad braid motif (Fig. 4.25: 37-45). The first two from this group (Fig.
4.25: 37-38) are very popular and represent an intermediate form between
the wave-like design and braiding.
64 Amharic: rǝɔǝsä mädäggwǝs and mädäggwǝs (ibid., pp. 157 and 153).
65 Amharic: bälä—gämäd (ibid., p. 161).
66 Amharic: caynä regb (ibid., p. 148).
67 Amharic: fǝyyäl fäläg (resembling the hoofprint of a goat) or gärnä bägc and also gärnä
ṭǝmǝzz (ibid., pp. 150, 157). Berthe Van Regemorter introduced the term in a literal
translation, “ram’s horns”, which was also used by Pankhurst. Berthe Van Regemorter,
Some Oriental Bindings in the Chester Beatty Library (Dublin: Hodges, Figgis and Co, 1961),
pp. 13-14.
68 Some additional motifs are mentioned in bibliographic sources, for example gäwz —
a design in the form of a circular “sun” with lines radiating in all directions that was
used in block-stamped medallions — or maḫtäm, a stamp which typically indicates the
owner’s name, that is, a person or monastery. See Alehegne, pp. 151 and 155; Thomas
Leiper Kane, Amharic-English Dictionary, 2 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1990), p.
2023b.
Fig. 4.25 Tools found on bindings in May Wäyni collection. Straight lines: triple (1- EAP526/1/26), double (2- EAP526/1/37), single (3- EAP526/1/39).
Circles: single (4- EAP526/1/4 [Ø≈5 mm]), double (5- EAP526/1/18 [Ø≈5 mm]). Corni-form (6- EAP526/1/4 [18 × 8mm], 7- EAP526/1/44 [17 × 8 mm).
V-form: dotted (8- EAP526/1/11 [5 × 10mm], triple lines (9- EAP526/1/24 [9 × 12 mm]). Almond form: ‘mother of water’ (10- EAP526/1/4 [7 × 10
mm]), ’palm shape’ (11- EAP526/1/5 [13 × 6 mm], 12- EAP526/1/49 [12 × 6mm]). Diagonal cross: 13- EAP526/1/17 [7 × 7 mm], 14- EAP526/1/11 [8
×8mm], 15- EAP526/1/5 [10 × 10 mm], 16- EAP526/1/4 [9 × 9 mm], 17- EAP526/1/18 [7 × 7 mm], 18- EAP526/1/87 [9 × 9 mm], 19- EAP526/1/48 [8
× 8 mm], 20- EAP526/1/42 [12 × 12 mm], 21- EAP526/1/11 [8 × 10 mm]. Criss-cross: 22- EAP526/1/7 [4 × 6 mm], 23- EAP526/1/26 [9 × 10 mm], 24-
EAP526/1/15 [8 × 8 mm], 25- EAP526/1/18 [9 × 9 mm], 26- EAP526/1/49 [7 × 9 mm], 27- EAP526/1/5 [9 × 10 mm]; 28- EAP526/1/66 [8 × 8 mm]. Grid
pattern: 29- EAP526/1/24 [7 × 13 mm], 30- EAP526/1/4 [10 × 15 mm], 31- EAP526/1/41 [12 × 12 mm]. Straight strapwork elements: 32- EAP526/1/3 [5
× 11 mm], 33- EAP526/1/18 [6 × 9 mm].Wavy lines: 34- EAP526/1/3 [5 × 14 mm], 35- EAP526/1/26 [6 × 15 mm], 36- EAP526/1/1 [4 × 10 mm]. Curve
strapwork elements or ‘wave form’: 37- EAP526/1/13 [8 × 10 mm], 38- EAP526/1/15 [6 × 10 mm], 39- EAP526/1/18 [9 × 10 mm], 40- EAP526/1/49 [7
× 10 mm], 41- EAP526/1/22 [9 × 10 mm], 42- EAP526/1/31 [9 × 10 mm], 43- EAP526/1/22 [6 × 10 mm], 44- EAP526/1/41 [7 × 10 mm], 45- EAP526/1/41
[7 × 10 mm]. Rosette motives: 46- EAP526/1/25 [8 × 8 mm], 47- EAP526/1/31 [7 × 7 mm], 48- EAP526/1/46 [7 × 7 mm]. All images CC BY-NC.
Forms of simple rosettes (Fig. 4.25: 46-48) appear rarely, but are characteristic
elements which allow the linking of individual bindings to a particular
creator. A survey of the entire collection identified two types of the basic
forms of this so-called “dove’s eye” tool. In contrast, the tool which gives
the imprint of a single or double circle is common (Fig. 4.25: 4-5). Another
pattern which has not previously been mentioned in the literature can be
defined as the “V-form.” Two variations of this type of decorative tooling
appear in the bindings of the May Wäyni manuscripts, one consisting of a
single dotted line (Fig. 4.25: 8) and the other of two solid outer lines with a
dotted line down the centre (Fig. 4.25: 9).
Established centuries ago, decorative conventions and most of the tools
were rigidly prescribed by Ethiopian bookbinders.69 Many of these patterns
were used by different binders in almost identical form, although in many
cases small differences can be seen in the drawing or the size of the design.
Finding these subtle differences may contribute to the identification of the
individual binders. Although it is assumed that seven or more kinds of tools
may be used to decorate large books, it is common to find only three used
on small bindings.70 The number of border arms and of tools used depends
more on the creativity of the bookbinder than on the format of the book.
Not only did the diligence and accuracy of a scribe’s handwriting serve as
testimony to his artistry, but it also promoted the splendour of the decorative
binding that he prepared for his book. For this reason, as many designs and
tools were applied as possible, and in many cases a sense of horror vacui is
clearly visible.
Over 73% of the tooled fringes consist of two or three ornamental sequences.
The remaining fringes are more complex, having four or five fringe arms.
Only in one case is the central field encompassed by a single decorative
frame. Normally, a seemingly simple traditional decorative surround is
enriched with different varieties of the central cross theme, yet the number
of variations based on such simple shapes and figures is remarkable. It is
challenging to create a typology of these central elements, enclosed in a
rectangular shape, because the wide variety of tooled ornaments differs
from the basic compositional scheme. However, with some simplification,
four main groups of motifs can be identified.71
69 Pankhurst, “Ethiopian Manuscript Bindings”, p. 209.

70 Mellors and Parsons, Ethiopian Bookmaking, p. 17; see also Delamarter and Terefe, plates
24, 37 and 106.
71 Pankhurst established three forms of central panel decoration based on the cross motif.
Fig. 4.26 Decorative tooling on the central panels of the leather covering of four
manuscripts from May Wäyni (a (EAP526/1/4), b (EAP526/1/16), c (EAP526/1/7),
d (EAP526/1/31)), CC BY-NC.
In the simplest version, the ornamented central Latin cross stands alone or is
sometimes found with an unobtrusive decorative background (Fig. 4.26a).72
The cross in the next group is enhanced by squares or triangles at the base
(Fig. 4.26b). In the third group, rectangular forms appear below the cross with
square ones at the top, thus creating an additional background outline for
it (Fig. 4.26c).73 These forms could be further decorated with straight-line or
To his classification we have added another motif with squares or triangles placed at the
base of the cross (Fig. 4.26b). He also distinguished three basic forms of cross tooling on
bindings: 1) the Latin cross; 2) an equal-armed cross with extended lower stem; and 3)
the diamond-shaped cross (“Ethiopian Manuscript Bindings”, p. 209).
72 Ibid., p. 211, Fig. 5a.
73 Ibid., Fig. 5b.
dual-wheel tooling. In the last group, a church is represented schematically

with a diamond-shaped cross on an architectural post rising above the pitch
of the roof (Fig. 4.26d).74
The tooling of most of the bindings in the May Wäyni collection is based
on these few characteristic schemes, only some of which received a marginally
different decoration. Although it, too, is based on a cross motif, the tooled
composition of the binding from a copy of the Zena śəllase [Narrative Teaching
on the Holy Trinity, EAP526/1/73; Fig. 4.27] is less complex, but deserves
particular attention due to its elaborate tooling. The upper cover consists
of a centrally-arranged simple cross whose arms extend to the outer frame
of a double, ornamental fringe. On the back cover, the fringe embodies a
single ornamental sequence, while the central cross is filled with embossed
decoration. Smaller crosses were placed in rectangular fields in the corners
of the composition, the lower pair being additionally decorated with a blind,
stamped pattern.
Fig. 4.27 May Wäyni manuscript Zena Sәlase [Narrative Teaching on the Holy Trinity].
Tooled leather binding (EAP526/1/73), CC BY-NC.
Tooling was not restricted to the covers. Blind tooling ornamentation can be
observed in nearly 30% of the manuscripts from May Wäyni whose leather
has been entirely preserved (Fig. 4.28).75 Most often, it consists of a rectangular
74 Ibid., Fig. 5c.

75 Very few authors mention the decoration on the spine. Antoine d’Abbadie, in the
introduction to his catalogue of Ethiopian manuscripts, states that the spines of the
manuscripts remain undecorated. Antoine d’Abbadie, Catalogue raisonné de manuscrits
éthiopiens appartenant à Antoine d’Abbadie (Paris: Imprimerie Impérial, 1859), p. 87.
Pankhurst claims that the spine is left with little or no tooling (“Ethiopian Manuscript
Binding”, p. 209).
segment dividing the surface into two to six fields, usually filled with
diagonally arranged crosses. In some cases, smaller fields close the composition
at the top and bottom of the spine. Less typical are designs consisting of
a sequence of crosses, placed on the back of the book without segmental
division, but usually enriched with additional small tool impressions. An
unusual decoration appears on the manuscript of the Täᵓammǝrä Iyäsus [Book
of the Miracles of Jesus, EAP526/1/44], whose spine is divided by oblique lines
into triangular fields and embellished with impressions of rectangular stamps
in a crisscross pattern (Fig. 4.28, right). The arrangement of decoration on
the spines of these manuscripts has a purely decorative function and was
introduced independently of the layout of the sewing stations.
Fig. 4.28 Tooled leather decoration on the spines of manuscripts (from left to right:
EAP526/1/31, EAP526/1/22, EAP526/1/44), CC BY-NC.
Decorative stamping is further visible on the inner side of the covers,

particularly on the wide leather turn-ins and strips pasted down on the
binding edge of the wooden cover to form the border of the central field. This
ornamentation is predominantly restricted to the tooling of straight lines,
enhanced with double circles. Among the manuscripts from May Wäyni, of
particular distinction is the very precisely made and relatively new binding
of the Gädlä Ṗeṭros zä-Däbrä Abbay [Acts of Petros of Däbrä Abbay, EAP526/1/65].
On the inner side of the covers, the evenly trimmed leather margins form a
border for the middle field lined with a plain-weave textile. The orange and
white textile is printed in oblique diamonds which are filled alternately with
impressions of small diamonds and four-leaf rosettes or crosses. Placed in
the middle of the central panel is a square cross, also made of leather (Fig.
4.29). Both the cross and the border are tooled and divided into square and
rectangular segments, the insides of which have been stamped with diagonal
lines. Double circles and crosses are tooled in the corners of each field and
where the lines intersect. In this case, the leather ornamentation seems to
have been inspired by the geometric pattern of the printed textile.
Fig. 4.29 May Wäyni manuscript Gädlä Ṗeṭros zä-Däbrä Abbay [Acts of Petros of Däbrä
Abbay] showing decoration of the inner side of the cover (EAP526/1/65), CC BY-NC.
Finally, tooled decoration can also be found on the edges of the covers.
As on the inner side of the covers, the tooling on the edges serves both a
decorative and technological purpose. The impression with a hot metal tool
on moist leather enhances its adhesion to the cover. This type of decoration
is present on about 30% of all bindings with preserved leather covers. Most
often, it takes the form of a triple line running along all edges of the book.
Less common is the impression of double circles or other patterns, including
more complex decoration in which multiple lines and circles are integrated.
Fig. 4.30 May Wäyni manuscript showing tooled decoration on

the edges of the covers (EAP526/1/52), CC BY-NC.
The examination and recording of the May Wäyni manuscripts have

provided the opportunity to develop a more general conservation strategy
for manuscripts found in Ethiopia. The compromising storage conditions and
the state of preservation of the collection are common to its rural counterparts
throughout the country. Many, if not most, of these manuscripts are vulnerable
to massive loss and destruction, and it is probable that large numbers will
suffer such a fate sooner rather than later. To some extent, this situation can
be marginally postponed by the ancient scribal tradition of copying books
manually, a custom still practiced in various parts of the country. However, this
method of replicating texts is insufficient, all the more so when one considers
the example of late antique and medieval Europe. In the difficult conditions
facing Ethiopia today, every effort needs to be undertaken to preserve
both the tangible and the intangible history of the region. Digitisation is an
extremely important and effective tool for the protection and preservation
of this heritage but, faced with the enormous numbers of extant Ethiopian
manuscripts, it can only succeed if accompanied by increased activity at
the international level. In order to preserve the manuscript traditions of
Ethiopia adequately there must be broad cooperation among Ethiopians
and non-Ethiopians in the conservation of the most valuable literary works,
sustained through training in modern conservation methods and, wherever
possible, by supporting surviving scribal practices.
References
Abbadie, Antoine d’, Catalogue raisonné de manuscrits éthiopiens appartenant à Antoine
d’Abbadie (Paris: Imprimerie impérial, 1859).
Alehegne, Mersha, “Towards a Glossary of Ethiopian Manuscript Culture and
Practice”, Aethiopica: International Journal of Ethiopian Studies, 14 (2011), 145-62.
Ancel, Stéphane, “Yohannes Käma”, Encyclopaedia Aethiopica, 5, ed. by Siegbert
Uhlig et al. (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2014), p. 81.
Balicka-Witakowska, Ewa, “Un psautier éthiopien illustré inconnu”, Orientalia
Suecana, 33-34 (1984-86), 17-48.
—, Bausi, Alessandro, Claire Bosc-Tiessé, and Denis Nosnitsin, “Ethiopian
Codicology”, in Comparative Oriental Manuscript Studies, ed. by A. Bausi et al.
(Hamburg: COMSt - Nordstedte: BOD, 2014), pp. 168-191.
—, “Recording Manuscripts in the Field,” Comparative Oriental Manuscript Studies,
ed. by A. Bausi et al. (Hamburg: forthcoming in 2015).
Chaitanya, Krishna, A History of Indian Painting: The Modern Period (New Delhi:
Shakti Malik Abhinav, 1994).
Delamarter, Steve, and Melaku Terefe, Ethiopian Scribal Practice 1: Plates for the
Catalogue of the Ethiopic Manuscript Imaging Project (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2009).
Di Bella, Marco, and Nikolas Sarris, “Field Conservation in East Tigray, Ethiopia”, in
Care and Conservation of Manuscripts 14: Proceedings of the Fourteenth International
Seminar Held at the University of Copenhagen 17th-19th October 2012, ed. by Matthew
J. Driscoll (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2014), pp. 271-307.
Gast, Monika, “A History of Endbands, Based on a Study of Karl Jäckel”, The New
Bookbinder, 3 (1983), 42-58.
Gervers, Michael, “The Portuguese Import of Luxury Textiles to Ethiopia in the 16th
and 17th Centuries and their Subsequent Artistic Influence”, in The Indigenous
and the Foreign in Christian Ethiopian Art: On Portuguese-Ethiopian Contacts in the
16th-17th Centuries: Papers from the Fifth International Conference on the History of
Ethiopian Art (Arrabida, 26-30 November 1999), ed. by Manuel João Ramos with
Isabel Boavida (Burlington: Ashgate, 2004), pp. 121-34.
Hable Selassie, Sergew, Bookmaking in Ethiopia (Leiden: Karstens Drukkers, 1981).
Haile, Getatchew, A Catalogue of Ethiopian Manuscripts Microfilmed for the Ethiopian
Manuscript Microfilm Library, Addis Ababa and for the Hill Monastic Manuscript
Library, Collegeville, 10 (Collegeville, MN: Saint John’s University, 1993).
Kane, Thomas Leiper, Amharic-English Dictionary, 2 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz,
1990).
Lemenih, Mulugeta, and Frans Bongers, “Dry Forests of Ethiopia and Their
Silviculture”, in Silviculture in the Tropics, ed. by Sven Günter, Michael Weber,
Bernd Stimm and Reinhard Mosandl (Berlin: Springer-Verlag, 2011), pp. 261-72.
Liszewska, W., Conservation of Historical Parchments: New Methods of Leafcasting with
the Use of Parchment Fibres (Warsaw: Akademia Sztuk Pięknych, 2012).
Machado, Pedro, “Awash in a Sea of Cloth: Gujarat Africa, and the Western Indian
Ocean, 1300-1800”, in The Spinning World: A Global History of Cotton Textiles, 1200-
1850, ed. by Giorgio Riello and Prasannan Parthasarathi (New York: Oxford
Markham, Clements R., A History of the Abyssinian Expedition (London: Macmillan,

1869).
Mellors, John, and Anne Parsons, “Manuscript and Book Production in South
Gondar in the Twenty-First Century”, in Proceedings of the Sixth International
Conference on the History of Ethiopian Art, Addis Ababa 5-8 November 2002, ed. by
Birhanu Teferra and Richard Pankhurst (Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian
Studies, 2003), pp. 185-89.
Middleton, Bernard C., A History of English Craft Bookbinding Technique (New York:
Hafner, 1963).
Pankhurst, Richard, “Indian Trade with Ethiopia, the Gulf of Aden and the Horn
of Africa in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries”, Cahiers d’études
africaines, 14/55 (1965), 455-97.
—, “Imported Textiles in Ethiopian Eighteenth Century Manuscript Bindings in
Britain”, Azania, 16 (1981), 131-50.
—, “Ethiopian Manuscript Bindings and their Decoration”, Abbay, 12 (1983-1984),
205-57.
Peterson, Dan, “An Investigation and Treatment of an Uncommon Ethiopian
Binding and Consideration of its Historical Context”, The Book and Paper Group
Annual, 27 (2008), 55-62.
Simpson, William, Diary of a Journey to Abyssinia, 1868, ed. by Richard Pankhurst
(Los Angeles, CA: Tsehai, 2002).
Szirmai, Janos A., The Archaeology of Medieval Bookbinding (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999).
Tomaszewski, Jacek, Oprawy haftowane i tekstylne z XVI-XIX wieku w zbiorach polskich,
t. 1, Kontekst historyczny [Embroidered and Textile Bookbindings from the 16th to the
19th Century in Polish Collections, I: Historical Context] (Warsaw: Akademia Sztuk
Pięknych, Biblioteka Narodowa, 2013).
—, Balicka-Witakowska, Ewa, and Zofia Żukowska, “Ethiopian Manuscript
Maywäyni 041 with Added Miniature: Codicological and Technological
Analysis”, Annales d’Éthiopie, 29 (forthcoming in 2015).
Uhlig, Siegbert, Introduction to Ethiopian Palaeography (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1990).
Van Regemorter, Berthe, Some Oriental Bindings in the Chester Beatty Library (Dublin:
Hodges, Figgis and Co, 1961).
Zanotti-Eman, Carla, “Linear Decoration in Ethiopian Manuscripts”, in African
Zion: The Sacred Art of Ethiopia, ed. by Roderick Grierson (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 1993).
5. Localising Islamic knowledge:
acquisition and copying of the
Riyadha Mosque manuscript
collection in Lamu, Kenya1
Anne K. Bang
In Lamu, Islamic practice and intellectual traditions in the late nineteenth

century were strongly marked by the foundation of the Riyadha Mosque,
established by Ṣāliḥ b. ʿAlawī Jamal al-Layl, known in East Africa as Habib
Saleh (1853-1936).2 He was a descendant of early migrants from Ḥaḍramawt,
Yemen, who settled in Pate in the late sixteenth century. From there, the Jamal
al-Layl family branched out to the urban centres of East Africa, including
Zanzibar and the Comoro Islands. Being not only of Ḥaḍramī (and thus Arab)
origin, but also claiming Sharīfian descent (i.e. in direct patrilineage from
the prophet Muḥammad), the male representatives of the Jamal al-Layl clan
in East Africa were able to take up professions as religious experts, often in
combination with roles as traders.
As part of the stratum collectively called the ʿAlawī sāda, the Jamal al-Layl
family was also known to adhere to the brand of Sufism (Islamic mysticism
1 The transliteration of Arabic words in this chapter is based on the LOC transliteration
system.
2 The honorific use of the term ḥabīb (beloved) is common to many of the most revered
scholars of the ʿAlawī tradition up to the present time; for example, “Habīb ʿUmar”
(ʿUmar b. Hafīẓ) is the current leader of the Dar al-Muṣṭafā in Tarim, Ḥaḍramawt. In some
instances, the term ḥabīb is used almost synonymously with the term sharīf or sayyid,
implying descent from the prophet. Abdallah Saleh Farsy, in his hagiographic account
of the Islamic scholars of East Africa, uses the name “Habib Saleh” consistently. See
Abdallah Saleh Farsy, Baadhi ya Wanavyoni wa Kishafii wa Mashariki ya Afrika [The Shafi’i
Ulama of East Africa, ca. 1830-1970: A Hagiographic Account], trans. and ed. by Randall L.
Pouwels (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin, 1989).
© Anne K. Bang, CC BY-ND http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.05

organised in ṭarīqas, or brotherhoods) known as the ṭarīqa ʿAlawiyya. The “ʿAlawī

way” rests on a dual silsila (chain of spiritual transmission). The first links back
to Shuʿayb Abū Madyan (d. 1197 in the Maghreb) and shares the same origin
as the more widely diffused ṭarīqa Shādhiliyya.3 However, in Ḥaḍramawt, the
ʿAlawiyya was for centuries perpetuated as “clan Sufism” among the sāda,
its spiritual secrets understood to rest within the bloodline of the prophet.
This came to be known as a second chain of transmission, and in turn made
for a tight-knit stratum that upheld strict rules of endogamous marriage and
control of access to knowledge. However, by the nineteenth century, the idea
that mystical knowledge was accessible only to males born to a sayyid father
had somewhat retreated, probably due to centuries of widespread migration
and the accompanying need for intermarriage into host societies in East Africa,
Southeast Asia and India. The shift was also likely the result of an ongoing
intellectual reform within the ʿAlawī ṭarīqa, closely connected to reformist
ideas emerging within the wider Islamic world. What we do know is that in
late nineteenth-century East Africa, representatives of the ṭarīqa ʿAlawiyya
were ready to teach non-ʿAlawīs to marry their daughters to them and initiate
them into the ṭarīqa.
Habib Saleh was born in Grande Comore, but left as a young man to stay
with relatives in Lamu. He returned to Grande Comore again, but finally
settled in Lamu some time in the late 1870s or early 1880s. His biography, as
well as his religious and intellectual formation are well documented in earlier
studies and will not be repeated at length here.4 However, one aspect that
must be addressed is Habib Saleh’s spiritual connection to his Sufi master
in Ḥaḍramawt, the renowned teacher, saintly figure and scholar ʿAlī b.
Muḥammad al-Ḥibshī (d. 1915).5 In the history of the ʿAlawī ṭariqa, al-Ḥibshī
3 Anne K. Bang, Sufis and Scholars of the Sea: Family Networks in East Africa, 1860-1925
(London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), pp. 13-16; and J. Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders
in Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971), p. 16. Trimingham bases his observation
on Maghrebi sources deriving from the Shādhiliyya-Jazūliyya.
4 Ṣāliḥ Muḥammad ʿAlī Badawī, Al-Riyāḍ bayna māḍīhi wa-ḥādirihi, Transcript, NP,
1410/1989; Abdul Hamid M. el Zein, The Sacred Meadows: A Structural Analysis of Religious
Symbolism in an East African Town (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1974);
Peter Lienhardt, “The Mosque College of Lamu and its Social Background”, Tanzania
Notes and Records, 53 (1959), 228-42; BinSumeit Kitamy, “The Role of the Riyadha Mosque
College in Enhancing Islamic Identity in Kenya”, in Islam in Kenya: Proceedings of the
National Seminar on Contemporary Islam in Kenya, ed. by Mohamed Bakari and Saad S.
Yahya (Nairobi: Mewa, 1995), pp. 269-76; and Patricia W. Romero, “‘Where Have All the
Slaves Gone?’: Emancipation and Post-Emancipation in Lamu, Kenya”, The Journal of
African History, 27 (1986), 497-512.
5 In Swahili, the name is usually referred to as “al-Hibshi”, whereas the Ḥaḍramī
vocalisation is given as “al-Ḥabshī”. I have chosen here to use the most common
Localising Islamic knowledge 137
is known as part of a group of scholars who were the driving force behind
what has been termed a “reform” of the religious precepts of the ʿAlawiyya.
It may be argued whether or not this reform actually constituted a clear
break with the past, but what is clear is that their emphasis on institution
building (first and foremost in the form of religious schools for primary
and higher education, known as ribāṭs), changed the ways in which Islamic
knowledge was transmitted. Rather than restricting transmission to the
personal relationship between a murshid (master) and his student (murīd),
Islamic — and even Sufi — knowledge was now understood as a set of texts
that could be taught in classes, following an organised curriculum. As a
consequence, these institutions emphasised written authority, in the sense
that they favoured text (and, specifically text in Arabic) over oral transmission.
The ribāt founded by al-Ḥibshī in Sayʾūn, Ḥaḍramawt, was named al-Riyāḍ
(The Garden), and received students from the wide diaspora of Ḥaḍramī
ʿAlawī migrants in the Indian Ocean. The efforts of scholars like al-Ḥibshī
influenced like-minded scholars (ʿAlawīs primarily, but also non-ʿAlawīs)
who founded similar teaching institutions not only in East Africa, but also
further afield in the Indian Ocean, including Indonesia.6 The Riyadha Mosque
and its teaching institution was explicitly modelled on that of al-Riyāḍ in
Sayʾūn, and the impact of al-Ḥibshī on the Riyadha was to be long standing.
In the Riyadha library there are manuscript copies of al-Ḥibshī ’s writings,
his khuṭbas (Friday sermons) and his mawlid (text recited on the occasion of
the birth of the Prophet Muhammad) Simṭ al-durar.7
Swahili vocalisation. On the history of ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Ḥibshī , see Freitag, Ulrike,
“Hadhramaut: A Religious Centre for the Northwestern Indian Ocean in the Late 19th
and early 20th Centuries?”, Studia Islamica, 89 (1999), 165-83; and Bang, Sufis and Scholars,
pp. 63-68. On the relationship between Habib Saleh and ʿAlī al-Ḥibshī, see Badawī:
“there existed between [the two] a strong bond and connection, even though the two
never met in their lives” (p. 24).
6 In Indonesia, the emergence of new strands of education among the Ḥaḍramīs caused
a deep conflict between “traditionalists” and “modernists”. For the development of
new teaching institutions, see Ulrike Freitag, Indian Ocean Migrants and State Formation
in Hadhramaut: Reforming the Homeland (Leiden: Brill, 2003); Natalie Mobini-Kesheh,
The Hadrami Awakening: Community and Identity in the Netherlands East Indies, 1900-
1942 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999); Muḥammad Nūr b. Muḥammad
Khayr al-Anṣarī, Taʾrīkh al-Irshād; and Deliar Noer, The Muslim Modernist Movement in
Indonesia, 1900-1942 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973). For two contemporary
Dutch accounts of the conflict, see B. J. O. Schrieke, “De Strijd onder de Arabieren in
Pers en Literatuur”, Notulen van de Algemeene en Directievergaderingen van het Bataviaasch
Genootschap van Kunsten en Wetenschappen, 58 (1920), 190-240; and C. O. van der Plas, “De
Arabische Gemente Ontvaakt”, Koloniaal Tijdschrift, 20 (1931), 176-85.
7 The works of al-Ḥibshī can be found in EAP466/1/49, EAP466/1/52, EAP466/1/69. For
more detailed description, see the bibliography below.
The construction of the Riyadha Mosque was made possible through the
help of Sayyid Manṣab b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān (1828-1922).8 He was a Lamu-
born Ḥaḍramī ʿAlawī scholar very much in touch with reformist ideas then
current in Ḥaḍramawt as well as in Mecca. After a career that included
studies in Mecca and Ḥaḍramawt, and long periods as qāḍī (Islamic judge)
of Dar-es-Salaam and Chwaka, Zanzibar, he returned to Lamu as a revered
religious authority, especially consulted upon questions of Arabic language
and grammar. In 1903, he transformed some of his land in Lamu into a waqf
(pious endowment) for the purpose of building the Riyadha.9 However,
it should be noted that Habib Saleh started his teaching activities several
years earlier, probably shortly after he settled in Lamu some time between
1875 and 1885.10
From the very beginning, the main hallmark of the Riyadha was the
incorporation of ritual traditions derived from al-Ḥibshī (notably the Simṭ
al-durar, also known as the Mawlid al-Ḥibshī). However, the most enduring
reformist agenda of the Riyadha was the admittance of students from beyond
the stone town itself (Oromo, Giryama, Pokomo and others). These groups had
until then been considered “outsiders” by the traditional Lamu aristocracy,
and many of them were former slaves.11
The manuscript collection of the Riyadha Mosque

The manuscript collection of the Riyadha consists of approximately 150
manuscripts, presently housed in the library of the educational facility of the
mosque. It is the largest privately held collection of Islamic manuscripts known
to exist in Kenya, and the manuscripts date from the early nineteenth century to
the 1930s. In terms of content, it ranges from 700-page tomes of Islamic law to
smaller leaflets of 20-50 pages meant for use in an educational setting. The older
manuscripts are bound in leather, while the more recent are written by pen in
lined schoolbooks. The Riyadha collection is unique from several perspectives.
Firstly, it provides an important overview of the historical orientation of Islamic
education in East Africa. Secondly, several of the manuscripts have inscriptions
8 Badawī, p. 17; Farsy, pp. 66-68; and Bang, Sufis and Scholars, p. 102.
9 Waqfiyya dated 1320/1903 (both years are actually given in the waqfiyya), and stamped by
the East Africa Protectorate Lamu Registry, 21 Feb 1903: In the possession of the Riyadha
Mosque.
10 This is also the conclusion arrived at by Peter Lienhardt, “The Mosque College of Lamu
and its Social Background”, Tanzania Notes and Records, 53 (1959), 228-42 (p. 230).
11 Patricia W. Romero, “‘Where Have All the Slaves Gone?’: Emancipation and Post-
Emancipation in Lamu, Kenya”, The Journal of African History, 27 (1986), 497-512.
that name owners over decades, indicating the economy of books and reading.
Thirdly, the presence in some of the manuscripts of inter-linear Swahili translations
in the Arabic script allows for research on the use of the Arabic script before
colonial education.12
Lastly, the collection holds copies of texts authored by East African scholars
themselves, sometimes in the author’s own hand. One prominent example is
EAP466/1/38 (Fig. 5.1) by the Brawa-born scholar Muḥyī al-Dīn al-Qaḥṭānī (ca.
1790-1869), Sharḥ tarbiyyat al-aṭfāl: a commentary on the text “Tarbiyyat al-aṭfāl”
[Instruction for children]. Al-Qaḥṭānī was a renowned scholar on the coast.
Fig. 5.1 First page of Sharḥ Tarbiyyat al-aṭfāl by Muḥyī al-Dīn al-Qaḥṭānī (d. Zanzibar,
1869). Possibly in the author’s own hand (EAP466/1/38, image 3), CC BY-ND.
12 The texts that include Swahili ajami have been included below in the list of works by
local copyists (EAP466/1/38).
Fig. 5.2 Wiṣayāt Aḥmad b. Abī Bakr b. Sumayṭ ilā ʿAbd Allāh BāKathīr. Spiritual testament
from the Zanzibari Sufi shaykh Aḥmad b. Sumayṭ (d. 1925) to his friend and disciple
ʿAbd Allāh Bā Kathīr (d. 1925), dated 1337H/1918-1919. Possibly in the author’s own
hand (EAP466/1/99, image 2), CC BY-ND.
Another example is EAP466/1/99 (Fig. 5.2). This is the “spiritual testament”

of the leading Sufi and chief qāḍī of Zanzibar Aḥmad b. Sumayṭ to his close
friend, disciple and associate, the Lamu-born scholar ʿAbd Allāh Bā Kathīr,
who founded the Madrasa Bā Kathīr in Zanzibar and who maintained close
family ties with Habib Saleh. Most likely, the manuscript is in the author’s
own hand. Also by a local author is EAP466/1/144. This is a travelogue
produced by the aforementioned ʿAbd Allāh Bā Kathīr, meticulously listing
the shaykhs with whom he studied during his journey in Ḥaḍramawt in 1897.
A final example is EAP466/1/60, authored by the Zanzibari scholar Ḥasan b.
Muḥammad Jamal al-Layl (d. 1904), who came from the same family as Habib
Saleh. The work, entitled Marsūmat al-ʿAyniyya, is a commentary on a well-
known poem by the Ḥaḍramī ʿAlawī poet ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād
(d. 1719). While these are certainly important and merit an in-depth study,
the focus here is on the mechanisms by which texts authored outside East
Africa were made available there.
My first visit to the Riyadha was in April 2010. I then returned in July
2010, with colleagues from the University of Bergen and the University of
Cape Town. Together with Aydaroos and Ahmad Badawi of the Riyadha,
and Eirik Hovden from the University of Bergen, we made a preliminary
inventory of the manuscript collection, simply numbering each manuscript
in order from one upwards, and listing its title, author, copyist and date of
copy only. In total, at that time we listed forty manuscripts. In August 2011,
we received the Endangered Archives Programme (EAP) grant to digitise
the collection; this task was completed in December 2012, and the digitised
collection is accessible at the EAP website.13
The EAP website displays 144 individual items. In addition, twelve other
manuscripts were partly digitised but they have not been put online, either
because they were too fragile to be completely digitised, or because of errors
during the digitising process. There is still no full catalogue of the collection.
The handlists produced for the EAP project, as well as a provisional catalogue
created for some categories of text (devotional texts, Sufism, genealogy and
fiqh) forms the basis for this contribution. A future full catalogue will certainly
add much depth to what is stated here, both in terms of the content of the
works, as well as their transmission.
As has been argued elsewhere, the titles in the manuscript collection in the
Riyadha Mosque show clear traces of the close intellectual inter-connection
with the Ḥaḍramawt and with wider trends of Islamic thought that were
spreading throughout the Indian Ocean during that period.14 This is especially
clear if we look at the prevalence of texts that can be categorised as devotional,
i.e. supererogatory prayers, Sufi dhikr (commemorations of God), mawlid
texts, various types of invocations, prayers and poetry expressing devotion
13 EAP466: The manuscripts of the Riyadh Mosque of Lamu, Kenya, http://eap.bl.uk/

database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP466. The digitised manuscripts are available
at http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP466
14 For the content of this intellectual tradition, see Anne K. Bang, “The Riyadha Mosque
Manuscript Collection in Lamu: A Ḥaḍramī Tradition in Kenya”, Journal of Islamic
Manuscripts, 5/4 (2014); and idem, Islamic Sufi Networks in the Western Indian Ocean (c.
1880-1940): Ripples of Reform (Leiden: Brill, 2014).
to the prophet. The collection shows a not unexpected over-representation

of authors from within the Ḥaḍramī ʿAlawī tradition, or authors sanctioned
by this tradition. This is especially so in the fields of Sufism and genealogy,
where authors from the ʿAlawī tradition dominate.
Finally, it is worth noting that the Riyadha collection also holds multiple
copies of texts that were common to all of East Africa, and indeed beyond
to the wider Muslim world (such as the Qaṣīdat al-Burda and the Mawlid
Barzanjī).15 From their presence in an educational institution, we can deduce
that knowledge of these texts — literally, the ability to read them — was
an essential prerequisite for being an educated member of contemporary
Muslim society. There existed, in other words, what Roman Loimeier in his
study of Zanzibar called an Arabic-language bildungskanon:16 an educational
common ground that encompassed Ḥaḍramawt, Lamu, Zanzibar and the
Comoro Islands. This canon was being taught in new educational facilities,
such as the aforementioned al-Riyāḍ in Sayʾūn and the Madrasa Bā Kathīr
in Zanzibar.
Before the emergence of print, this bildungskanon consisted mainly of
manuscript texts that reached the Riyadha through buying, donations or
copying over a long period of time — well into the era of print. Manuscripts
were acquired during travel (to Ḥaḍramawt, Mecca, Egypt or elsewhere),
either directly on behalf of the Riyadha, or by individuals who later decided to
deposit their books with the institution, often through the Islamic institution
of waqf. Buyers and donors, in other words, were important transmitters of
ideas. Known texts were also copied by local copyists, who thus also acted
as transmitters. The focus here is on the ways in which the manuscripts, as
physical manifestations of an emerging bildungskanon, found their way to
the shelves of the Riyadha.
Buyers, owners and donors

One illustrative example of how the actual, physical transmission of
manuscripts took place can be found in the Riyadha library. Around 1890,
15 Qaṣīdat al-Burda, by the Sufi and poet al-Buṣīri (d. 1202) is a poetic praise of the Prophet
Muḥammad and widely recited among Sunni Muslims throughout the world. The
mawlid poem authored by Jaʿfar al-Barzanjī (d. 1764) is a panegyric on the Prophet,
widely recited in the Islamic world on the date of his birth. See Marion Holmes Katz, The
Birth of the Prophet Muhammad: Devotional Piety in Sunni Islam (London: Routledge, 2007);
and Constance E. Padwick, Muslim Devotions: A Study of Prayer-Manuals in Common Use
(Oxford: Oneworld, 1996 [1961]).
16 Roman Loimeier, Between Social Skills and Marketable Skills: The Politics of Islamic Education
in 20th Century Zanzibar (Leiden: Brill, 2009).
the mufti of Tarīm, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Mashhūr, completed a massive

genealogical work known as Shams al-Ẓahīra [The Mid-day Sun].17 Six years
later, the Lamu-born scholar ʿAbd Allāh Bā Kathīr travelled to Tarīm in the
search for knowledge. While in Tarim, he sought out al-Mashhūr and then
wrote a letter to his colleague in Zanzibar, the aforementioned Ḥasan Jamal
al-Layl (d. 1904). This letter is reproduced in the front of the text authored
by Ḥasan Jamal al-Layl, the Marsūmat al-ʿAyniyya mentioned above, and
which deals precisely with genealogy:
[Al-Mashhūr] greets you and gives you a big gift, but I don’t want to send
it by somebody else’s hand, as it is very a precious book, but I will bring it
myself after the Hajj [Pilgrimage]. What he composed is a book about all the
sāda and the names they were known by…18
It is worth noting that Bā Kathīr emphasises the value of the book, not
necessarily in monetary terms, but nonetheless as too precious to be sent
by somebody else’s hand. The implication, of course, is that books were
frequently sent “by somebody else’s hand” from Ḥaḍramawt and elsewhere
to the scholarly centres of East Africa, including Lamu. The sending of texts
back and forth seems to have been a common feature of intellectual friendships
and collaborations; for example, Ṭāhir al-Amawī (d. 1938), qāḍī of Zanzibar,
corresponded regularly with the mufti of Mecca. In this correspondence too,
the sending of books, journal and texts is frequently mentioned.19
The text that Bā Kathīr brought to Zanzibar was almost certainly
al-Mashhūr’s magnum opus, the Shams al-ẓahīra al-ḍāḥiyya al-munīra fī nasab
wa-silsila ahl al-bayt al-nabawī [The Luminescent, encompassing mid-day sun on
the lineage and genealogy of the people of the house of the Prophet].20 This work
17 ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Muḥammad b. Ḥusayn Al-Mashhūr, Shams al-ẓahīra fī nasab ahl al-bayt
min banī ʿAlawī. Furūʿ Fāṭima al-Zahrāʾ wa-Amīr al-Muʾminīn ʿAlī, 2 vols., 2nd edn., ed. by
Muḥammad Ḍiyāʾ Shihāb, Jiddah (Beirut: ʿĀlam al-Maʿrifa, 1984). Al-Mashūr himself
was a representative of the reformist movement discussed above, and the founder of a
school in Tarim that was sought out by scholars from East Africa and beyond.
18 Another, related text by Ḥasan b. Muḥammad Jamal al-Layl can be found in the Zanzibar
National Archives, ZA 8/58 (photocopy in Bergen). For a discussion of this text, see
Valerie J. Hoffman, “The Role of the Masharifu on the Swahili Coast in the Nineteenth
and Twentieth Centuries”, in Sayyids and Sharifs in Muslim Societies: The Living Links to the
Prophet, ed. by Morimoto Kazuo (London: Routledge, 2012), pp. 185-97.
19 For a discussion of this correspondence, see Anne K. Bang, “Another Scholar for all
Seasons?: Tahir b. Abi Bakr al-Amawi (1877-1938), Qadi of Zanzibar”, in The Global
Worlds of the Swahili. Interfaces of Islam, Identity and Space in 19th and 20th-Century East
Africa, ed. by Roman Loimeier and Rüdiger Seesemann (Hamburg: LIT Verlag, 2006), pp.
273-88.
20 See al-Mashhūr. The book was first printed in Hyderabad in 1911, and again in Mecca
in 1955. The latest edition, from 1984 (which is the one consulted here) has additional
entries and updates. For a discussion of its content, see B. G. Martin, “Arab Migrations
was only completed in manuscript form by 1890, and it is interesting to

note how relatively quickly a copy made its way to East Africa. The Shams
al-ẓahīra was since copied throughout the ʿAlawī diaspora, including in East
Africa. One example is a copy held by the Riyadha Mosque, copied in Ṣafar
1322/April 1904 by Aḥmad b. Ṣāliḥ Jamal al-Layl (Ahmad Badawi, the son
of Habib Saleh, b. 1305/1887-88).21
Owners affiliated with the Riyadha Mosque

Not surprisingly, we find among the original owners of manuscripts in the
Riyadha collection the founder of the mosque itself, Habib Saleh. Three
manuscripts carry his inscription (EAP466/1/17, 19, 28) while a fourth
(EAP466/1/49) almost certainly belonged to him (by textual evidence, the
text is a compilation of works by Habib Saleh’s shaykh, ʿAlī b. Muḥammad
al-Ḥibshī). By all accounts, the manuscripts remained with the family, and
were deposited at the Riyadha for safekeeping.
Another central Riyadha-affiliated scholar whose books can be found
at the library was Sayyid Manṣab b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān. EAP466/1/48 is a
collection of Sufi ijāzas (certificates, proof of proficiency) and spiritual advice
from his main teacher in Ḥaḍramawt, ʿAydarūs b. ʿUmar al-Ḥibshī (d. 1896,
Ḥaḍramawt). This collection stems from Sayyid Manṣab’s period of study
with ʿAydarūs al-Ḥibshī, and almost certainly belonged to him. The series of
Quranic juzus22 held in the Riyadha all carry his inscription, stating that the
copy is “verified by Sayyid Manṣab”. According to the account by Abdallah
Saleh Farsy, Sayyid Manṣab was known as the best Arabist in Lamu, and
his “verification” meant that the vocalisation was correct and that the copy
could be used for recital.
While it is not entirely clear from the inscription if the copies actually
belonged to Sayyid Manṣab, they certainly came to the mosque via him. The
to East Africa in Medieval Times”, International Journal of African Historical Studies, 7/3
(1974), 367-90. For a discussion of its diffusion and meaning within the ʿAlawī diaspora,
see Engseng Ho, The Graves of Tarim: Genealogy and Mobility across the Indian Ocean
(Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2006).
21 This manuscript is not on the EAP website as it was insufficiently digitised (not all pages
could be opened). In the initial listing by Shaykh Ahmad Nabhany, it was assigned the
number RM30. It is stored in the Riyadha library.
22 For the purpose of reciting and learning the Quran by heart, the text is often divided into
thirty sections (Ar: juzʾ, Swahili: juzu). These do not correspond to the chapters of the
Quran, as breaks are inserted in order to make the sections of even length. EAP466/1/118
– 43 are individual manuscripts where each juz is bound separately.
same is the case with a copy of the Duʿa Birr Walidayn, a prayer often recited
for one’s parents (EAP466/1/105). This copy bears Sayyid Manṣab’s comments
and corrections in the margin, indicating that it may have belonged to him.
The final inscription is almost unreadable, so another possibility is that Sayyid
Manṣab was the copyist of the eight-page prayer. A final possibility, of course,
is that Sayyid Manṣab corrected the work of another, unknown copyist.
The institution of waqf and the transmission of

Islamic knowledge
The donation of books as waqf (pious endowment, permanently removing
the item in question from circulation in the market) served as a way for the
learned class to ensure that manuscripts and books remained within families
or institutions.23 The Riyadha collection shows that waqf was used as a way
to safeguard access to Islamic learning. One interesting example of waqf
donation in the collection is in fact not a manuscript, but a lithograph printed
in Cairo in 1272/1855. This is a gloss by the Egyptian scholar Muḥammad
al-Khiḍr al-Dimyāṭī (1798-1870), completed by the author in 1250/1834, of
the commentary by Ibn ʿAqīl on Ibn Mālik’s grammatical poem, the Alfiyya.
The Riyadha’s copy is one of the earliest printed versions of this book
coming from Egypt, and hence one of the earliest printed versions overall.24
The inscriptions in the front of the book show the history of this particular
copy. The oldest inscription says that the book was acquired by one Saʿīd
Qāsim b. Saʿīd al-Maʿmarī in Rajab 1297/June 1880 and taken to Lamu by
him. The Maʿmarī (Swahili: Maamri) family was (and is) a well-known Lamu
family, originally of Omani origin, but long since part of the Sunni Muslim
community of the region; they were known as traders and “pillars of the
23 The use of waqf to establish and expand libraries was a well-known practice in the
Ottoman Middle East. See Hakan Anameric and Fatih Rukanci, “Libraries in the Middle
East During the Ottoman Empire (1517-1918)”, Libri, 59 (2009), 145-54. For a discussion
concerning waqf endowment of books in Zanzibar, see Anne K. Bang, “Authority and
Piety, Writing and Print: A Preliminary Study of Islamic Texts in Late Nineteenth and
Early Twentieth Century Zanzibar”, Africa, 81 (2011), 63-81.
24 ʿAyīda Ibrāhīm Nuṣayr, Al-kutub al-‘Arabiyya allatī nushirat fī Misr fī ’l-Qarn al-tāsi‘ ‘ashar
(Cairo: The American University of Cairo Publications, 1990), p. 148. The overview by
Nuṣayr lists only three editions printed in 1272H, and no earlier edition. However, it
also shows that the gloss by al-Dimyāṭī was printed repeatedly in the years that followed
by several printers, and no less than five times by the Būlāq Printing Press between
1865 and 1895. On the Bulāq Printing Press, established by Muḥammad ʿAlī in 1821, see
Johannes Pedersen, Den Arabiske Bog (Copenhagen: Fischer, 1946).
community”. The next thing we know is that the book was bought by one
Saʿīd b. Rāshid from the estate of Muḥammad b. Qāsim al-Maʿmarī, most
likely the brother of the first owner. Saʿid then made the book waqf for his
son Nāsir to be used “as a fount for knowledge”.
How did Saʿīd Qāsim al- Maʿmarī obtain this book? It is possible that
he bought it himself in Cairo, but Cairo was not part of the regular orbit
of travelling trader-scholars from East Africa. Was it ordered from Cairo
through middlemen and travellers – in other words “carried by somebody
else’s hand”? Was it traded in Mecca or Ḥaḍramawt and procured during
ḥajj or on a trading trip? Evidently, such questions cannot be answered with
reference to a single manuscript or book, but this book demonstrates the
important role played by individuals in procuring Islamic texts as well as the
institution of waqf for safeguarding this knowledge for future generations. It
seems clear that the book remained in the possession of the Maʿmarī family
from 1880 until at least some time in the early twentieth century. Most likely,
it was only deposited at the Riyadha some time after the 1903 foundation
of the mosque itself.
Several other manuscripts in the Riyadha were donated as waqf (at least
nine carry clear waqf inscriptions; EAP466/1/1, 2, 27, 35, 40, 43, 44, 66, 106).
The earliest (EAP466/1/66) is a section of the Quran that was made waqf on
11 Rabīʿ al-Awwal 1268/3 January 1852 by Bwana Mshām (?) b. Abī Bakr b.
Bwana Kawab (?) al-Lāmī for his daughter Khamisa. This, of course, was
decades before the foundation of the Riyadha. However, being waqf, it was
probably deposited at the Riyadha later, either for safekeeping or for use.
The story is different for the 27-page long poem contained in EAP466/1/35.
This was made waqf to the Riyadha directly in 1364/1945. The waqfiyya note
tells us that the manuscript was “made waqf by ʿAbd al-Ḥabīb b. ʿAbd
Allāh al-Yāfiʿī for the mosque of the quṭb (spiritual pole) Ṣāliḥ b. ʿAlawī b.
ʿAbd Allāh Bā Ḥasan Jamal al-Layl”. The same ʿAbd al-Ḥabīb was also the
copyist of the manuscript, having penned it eight years earlier (in Rajab
1356/September-October 1937).
A final, charming example of waqf donation to the Riyadha is EAP466/1/106
(Fig. 5.3). This is a collection of prayers and dhikr, penned in a notebook in
1934, clearly for the purpose of aiding memory. On the front page, a hand
that evidently was not skilled in Arabic calligraphy has written: “This book
is waqf for all Muslims [of] God most high”. The word waqafa is misspelled,
and rendered as wakafa. The same manuscript also carries an official stamp
of the Riyadha, which curiously is not found in any other manuscripts (but
generally in the printed works held by the institution).
Fig. 5.3 Example of late waqf donation “for the benefit of Muslims”.
Notebook with compilation of prayers and adhkār (Sufi texts for recitation)
(EAP/1/106, image 2), CC BY-ND.
Purchasing manuscripts abroad

As indicated above, many of the Riyadha manuscripts were not produced
in Lamu, or even East Africa. Many carry the inscriptions of copyists whose
names indicate origins in Ḥaḍramawt or Mecca, although this cannot be
fully verified without a thorough analysis of paper, ink and script, and a
comparative survey of copyists in Ḥaḍramawt and Mecca. Although little
actual research has been produced on this phenomenon, we have many
indications that texts in manuscript form circulated alongside other goods,
and that scholars, traders and benefactors alike played a role as transmitters of
Islamic knowledge. As has been demonstrated by Amal N. Ghazal, the Ibāḍīs
of East Africa had access to text produced in Oman within a remarkably short
period after production.25 General studies on the transmission of knowledge
in the late nineteenth century indicate a pattern whereby manuscripts and
books circulated along established trade routes.26
Among the manuscripts that made their way to the Riyadha, we also
find a more surprising item: a Ḥanafī legal text.27 In a region where the
overwhelming majority follow the Shāfʿī school of Islamic jurisprudence, we
can assume that this text was not used for actual faṭwas (rulings), but rather
for the intellectual study of law. The set of inscriptions on the manuscript
demonstrate how texts of this type could be acquired. What we find is that the
two first owners were evidently Meccan, which indicates that the manuscript
itself was most likely produced in Mecca. The last owner given is Abū Bakr b.
ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿUmar al-Shāṭirī, who was then residing in Mombasa. He adds:
“I bought this book in Mecca for half a piaster (niṣf qirsh)”, thus providing
us with an indication of what a manuscript of several hundred pages would
fetch in Mecca in the late nineteenth century. The most likely conclusion is
that Abū Bakr al-Shāṭirī bought the book for himself. However, interviewees
also indicated that members of the Shāṭirī family in East Africa were known
to act as philanthropists on behalf of the community, buying books during
their travels and donating them to individual teachers, or mosques, like in
this case, to the Riyadha.28
25 Amal N. Ghazal, Islamic Reform and Arab Nationalism: Expanding the Crescent from the
Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean (1880s–1930s) (London: Routledge, 2010). On the
transmission of texts within the Ibāḍī tradition, see also Rex S. O’Fahey, and Knut S.
Vikør, “A Zanzibari Waqf of Books: The Library of the Mundhiri Family”, Sudanic Africa,
7 (1996), 4-23.
26 Graziano Krätli and Ghislaine Lydon, eds., The Trans-Saharan Book Trade: Manuscript
Culture, Arabic Literacy and Intellectual History in Muslim Africa (Leiden: Brill, 2011); and
Scott S. Reese, ed., The Transmission of Learning in Islamic Africa (Leiden: Brill, 2004). As an
example of circulation to East Africa, see Philip Sadgrove, “From Wādī Mīzāb to Unguja:
Zanzibar’s Scholarly Links”, in Reese, pp. 184-211.
27 Muṣṭafā b. Khayr al-Dīn b. ʿAbd Allāh al-Rūmī al-Ḥanīfī (d. 1616), Tartīb qawāʾid al-ashbāh
wa’l-naẓāʾir (Tanwīr al-adhhān wa-‘l-damāʾir). The poor condition of this manuscript did
not allow for its full digitisation. Its original reference in the Riyadha catalogue is RM6.
28 Interview, Aydaroos and Ahmad Jamal al-Layl, Lamu, Kenya, 5 December 2011.
The Riyadha as a repository after the age of

manuscripts
The first decades of the twentieth century saw the gradual shift from handwritten
manuscripts to printed texts in the Middle East, India, Southeast Asia, and
East Africa.29 In centres like Cairo, Beirut, Mecca, Hyderabad, Batavia (Jakarta)
and Zanzibar, printing presses were being set up to print anything from small
prayer leaflets to multi-volume legal tomes. The bildungskanon was gradually
put into circulation in the form of books, and East African scholars were also
seeing their own works take on printed form.30 That said, the Riyadha collection
shows that the tradition of transmitting knowledge in manuscript form
continued well into the 1930s and 40s, especially when it came to devotional
texts to be recited. These were copied in lined, colonially produced notebooks,
probably for memorisation (Fig. 5.3). More surprisingly, the Riyadha continued
to acquire manuscripts at this point in time, now probably for the purposes of
preservation rather than for direct usage. In other words, the Riyadha took on
a function as an archive for the ʿAlawī tradition, as keepers of items of baraka
(blessing, magic powers) and increasingly also of monetary value.
One example of the many different functions of a manuscript is EAP466/1/29
(Figs. 5.4 and 5.5). This work includes descriptions of Ḥaḍramawt, typically
highlighting its many glorious mosques, scholars, books, and its learned
tradition. As such, it is a classic ʿAlawī work, describing at length the “sublime
benefits” of the homeland, forming precisely what Engseng Ho has called
“travelling texts that formulate discourses of mobility”.31 It was completed
in 1203/1788-89 by Aḥmad al-Ḥaddād who was the grandson of the famous
Ḥaḍramī poet and religious teacher ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād (d. 1719).
The copy in the Riyadha library was completed in 1253/1837-38 (i.e. some
fifty years after it was first written) by Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad al-Ḥaddād. It
is not clear whether the copying took place in Ḥaḍramawt itself or in some
other location on the Indian Ocean rim; either scenario is equally likely.
29 For an overview of the introduction of print in the Islamic world, see Jakob Skovgaard-
Pedersen, ed., Culture and History (16) special issue: The Introduction of the Printing Press in the
Middle East (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1997); Francis Robinson, “Technology
and Religious Change: Islam and the Impact of Print”, Modern Asian Studies, 27 (1993),
229-51; A. Ayalon, “Private Publishing in the Nahḍa”, International Journal of Middle East
Studies, 40:4 (2008), 561-77. For the spread of printing, see Nile Green, “Journeymen,
Middlemen: Travel, Transculture and Technology in the Origins of Muslim Printing”,
International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 41 (2009), 203-24.
30 Bang, Islamic Sufi Networks, pp. 130-39; and Ghazal.
31 Ho, p. 154.
It has a fascinating set of inscriptions that shows the diasporic life of the
book itself. The first inscription simply says that the copy was given away
in 1309/1891-92 — in other words when the copy was almost fifty years old
— by ʿAqīl b. ʿAydarūs b. ʿAqīl “as a gift” to ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlī al-Ḥaddād.
A half-century later, in 1366/1946-47, it was given away again, indicating
the long life these manuscripts had, being re-circulated as gifts, donated as
waqf or passed on as inheritance. The inscription shows that the copy at this
point was in Southeast Asia: “To Ṭāhā b. ʿAlī b. ʿAbd Allāh al-Ḥaddād Bā
Faqīh from Shaykh Bū Bakr b. Sālim in Bandar Batawī [Batavia/Jakarta]”.
Most likely, Ṭāhā b. ʿAlī was the one who brought the copy to East Africa,
probably to Mombasa, from where it passed on to Lamu.
Fig. 5.4 Al-Fawāʾid al-Saniyya fī dhikr faḍāʾil man yantasibu ilā al-silsila al-nabawiyya [The
Benefits of Remembering the Virtues of those Belonging to the Prophetic Lineage], by Aḥmad
b. Ḥasan b. ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlawī, d. 1203/1788-1789 in Ḥaḍramawt. The inscriptions
show the travelling of this particular manuscript, first given as a gift in 1891-1892 and
then again in Batavia (Jakarta) in 1946-1947 (EAP466/1/29, image 4), CC BY-ND.
Fig. 5.5 Al-Fawāʾid al-Saniyya fī dhikr faḍāʾil man yantasibu ilā al-silsila al-nabawiyya,
by Aḥmad b. Ḥasan b. ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlawī (d. 1203/1788-1789 in Ḥaḍramawt)
What is clear is that this particular copy reached East Africa some time
in the latter half of the twentieth century, which shows that even at this
late point – when printed and even audio Islamic material had long since
arrived – manuscript copies were still circulating. The same pattern can be
observed elsewhere in East Africa, notably in Zanzibar, where handwritten
manuscripts were being made waqf for the Madrasa Bā Kathīr as late as the
1930s.32 In contrast to the Riyadha case, this waqf inscription specifies explicitly
that the manuscript is to be used for “recitation”, the interpretation being
that the volume is not yet a “collectors item” or deposited in the institution
32 Bang, “Authority and Piety”. The example concerns a volume of Ramadan prayers,
copied in 1847, which was made waqf for the Madrasa Bā Kathīr some time after the
founder’s death in 1925.
for safe-keeping. In other words, manuscripts could have extraordinary long

lives, first as items for use, especially reference works and texts used for
recitation. Then – even as print copies of the same text appeared – manuscripts
were kept as items with special value (charisma or baraka), as a result of their
author, copyist or possibly their previous owners.
By the late twentieth century, manuscripts may also have been circulated
due to their monetary value.33 In some instances, there are indications that
manuscripts were also taken care of for their value as cultural heritage, thus
disassociating them entirely from their value as items of learning or holders of
special baraka.34 A possible example of this is found in EAP466/1/40. This is an
unidentified book of fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence) that carries the inscription:
“This is the book of Khalfān b. Suwā, Bājūnī by tribe, Shāfiʿī of madhhab”.
A second note states that “I received this book from the aforementioned”,
signed by Muḥammad Bā Ḥasan b. ʿAlī b. Aḥmad Badawī Jamal al-Layl in
Rajab 1369/April 1950, meaning that the manuscript came into the Jamal
al-Layl family and thus the Riyadha collection, possibly as an item of heritage
value. For the purpose of this discussion, however, it should be stated that
although indications are that manuscripts were circulated and kept long
after their “user value” had expired, we have too few examples and lack
sufficient data to say anything conclusive about the motivation for donating
or endowing these manuscripts as waqf.
From the two examples mentioned here, and with reference to the attached
list of manuscripts, it is striking that books were owned and purchased both
by ʿAlawī Ḥaḍramī families and their associates (al-Shāṭirī, al-Ahdal), and
also by those whose names do not indicate any family link to the Ḥaḍramawt
(al-Bājūnī). This, in turn, points to a more widely diffused pattern of text
distribution, which can only be verified by an in-depth study of the originals.
33 Reinhard Schulze, “The Birth of Tradition and Modernity in 18th and 19th Century
Islamic Culture: The Case of Printing”, Culture and History, 16 (1997), 29-72.
34 The awareness of these manuscripts as cultural heritage seems to have started in the
1970s. It is possible that this awareness stemmed at least partly from the Eastern Africa
Centre for Research and Oral Tradition (EACROTONAL) manuscript survey in East
Africa, which between 1979 and 1988 aimed to map and collect manuscripts for research.
See Khamis, Khamis S., “The Zanzibar National Archives”, in Islam in East Africa, New
Sources: Archives, Manuscripts and Written Historical Sources, Oral History, Archaeology, ed.
by Biancamaria Scaria Amoretti (Rome: Herder, 2001), pp. 17-25. For a discussion and
examples from Zanzibar, see Anne K. Bang, “Zanzibari Islamic Knowledge Transmission
Revisited: Loss, Lament, Legacy – and Transformation”, Social Dynamics, 38/3 (2012),
419-34.
The copyist as transmitter of Islamic knowledge

The origin of an individual manuscript can to some extent be deduced from
the names of its copyist whose nisba (family) names are sometimes given. The
Ḥaḍramī nisba is typically prefixed by the syllable Bā (such as Bā Kathīr, Bā
Ṣafar), indicating tribal belonging. In addition, a set of family names such as
Jamal al-Layl, al-Shāṭirī, Sumayṭ, al-Hibshī indicates that the person belongs
to the sāda stratum. Of course, there were many copyists in East Africa too,
who carried Ḥaḍrami names, and it is thus not possible to determine with
certainty whether the copying actually took place in Ḥaḍramawt, East Africa,
or elsewhere. Further research into the paper and ink, as well as a detailed
analysis of script and handwriting is the best way to provide more in-depth
knowledge about the origin of each individual manuscript. Furthermore, the
nisba name of a copyist also indicates his origin, while in some cases the copyist
himself has noted his place of residence or where the copying took place.
A total of 31 out of the 144 manuscripts can clearly be identified as being
produced by a scribe in Lamu or East Africa, either because the name or place is
actually given or because other circumstances indicate that copying took place
in East Africa. This is, however, a very conservative figure. More specifically,
there remains several twentieth-century notebook texts that have no scribe or
copyist noted, but which are highly likely to have been copied in Lamu (and
even in the Riyadha itself) and which may be identified through a comparison of
handwriting and through interviews with older representatives of the Riyadha.
The majority of the Riyadha manuscripts that we can know for certain
were copied locally derive from the twentieth century (only six date from
the nineteenth century). That said, this should not be construed to mean that
copying was not an activity undertaken by East African scholars in the nineteenth
century and earlier. Their relative scarcity in the Riyadha collection is most likely
due to the physical disintegration of the older manuscripts, which makes it
difficult or impossible to identify the names of copyists, and the fact that much
research is needed to determine the provenance of each manuscript. In the list
below I have also included texts that are by known East African authors, on the
assumption that they are most likely to have been copied locally. Furthermore
I have assumed that the manuscripts which contain Swahili ajami (Swahili in
the Arabic script) were penned by East African scribes. I am not qualified to
make any identification (let alone analysis) of the Swahili manuscripts, but
they are included in the attached provisional catalogue.
Name Riyadha MS Copied year

1 Shārū b. Uthmān b. Abī Bakr (al-Sūmālī) EAP466/1/15 1858
EAP466/1/030 1840-42
2 Muḥammad b. Maṣʿūd al-Wārith or al-Wardī EAP466/1/2 1860
EAP466/1/39 1862
3 Muḥammad b. Shaykh b. ʿAbd al-Qādir EAP466/1/60 1896
al-Barāwī
4 Muḥammad b. ʿUmar Maddi al-Shanjānī EAP466/1/144 1899
5 ʿAlī b. Nāṣir al-Mazrūʿī EAP466/1/49 1905-05
6 ʿAbd al-Ḥabīb b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Nāsir EAP466/1/10 1906-07
EAP466/1/35 1937 (?)
7 ʿUmar b. Aḥmad b. Yunus al-Mafāzī, Pate EAP466/1/91 1915-16
8 Muḥammad b. ʿUthmān b. Faqīh b. Abī Bakr EAP466/1/34 1921-22
al-Bājūnī
9 Sālim b. Yusallim b. ʿAwaḍ Bā Ṣafar EAP466/1/19 1927
EAP466/1/28 1917-18
EAP466/1/59 1934
EAP466/1/76 1927
EAP466/1/107 1929
10 Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr al-Bakrī Kijuma EAP466/1/58 1928
11 Aḥmad b. Saʿīd b. Sulaymān (“in Malindi”) EAP466/1/61 1932
12 Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Yūsuf (Maddi) EAP466/1/75 1932-33
EAP466/1/81 1932
EAP466/1/102 1932
EAP466/1/103 nd (?)
13 ʿAbd Allāh b. Hamīd b. ʿAbd Allāh al-Shirāzī EAP466/1/69 Between
al-Qumrī 1927 and c.
1930.
14 ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Saʿīd b. Aḥmad, Lamu EAP466/1/65 Undated,
twentieth
century
Without a proper comparison of handwriting and ink that can only be conducted
on the original texts, this list gives only the cases where the copyist can be
identified as East African by origin or residence, by name, as given in the text or
from direct mention of where the text was copied. On this basis, fourteen East
African (or East Africa-based) copyists can be identified in the Riyadha collection.
As in the case of ownership and purchase, we see in this list that scribes of
diverse origin (Ḥaḍramī, Somali, Brawanese, Comorian — al-Qumrī meaning
“The Comorian”) acted as copyists over a period of seventy years. It is also
worth noting that the oldest locally produced manuscript was copied by a
man of Somali origin (Shārū b. ʿUthmān al-Sūmālī, Fig. 5.6). In other words,
knowledge of Arabic and Islamic text was relatively widely diffused in terms
of ethnic background. More detailed research to identify hitherto unidentified
copyists and their background, as well as their other roles in society, will
undoubtedly give further nuance to this picture.
Fig. 5.6 Example of local copying in the nineteenth century. Alfyya [The One Thousand,
verse of 1000 lines] with marginal commentary by Ibn ʿAqīl copied by Shārū b.
ʿUthmān b. Abī Bakr b.ʿAlī al-Sūmālī in 1858 (EAP466/1/15, image 574), CC BY-ND.
Twentieth century local copyists: modernity in

handwriting
The scribe whose name appears most frequently in the Riyadha collection
is Sālim b. ʿAwaḍ Bā Ṣafar, who stands as the copyist of five manuscripts.
Although his name identifies him as a person of Ḥaḍramī family background,
we can safely assume that he was a resident in East Africa, probably Lamu.
This is because he also appears as the copyist of manuscripts in Swahili
(ajami).35 Furthermore, Bā Ṣafar was a contemporary of, and clearly somewhat
of a favourite copyist for Habib Saleh, having penned two of the manuscripts
that we know belonged to him. Of special interest are the two copies of the
poetry collection by the Ḥaḍramī ʿAlawī poet-saint, Abū Bakr al-ʿAydarūs
(known as al-ʿAdanī), penned by Bā Ṣafar. In July 1927, he completed a 266-
page copy of the text, and equipped his copy with an index whereby each
poem was listed by page number — much in the same way as it is done in a
printed book. It is not known if this copy made Habib Saleh commission yet
another version of the same text. What we do know is that by November that
same year, Bā Ṣafar had completed a new copy, with the same index system,
this one running to 244 pages and with an illumination on the front page.
This copy was owned by Habib Saleh, and it is likely that he commissioned
it from Bā Ṣafar directly (Figs. 5.7 and 5.8).
The use of an index and pagination is a striking feature of the copies
produced by Bā Ṣafar. This was the age when printed Arabic books were
becoming widely circulated in East Africa, and it is not unlikely that Bā
Ṣafar based himself on the “print model” rather than the traditional layout
of Arabic poetry in manuscript form, whereby sequence is marked by a lead
word at the end of each page.
Texts in the Riyadha collection copied by Sālim b. Yusallim b. ʿAwaḍ Bā

Ṣafar
EAP466/1/19 EAP466/1/28 EAP466/1/59
EAP477/1/76 EAP466/1/107
35 Bā Ṣafar is mentioned by Mohammad Ibrahim Abou Egl as one of the copyists whose
handwriting resembles that of Muhammad Kijuma (see below). While Abou Egl does
not provide any further identification of Bā Ṣafar, he does refer to manuscripts by Bā
Ṣafar in European collections that are in Swahili. I have not consulted these for this
article. Mohammad Ibrahim Abou Egl, The Life and Works of Muhamadi Kijuma (Ph.D.
thesis, University of London, 1983), p. 160.
Fig. 5.7 Diwān al-ʿAdanī [The Collected Poetry of Abū Bakr al-ʿAdanī],
copied by Sālim b. Yusallim b. ʿAwaḍ Bā Ṣafar for Habib Saleh in 1927 [1]
Fig. 5.8 Diwān al-ʿAdanī [The Collected Poetry of Abū Bakr al-ʿAdanī],
copied by Sālim b. Yusallim b. ʿAwaḍ Bā Ṣafar for Habib Saleh in 1927 [2]
Another copyist — and another contemporary of Habib Saleh and Bā Ṣafar — was
Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Yūsuf (al-Maddī: he sometimes uses the nisba name,
sometimes not). He adhered to the same style as Bā Ṣafar, using pagination,
and he even added a table of contents to some of the works. In the case of
al-Maddī, we may even wonder why he made the copies. As the table below
shows, he copied three texts in quick succession between June and August
1932 — the longest being 38 pages. The last copy was completed in October
1933, and is also a relatively short text (forty pages). We can speculate here
that al-Maddī was commissioned to write these texts for use in the Riyadha
education, which would indicate that they were not available in printed
form. Another possibility, of course, is that Aḥmad himself was a student at
the Riyadha and that the writing of these texts was part of his student work.
Texts in the Riyadha collection copied by Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Yūsuf

(al-Maddī)
EAP466/1/75 EAP466/1/81 EAP466/1/102
EAP466/1/103
The famous scribe, Muhammad Kijuma:

EAP466/1/58
Although often assigned a role of anonymity as a name at the end of a long
text, copyists and scribes could also be well-known public figures, either as
exceptional calligraphers or as authors or artists in their own right. One such
figure was Muhammad Kijuma (1855-1945), who stands as the copyist of
EAP466/1/58 (Fig. 5.9).36 Kijuma was born in Lamu and received traditional
Islamic education there. As a young man, he studied with his relative
Sayyid Manṣab b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, the man who donated part of his land
for the foundation of the Riyadha Mosque and who “verified” Quran texts
for recitation. Sayyid Manṣab, too, was known as en excellent calligrapher
and – as mentioned above – a highly skilled Arabist.
Kijuma then turned to the somewhat dubious profession of a musician
(at least as viewed by his strictly Islamic-observant mother), followed by
an interest in carpentry, carving and art. It is worth noting that some of
the less transgressive ngomas (songs with accompanying dance) were even
incorporated into the public mawlid celebrations of the Riyadha, apparently
sanctioned by Habib Saleh himself.37 The more expressive ones, however,
were condemned outright as un-Islamic. In sum, Kijuma was a talented artist
in many ways, and his later fame in Lamu is that of a somewhat controversial
cultural icon: composer of songs, artist, carver and — not least — calligrapher.
His lasting legacy is as a scribe of Swahili poetry into manuscript form in the
Arabic script, mainly for European clients, and many of which have been
kept in European collections. His poem on the act of writing has been quoted
frequently by scholars of the Swahili poetic tradition. It emphasises the care
taken by the scribe to make sure his writing “looks nice”:
36 On the life of Kijuma, see ibid.

37 Ibid., p. 83.
Let me have black ink

With Syrian paper
And a reed pen
That I may write with it
Together with a good board

That I may mark lines with
That the writing looks nice
And be in a straight line38
Fig. 5.9 Colophon showing the signature of copyist Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr al-Bakrī
Kijūma and the date 18 Jumāda II 1352H/8 October 1928.
38 Translation from Swahili in ibid., p. 158.

Conclusion
The latter half of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth
was the period when text-based Islam became widely diffused on the East
African coast. The Riyadha Mosque in Lamu was part and parcel of this
development, claiming authority based not only on the divine revelations
(the Quran and the Sunna), but also in the wider corpus of Islamic texts. The
impact of Ḥaḍramawt (Yemen) is very evident when it comes to the choice
of texts. In total, these texts formed the basis for a new type of authority,
beyond local hierarchies, that has been referred to as a reform. While Islamic
scholars were at the forefront of this reform, important roles were also played
by book-buyers, owners and individuals who endowed books as waqf for the
purpose of their own family members or for “all Muslims”.
In the Riyadha, families of Ḥaḍramī origin seem to have played a particularly
important role, possibly because of their relatively high socio-economic status,
and because of their family connections with the Ḥaḍramawt (where, after all,
the majority of texts originated). However, it is also clear that individuals of
all backgrounds could decide to endow a particularly important manuscript,
and that women also held this prerogative.
The copyist is another of the “silent” transmitters of Islamic knowledge.
Although the evidence from the Riyadha remains inconclusive (a thorough
analysis of paper, ink and script is needed, as well as a comparison between
the handwriting of known authors and copyists), indications are that in the
nineteenth and early twentieth century there existed an active class of scribes
whose meticulous work made the Islamic scriptural tradition available to local
scholars and students. In the twentieth century we see a new development
closely linked to the emergence of educational institutions like the Riyadha.
At this time, texts were copied in lined notebooks, clearly for educational
purposes or for the purpose of memorising. The latter was particularly the
case for the many devotional texts that were (and still are) central to ritual
practice at the Riyadha.
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Provisional catalogue entries for the Riyadha

manuscripts referred to in this article 39
EAP466/1/1
Unidentified work of fiqh.
Date of copy and copyist unknown.
Manuscript, Arabic, 215 pages.
Fiqh.
Waqfiyya note, folio 215.
EAP466/1/2
Title: Fatḥ al-qarīb al-mujīb aw qawl al-mukhtār fī sharḥ ghāyat al-iqtiṣār.
Author: Abī ʿAbd Allāh Shams al-Dīn Muḥammad b. Qāsim al-Ghāzzī al-Shāfiʿī,
known as Ibn al-Gharābīlī, d. 918/1512.
Date of copy: 13 Ṣafar 1277/30 August 1860.
Copyist: Muḥammad b. Masʿūd al-Wārith (or al-Wardī) in Zanzibar (“naskhhā arḍ
Zinjibār”).
Fiqh.
Note, folio 226: Waqfiyya note. Not clear if the waqf is made by or for Fāṭima bt.
Ḥabīb b. Shayr (Shīr?) al-Wardī, who died 21 Dhū al-Ḥijja 1352/6 April 1934. The
original bestowing seems to have been on 15 Jumāda I 1352/6 September 1933 by
39 See http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP466
Shayr (Shīr) b. Muḥammad. Written by Muḥammad b. Masʿūd al-Wārith/al-Wardī

(same as copyist).
EAP466/1/10
Title: Mawlid Dibāʾī.
Author: ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Dibāʾī (d. 1537).
Date of copy: 1324 H/1906-07.
Copyist: ʿAbd al-Ḥabīb b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Nāṣir.
Devotional. Poetic text for recitation on the occasion of mawlid.
Note: The identification of this copyist as local is based on the fact that the same
person donated EAP466/1/35 as waqf. See below, EAP466/1/35.
EAP466/1/11
Title: Mawlid Barzanjī.
Author: Jaʿfar b. Ḥasan al-Barzanjī, d. 1764.
Date of copy: 13 Rajab 1313/30 December 1895
Copyist: Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr b. ʿUmar al-Bakrī.
Devotional. The most widely recited poem on the occasion of mawlid.
EAP466/1/15
Alfiyya with marginal commentary, Sharḥ Ibn ʿAqīl.
Author: Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Mālik (d. 1273) and ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAbd
al-Raḥmān Ibn ʿAqīl.
Date of copy: 30 Ṣafar 1283/16 July 1866
Copyist: ʿUthmān b. Ḥājj b. ʿUthmān b. Ḥājj b. Shayth (?) in Faza, Pate Island.
Manuscript, Arabic, 1283/1866, 567 pages.
Grammar, language.
EAP466/1/17
Unidentified.
Date of copy and copyist unknown.
Fiqh.
Note of ownership: Saleh b. Alawi Jamal al-Layl.
EAP466/1/19
Title: Kitāb majmū‘ diwān al-Ḥabīb al-‘Adanī.
Author: Abū Bakr b. ‘Abd Allāh al-‘Aydarūs, known as al-‘Adani, 1447-1508, Aden.
Date of copy: 11 Jumāda I 1356/6 November 1927.
Copyist: Sālim b. Yusallim b. ʿAwaḍ Bā Ṣafar.
Manuscript, Arabic, 244 pages. Paginated.
Note: A beautifully copied volume of the diwān of al-‘Adanī, made for Habib
Saleh. The copy has an index listing the individual poems by page number.
EAP466/1/23
Title: Kitāb waṣiyyāt al-Jāmiʿa.
Author: ʿAbd Allāh b. Muḥsin b. ʿAlawī al-Saqqāf.
Date of copy: 1320/1902-03.
Copyist: ʿAbd al-Ḥabīb b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Nāṣir ʿAwaḍ al-ʿAfīf (?).
Sufism.
EAP466/1/24
Title: Al-Fatḥ al-Mubīn. Sharḥ snfās al-‘Aydarūs Fakhr al-Dīn.
Auhor: Abd al-Raḥmān b. Muṣṭafā b. Saykh al-‘Aydarus, d. 1778.
Date of copy: 1324/1906-07.
Copyist: Sulaymān b. Sālim al-Mazrūʿī.
EAP466/1/27
Title: Hāshiya ʿalā sharḥ Ibn ʿAqīl ʿalā Alfiyya ibn Mālik.
Author: Muḥammad al-Khiḍrī al-Dimyāṭī, d. 1870, Egypt. Commentary completed
1250/1834.
Litograph, Cairo, 1272/1855, 718 pages.
Grammar, language.
EAP466/1/28
Title: Idāḥ al-asrār ʿulūm al-muqarribīn.
Author: Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Shaykh al-ʿAydarūs (d. 1621-22. Born and
educated in Tarīm, died in Surat, India (?). Aḥmad b. Zayn al-Ḥibshī (?).
Date of copy: 1336/1917-18.
Manuscript, Arabic, 225 pages, paginated.
Time measurement/astronomy.
Note of ownership: Saleh b. Alawi Jamal al-Layl.
EAP466/1/29
Title: Al-Fawāʾid al-Saniyya fī dhikr faḍāʾil man yantasibu ilā al-silsila al-nabawiyya.
Author: Aḥmad b. Ḥasan b. ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād, d. 1203/1788-89.
Unidentified text.
Date of copy: 1253/1837-38.
Copyist: Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad b. Jaʿfar b. Muḥammad b. ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlawī al-
Ḥaddād.
Nasab/genealogy.
Note, folio 2-3: Several notes of ownership.
EAP466/1/34
Title: Ahl Badr.
Author: Unknown.
Date of copy: 1340 H/1921-22.
Copyist: Muḥammad b. Uthmān b. Faqīh b. Abī Bakr al-Bajūnī.

Devotional. Du‘ā’ for recitation upon completion of the names of the participants
in the battle of Badr.
EAP466/1/35
Title: 2 poems in praise of the sāda ʿAlawiyya, various duʾāʾ for ʿAlawī saints.
Author: Unknown.
Date of copy: Rajab 1356/September 1937.
Copyist: ʿAbd al-Ḥabīb b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Nāṣir.
Devotional. Poetry.
EAP466/1/38
Title: Sharḥ Tarbiyyat al-aṭfāl.
Author: Muḥyī al-Dīn al-Qaḥṭānī, d. Zanzibar, 1869.
Copyist: Not given. Possibly in the author’s own hand (?).
Date: Not given. Mid/late nineteenth century by visual appearance.
Manuscript, Arabic with some text in Swahili ajami added at the end, 154 pages.
Grammar, language.
EAP466/1/40
Title: Unidentified.
Author: Unknown.
Date of copy and copyist: Unknown.
Fiqh.
Notes:
1) Book made waqf by Khaṭīb b. Daʿlān (?) al-Bājūnī (…) to the mosque of Barza b.
Harān (Harūn??). No date.
2) Note of ownership: Khalfān b. Suwā al-Bājūnī by tribe, Shāfiʿī by madhhab.
Note of ownership: I received this book from the aforementioned. Muḥammad
Bā Ḥasan b. ʿAlī b. al-Ḥabīb Aḥmad Badawī, Rajab 1349/Nov-Dec 1930.
EAP466/1/43
Title: Shifāʾ al-ṣudūr. Possibly: Shifāʾ al-Ṣuḍur fī ziyarāt al-mashāhid wa-‘l-qubūr.
Author: Marʿī b. Yūsuf al-Maqdisī, d. 1033/1623-2.
Sufism/fiqh. On grave visitation.
Note, Folio 2: Muḥammad b. Ṣāliḥ b. Ḥaydar bought this book from (…?) ʿUmar
b. Yūsuf al-Lāmī in Ḥijja (?) 1277/June 1861 (Or: Ḥijja, 1377/June 1958. Most likely
1277).
Note, folio 7: Muḥammad b. Ṣāliḥ b. Ḥaydar bought this book “Shifāʾ al-Ṣuḍur”
from ʿUmar b. Yūsuf al-[…] in Muḥarram 1277. Both are loose sheets, and it is
possible that the first may have belonged to another book (?).
EAP466/1/44
Quran, from Sura 2 (al-Baqara).
Part of series of juzus, EAP466/1/44-45-46-47.

Illuminated frontispiece, black, red, yellow.
Note of ownership/waqf: Sayyid ʿAbd Allāh b. Salam (Yusallim?) b. ʿUmar owned
this maṣḥaf and made it waqf for the Lahm (?) Mosque. No date.
EAP466/1/48
Title: Wiṣayāt wa-jamīʿāt al-ijāzāt ʿAydarūs b. ʿUmar al-Ḥibshī.
Author: ʿAydarūs b. ʿUmar al-Ḥibshī (d. 1896, Ḥaḍramawt).
Manuscript, Arabic, 121 pages
Sufism. A collection of ijāzas and advice by ʿAydarūs b. ʿUmar al-Ḥibshī .
Note: Inscriptions suggest the ownership of Sayyid Manṣab b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān.
EAP466/1/49
Title: Mukātabāt ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Ḥibshī.
Author: ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Ḥibshī (d. 1915, Ḥaḍramawt).
Date of copy: 1323 H/1905-06.
Copyist: More than one hand. Copyist 1:‘Alī b. Naṣr al-Mazrūʿī.
Sufism. A collection of writings by ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Ḥibshī.
EAP466/1/51
Several texts, including poetry, text on moon sighting, duʿāʿ, prayer to the prophet,
etc.
Author: ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz b. ʿAbd al-Ghānī al-Amawī al-Barāwī, d. 1896, Zanzibar
(folio 9 onwards to folio 40). Possibly also by his son, Burhān b. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz al-
Amawī, d. 1935, Zanzibar (folio 33 onwards).
Poetry and a collection of duʿāt by Muḥyī al-Dīn al-Qaḥṭānī, d. Zanzibar, 1869
(folio 41-99), abyāt by al-Qaḥṭānī (folio 53 onwards), and a series of prayers/poetry
by al-Qaḥṭānī.
Poetry, devotional, astronomy.
Note: Folio 1: Added text in a different hand, ʿAlī b. ʿAbd Allāh al-Mazrūʿī,
possibly ʿAlī b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Yāfiʿ al-Mazrūʿī, d. 1894 in Mombasa.
EAP466/1/58
Title: Miscellaneous devotional texts.
Author: Several authors.
Date of copy: 1347/1928.
Copyist: Muḥammad b. Abī Bakr al-Bakrī Kijūma.
Devotional. Collection of aḏkār and duʿāt.
EAP466/1/59
Title: Majmūʿ al-laṭāʾif al-ʿarshiyya.
Author: ʿAydarūs b. ʿUmar al-Ḥibshī.

Sufism.
EAP466/1/60
Title: Marsūmat al-ʿayniyya.
Author: Ḥasan b. Muḥammad b. Ḥasan Jamal al-Layl, d. 1904, Zanzibar.
Date of copy: 14 Rabīʿ I 1314/14 August 1896.
Copyist: Muḥammad b. Shaykh b. ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Barāwī.
Genealogy, Sufism. Commentary on the Al-Qaṣīda al-‘Ayniyya by al-Ḥaddād (d.
1719, Ḥaḍramawt). A two-page preface in another hand, a letter from ‘Abd Allāh
Bā Kaṯhīr to the author.
EAP466/1/61
1) Title: Taḫmīs ʿalā qaṣīdat al-mudhariyya li-al-imām al-Buṣīrī.
Author: ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād (d. 1719, Ḥaḍramawt).
2) Title: Jāliyat al-qadr bi-asmāʾ ahl al-Badr.
Author: Jaʿfar al-Barzanjī (d. 1765, Medina).
Date of copy: 7 Jumāda II 1351/1932
Copyist: Aḥmad b. Saʿīd b. Sulaymān, in “jihat Sawāḥilī, fī Bandar Malindi”.
Devotional.
EAP466/1/63
Title: Qurʾat al-anbiyāʾ.
Author: Unknown.
Manuscript, Swahili ajami with some Arabic, 29 pages.
Fortune-telling, based on the names of the prophets, possibly a translation into
Swahili from an Arabic original.
EAP466/1/65
Title: Iḥdā ‘ashariyya.
Author: Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Miḥḍār, d. 1304/1886-87, Ḥaḍramawt.
Date of copy: Undated. Twenthieth century by visual appearance.
Copyist: ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Saʿīd b. Aḥmad, “resident in Lamu”.
Devotional. Poetic text recited on the 11th of every month.
EAP466/1/66
Quran, juz 11.
Date of copy and copyist: Unknown
Note, folio 2: Made waqf by Qāḍī Hishām b. Abī Bakr b. Bwana Kawb (or: Kūb)
al-Lāmī for his daughter Khamīsa and her children, 11 Rabīʿ I 1261/20 March 1845.
Written by Muḥammad b. ʿAlī al-Lāmī by his own hand.
EAP466/1/69
Title: Khuṭbas of ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Ḥibshī, and various ijāzas and waṣiyya
(spiritual advice) including from ʿAydarūs b. ʿUmar al-Ḥibshī to Sayyid Manṣab b.
ʿAbd al-Raḥman.
Author: ʿAlī b. Muḥammad al-Ḥibshī et al.
Date of Copy: At different points between March 1927 and January 1930.
Copyist: ʿAbd Allāh b. Ḥamīd b. ʿAbd Allāh al-Shirāzī al-Qumrī.
Sufism.
EAP466/1/75
Collection of texts: Majmūʿ al-mutun:
1. Jawāhir al-tawḥīd, by Ibrāhīm al-Bājūrī.
2. Badʾ al-amālī, matn al-Kharīda.
3. Al-kharīda, by Aḥmad al-Dardīr.
Copyist: Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Yūsuf Maddi.
Date of copy: 1351/1932-33.
Manuscript, Arabic, 19 pages
EAP466/1/76
Title: Diwān al-Ḥabīb Abū Bakr b. ‘Abd Allāh b. ‘Aydarūs al-‘Adanī.
Author: Abū Bakr b. ‘Abd Allāh b. ‘Aydarūs, known as al-‘Adanī, d. Aden, 1508.
Date of copy: 6 Muḥarram 1346/6 July 1927.
Poetry, Sufism.
EAP466/1/81
Title: Compilation of devotional texts.
Author: Multiple authors.
Date of copy: 27 Muḥarram 1351/2 June 1932
Copyist: Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Yūsuf (al-Maddī).
Manuscript, Arabic, 38 pages. Paginated. In lined notebook with a table of
contents at front.
EAP466/1/83
Title: Unidentified sharḥ on a qaṣīda on tawḥīd by ʿAbd al-Ġānī al-Nabulsī (d. 1731).
Author: Possibly Aḥmad b. Abī Bakr b. Sumayṭ’s text entitled Mātālib al-Sunniya.
Date of copy: Unknown. Twentieth century by visual appearance.
Copyist: Unknown, looks like same copyist as that of EAP466/1/144 (Riḥlat al-
Ashwāq).
Tawḥīd (?).
Note: The copy is incomplete.
EAP466/1/91
Title: Ṭayyib al-asmā’ al-mubāraka.
Author: Unknown.
Date of copy: 1334 H/1915-16.

Copyist: ʿUmar b. Aḥmad b. Yunus al-Mafāzī, resident in Siyu (Pate).
Devotional text based on the names of God.
Notes of ownership: Muhammad b. Salim b. Hamid al-Khawasini. 2. Alawi b.
Muhammad b. Ahmad Badawi.
EAP466/1/96
Title: Dini ni ngome.
Author: Unknown.
Manuscript, Swahili ajami, 9 pages.
EAP466/1/99
Title: Wiṣayāt Aḥmad b. Abī Bakr b. Sumayṭ ilā ʿAbd Allāh BāKathīr.
Author: Aḥmad b. Abī Bakr b. Sumayṭ (d. 1925, Zanzibar).
Date of copy: 1337/1918-19.
Copyist: Possibly autograph copy (or ʿAbd Allāh Bā Kathīr?). Possibly same
copyist as EAP466/1/144.
Sufism. Sufi advice/ legacy from Aḥmad b. Sumayṭ (d. 1925, Zanzibar) to his
colleague and disciple, ʿAbd Allāh BāKathīr (d. 1925, Zanzibar).
EAP466/1/102
Title: Matn al-Bājūrī waʾ-nafs.
Author: Ibrāhīm al-Bājūrī, d. 1277/1860 (Shaykh al-Azhar).
Date of copy: 2 Ṣafar 1351/7 June 1932.
Copyist: Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh (al-Maddī).
Manuscript, Arabic, 24 pages. Paginated. In lined notebook.
Tawḥīd.
EAP466/1/103
Title: Mulḥat al-iʿrāb.
Author: Abū Muḥammad al-Qāsim b. ʿAlī al-Ḥarīrī.
Date of copy: 7 Rajab 1352/27 October 1933 (both H and CE date are given)
Copyist: Aḥmad b. ʿAbd Allāh (al-Maddī).
Manuscript, Arabic, 40 pages. Paginated. In lined notebook.
Grammar, language.
EAP466/1/105
Title: Duʿāʾ birr walidayn.
Author: Muḥammad b. Aḥmad b. Abī al-Ḥubb al-Ḥaḍramī (d. 611/1214-15,
Ḥaḍramawt).
Date of copy: 1334 H/1915-16.
Copyist: Unknown. Possibly Sayyid Manṣab b. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān.
The copy most likely belonged to Sayyid Manṣab b. ‘Abd al-Raḥmān. It bears his
corrections in the margins.
EAP466/1/106
Title: Kitāb jāmiʿ al-aḏkār.
Copyist: Unknown.
Manuscript, Arabic and Swahili, 144 pages.
Devotional/Sufism. Notebook with a collection of ḏikr and prayers for the prophet.
Some of the prayers have additional commentary in Swahili in Arabic script.
EAP466/1/107
Title: Nafḥ al-misk al-maftūt min akhbār wādī Ḥaḍramawt.
Author: ‘Alī b. Aḥmad b. Ḥasan b. ‘Abd Allāh al-‘Aṭṭas.
Date of copy: 24 Ḏū ‘l-Qi‘da 1347/4 May 1929.
Genealogy. A history of the genealogical lines of the sāda and qabā’il (tribes) of
Ḥaḍramawt.
EAP466/1/111
Title: Misc. devotional texts.
Date of copy: 12 Rabīʿ 11342/23 Oct 1923.
Copyist: Wālī b. Abī Bakr b. Muḥammad al-Barāwī.
EAP466/1/144
Title: Riḥlat al-ashwāq al-qāwiyya ilā diyār al-sāda al-‘alawiyya.
Author: ʿAbd Allāh BāKathīr, d. Zanzibar 1925.
Date of copy: 27 Jumāda II 1317/1 November 1899.
Copyist: Muḥammad b. ʿUmar b. Maddi al-Shinjanī.
Travelogue from the journey in Ḥaḍramawt.
6. In the shadow of Timbuktu:
the manuscripts of Djenné 1
Sophie Sarin
The ancient mud city of Djenné occupies an island in the Bani, a major
tributary to the Niger River at the heart of the Niger inland delta in Mali.
Although Djenné is less famous than its “twin sister” Timbuktu, which is
situated 220 miles to the north on the edge of the Sahara desert, both cities
have been important historical centres of trans-Saharan commerce and
Islamic learning from the thirteenth century.2 Djenné is protected by its
status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, due not only to its spectacular mud
architecture, including the world famous mosque, but also to the important
archaeological site of Djenné Djenno.3
Modern day Djenné has in the region of fifty Quranic schools in which
students (talibés) study Arabic and the Quran under the tuition of a marabout.4
Many talibés come from destinations as far removed as Ghana or Nigeria to
system.
2 For more on the history and location of Djenné, see John O. Hunwick, Timbuktu and
the Songhay Empire: Al-Saʿdi’sTaʼrikh al-Sudan Down to 1613, and Other Contemporary
Documents (Leiden: Brill, 1999); and Charlotte Joy, The Politics of Heritage Management in
Mali: From UNESCO to Djenné (Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, 2012), pp. 25-30.
3 On Djenné’s World Heritage Site status and its problems, see Joy, The Politics of Heritage
Management in Mali, pp. 51-74 and 75-92. For more on Djenné Djenno, see Roderick J.
McIntosh and Susan Keech McIntosh, “The Inland Niger Delta Before the Empire of Mali:
Evidence from Jenne-Jeno”, Journal of African History, 22 (1981), 1-22; and Excavations at
Jenne-Jeno, Hambarketolo and Kaniana (Inland Niger Delta, Mali): The 1981 Season, ed. by
Susan Keech McIntosh (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1995).
4 Geert Mommersteeg, “Marabouts à Djenné: enseignement coranique, invocations et
amulettes”, in Djenné: une ville millénaire au Mali, ed. by Rogier M. A. Bedaux and J. D.
van der Waals (Leiden: Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunder, 1994), pp. 65-75.
© Sophie Sarin, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.06

study in Djenné, which is still regarded as a centre for Islamic learning. Djenné
has therefore over the centuries become an important depository for Arabic
manuscripts, which have been copied and stored in the private homes of
the ancient Djenné families, many of which have Quranic schools attached.5
The Islam practiced in Mali traditionally promotes the veneration of
saints and often encompasses elements of Sufi mysticism.6 During the recent
occupation of the north of Mali by militants (April 2012-January 2013), a
large number of mausoleums of saints in Timbuktu were destroyed by
extremists, and several thousand manuscripts from the Ahmed Baba Institute
of Timbuktu were burned.7 Alongside the traditional dangers such as mould,
water, insects and other environmental hazards, a dramatic new menace to
manuscripts had suddenly manifested itself in the form of a wilful destruction
by fundamentalists. Fortunately Djenné lies 130 miles south of Douentza,
the southernmost town occupied by the rebels during their ten-month rule,
and was never touched by this destructive force.
Since 2009, with the support of the Endangered Archives Programme, the
Djenné Manuscript Library has begun work to survey and create an inventory
of the manuscripts of Djenné, and, an effort to digitise the collection has been
underway since 2011. The digitisation project carried on regardless of the
momentous events that were unfolding only a day’s journey further north,
and the team never stopped working during this time. When fuel rationing
5 For a good description of the tradition of contemporary learning in Djenné see Geert
Mommersteeg, In the City of the Marabouts: Islamic Culture in West Africa (Long Grove, IL:
Waveland, 2012); and idem, “L’éducation oranique au Mali: le pouvoir des mots sacrée”,
in L’enseignement Islamique au Mali, ed. by Bintou Sanankoua and Louis Brenner (London:
Jamana, 1991). See also Joy, The Politics of Heritage Management in Mali, pp. 95-107.
6 Benjamin Soares, “Islam in Mali in the Neoliberal Era”, African Affairs, 105
(2006), 77-95; and idem, “Islam in Mali Since the 2012 Coup”, Fieldsights: Hot
Spots, Cultural Anthropology Online, 10 June 2013, http://production.culanth.org/
fieldsights/321-islam-in-mali-since-the-2012-coup
7 For more on the 2012-2013 conflict in Mali, see Alexander Thurston and Andrew
Lebovich, A Handbook on Mali’s 2012-2013 Crisis, ISITA working paper, 2 September 2013,
http://africacenter.org/2013/09/a-handbook-on-malis-2012-2013-crisis; Luke Harding,
“Timbuktu Mayor: Mali Rebels Torched Library of Historic Manuscripts”, The Guardian,
28 January 2013, http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/jan/28/mali-timbuktu-
library-ancient-manuscripts; and the collection of resources available at Berkeley’s
Center for Africa Studies website, http://africa.berkeley.edu/Outreach/Mali.php. Many
manuscripts that were thought to be lost were smuggled out to safety. The reports from
the Ahmed Baba’s staff indicate that those manuscripts that were lost were destroyed in
haste as the only valuable items the rebels could find in the building immediately before
their flight, rather than because of their content. See Drew Hinshaw, “Historic Timbuktu
Texts Saved From Burning”, The Wall Street Journal, 1 February 2013, http://online.wsj.
com/news/articles/SB10001424127887323926104578276003922396218
In the shadow of Timbuktu 175
made daytime work impossible, we worked only during night-time hours

when electricity was available.
The Djenné Manuscript Library8 is housed in a handsome two-storey
traditional Djenné mud building just to the south of the Great Mosque.
Fig. 6.1 Façade of Djenné library. Photo by author, CC BY.
It was built in 2006 with the support of the European Community Fund
and the Embassy of the United States of America. In 2007, a management
committee made up of notable Djenné residents was put in place; their task
was to ensure that the library remained the property of the whole population
of Djenné, and continued to provide a safe repository for the manuscripts
from private family collections. The deposited manuscripts remained the
property of their owners. The library is therefore a public space housing
private collections: an original model, entirely different from that of Timbuktu
which has in the region of fifty small separate private family libraries which
are housed in the individual homes of the collectors.9
8 http://www.djennemanuscrits.com
9 Ismaël Diadié Haidara and Haoua Taore, “The Private Libraries of Timbuktu”, in The
Meanings of Timbuktu, ed. by Shamil Jeppie and Souleymane Bachir Diagne (Cape Town:
HSRC Press, 2008), pp. 271-75.
Fig. 6.2 Tārīkh al-Sudan [History of the Sudan] manuscript in the library’s collection.
Photo by author, CC BY.
The idea of digitisation first emerged when, after reading the description
of the Djenné Manuscript Library on my blog,10 a reader informed me
about the Endangered Archives Programme at the British Library.11 With
its support, we began our pilot project in the autumn of 2009. The project
was a collaboration between Mamadou Samake of the Mission Culturelle of
Djenné, a Malian government body,12 Babou Touré, a Djenné school teacher
representing the Djenné Manuscript library, and myself. The aim of the
pilot project was to survey the manuscripts in Djenné. This work involved
visiting private Djenné families, and most of the work was carried out in situ
in the family houses. Djenné is a close-knit community and people tend to
be reluctant to show their manuscripts to strangers. The work was carried
out by Garba Yaro and Yelpha Deité, the two library archivists who are
both members of ancient Djenné families, and without whose reassuring
familiarity the doors would have remained shut. Over the four months,
we explored collections in thirteen Djenné family homes, many of which
were also Quranic schools. We identified more than 4,000 manuscripts, but
we were fully aware that this was only a small portion of the total number
preserved in Djenné.
10 http://www.djennedjenno.blogspot.com
11 The academic sponsors of our initiative were Dimitri Bondarev from SOAS, now at
Hamburg University, and Constant Hamès from CNRS.
12 On Mission Culturelle, see Joy, The Politics of Heritage Management in Mali, pp. 32-35.
The survey revealed that the manuscripts contained texts on a whole variety
of subjects: along with Qurans, religious texts, grammars, historical texts,
correspondence and works of literature there were also esoteric and magical
texts. This discovery tallied with the fact that Djenné has traditionally been
regarded as a centre for maraboutage, an Islamic form of magic which is still
practised extensively by the Djenné marabouts.13 Indeed, these magical texts
constituted more than half of the surveyed manuscripts. During this phase,
the archivists simply noted the theme, and returned the manuscript into the
storage chest without entering into further investigation. The existence of a
Tārīkh [History] of the Empire of Macina, written in Fulfulde was noted; however,
this manuscript has not yet been re-located into the library and we are still
hoping the owners will bring it in.
The manuscripts held in private family houses varied greatly in terms of
the state of their preservation. Most were kept in metal or wooden storage
boxes in no discernable order.
Fig. 6.3 Manuscripts storage chest in one of the houses in Djenné.

13 See Trevor H. J. Marchand, The Masons of Djenné (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press,
2009), pp. 7-8, 25, 71 and 74. On maraboutage and marabouts, see 26, 32, 35, 102-08 and 269-73.
See also Geert Mommersteeg, “Allah’s Words as Amulet”, Etnofoor, 3/1 (1990), 63-76; and
idem, “Qur’anic Teachers and Magico-Religious Specialists in Djenné”, International Institute
for the Study of Islam in the Modern World (ISIM) Newsletter, 3 (1999), 30.
Our archivists identified each manuscript and separated it from the others
with a sheet of white paper before returning it to its place in the box. Most
manuscripts were found to be incomplete or perhaps only jumbled up —
later more thorough investigation would be needed. We were hoping that
at a later date we would be able to digitise these codices. The most common
damage noted on the manuscripts was from termites and from water, as
well as from bad storage and careless handling. The preservation was not
helped by the fact that Djenné houses are all made of mud and during the
rainy season they often leak.14
A large number of Djenné manuscripts have been acquired over the
past decades by the Ahmed Baba Institute15 and SAVAMA in Timbuktu.16
These institutions had a policy of buying up manuscripts all over Mali in
order to centralise the manuscript scholarship to Timbuktu.17 Nevertheless,
a substantial deposit of Arabic manuscripts in Djenné remained in the city.
Between August 2011 and August 2013, with the support of the EAP, we
digitised 2,009 manuscripts in the Djenné Manuscript Library, producing
nearly 150,000 digital images18. The documents are for the most part undated
and many are incomplete. The manuscripts collected and digitised so far are
only written on paper, although there are allegedly manuscripts in Djenné
written on fish parchment.19 The majority of the documents are estimated to
date from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, although there are many
from earlier times, and the oldest dated manuscript in the Djenné library is
from 1394.20 With the exception of rare manuscripts in French, which have
14 On the efforts to modernise houses in Djenné and on the lack of funds to maintain
them, see Michael Rowlands, “Entangled Memories and Parallel Heritages in Mali”, in
Reclaiming Heritage: Alternative Imaginaries of Memory in West Africa, ed. by Ferdinand
de Jong and Michael Rowlands (Walnut Creek, CA: West Coast Press, 2007), pp. 71-98
(p. 95); and Charlotte Joy, “Enchanting Town of Mud: Djenné, a World Heritage Site in
Mali”, in ibid., pp 145-59 (p. 153).
15 http://www.tombouctoumanuscripts.org/libraries/ahmed_baba_institute_of_higher_
learning_and_islamic_research_iheri-ab
16 It is a well-known fact to everyone in Djenné, including the archivists at the library, that
Abdel Kader Haidara has bought manuscripts from the Djenné collections, both for the
Ahmed Baba institute when he worked for them and for his own library the Mamma
Haidara.
17 Mohammed Ould Youbba, “The Ahmed Baba Institute of Higher Islamic Studies and
Research”, in The Meanings of Timbuktu, ed. by Shamil Jeppie and Souleymane Bachir
Diagne (Cape Town: HSRC Press, 2008), pp. 287-302.
18 EAP488: Major project to digitise and preserve the manuscripts of Djenné, Mali, http://
eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP488
19 This information has been provided by Yelpha Deité and Garba Yaro, our two archivists.
20 The manuscripts are dated by the colophones.
not yet been digitised and which contain legal papers and certain official
documents such as diplomas from medersas (madrasas) or tax receipts
dating from colonial times, the manuscripts are all written in Arabic script.
The library also contains, as of July 2014, 122 manuscripts with sections
in the local languages of Songhai, Bozo, Fulfulde and Bamanan written in
Arabic script. 21 These sections are sometimes explanations in the margin
of difficult Arabic words in the text, or in the case of esoteric manuscripts
concerning traditional medicine the names of plants and trees used are
often written in Bamanan. There are only few manuscripts written entirely
in a language different from Arabic: two in Fulfulde, a theological tract and
a document on natural medicine; one manuscript contains “Praise to the
Prophet” in Songhai and another one preserves esoteric texts in Bamanan.22
The large majority of the Djenné manuscripts were copied in Djenné, and
only a small proportion were brought in from elsewhere. The names of the
copyist are known, and these are often ancestors of the collector’s families. This
is possible to ascertain, to a certain degree, by consulting the family genealogy,
of the sort preserved in the manuscript EAP488/1/2/15, Quissatou Baloukiya:
History. This undated text contains an account of the well-known legend of
Quissatou Baloukiya, a virtuous woman, and was copied in Djenné by Imam,
son of Ousman. He is found seven generations down in the genealogy of the
Yaro family. Similarly, the manuscript Kitāb nuzhat al-khawāṭir fī uṣūl sharḥ
al-ḍagāʾin [The Book of the Excursion into the Ideas about the Sources Explaining
the Hatred] (EAP488/1/7/24) is a traditional Arabic grammar in verse, copied
in Djenné in 1836 by Aquadi Ahmed, who forms part of the line of marabouts
which served the family Djeite. In this case the genealogy goes back seven
generations: Alqadi Ahmed, son of Imam Mohamed, son of Baha, son of
Amar, son of Moussa, son of Mahmoud, son of Ousmane, son of Mohamed,
son of Babou Almoustafa Attawate. Another locally transcribed manuscript is
a handsome volume, Dalāʾil al-khayrāt wa-shawāriq al-anwār fī dhikr al-ṣalāt ʿalā
al-nabī al-mukhtār [Directions to the Benefits and Shining Lights: On the Benediction
over the Chosen Prophet] (EAP488/1/1/1). It was copied in the Hausa calligraphy
in 1899 by Bakaina, son of Alpha Sidi, son of Mohamed Cheick, son of Cheick
21 On the practice of writing other languages in the Arabic script, so-called Ajami,
see for example, Moulaye Hassane, “Ajami in Africa: The Use of Arabic Script in the
Transcription of African Languages”, in The Meanings of Timbuktu, ed. by Shamil Jeppie
and Souleymane Bachir Diagne (Cape Town: HSRC Press, 2008), pp. 109-22.
22 Information provided by the project archivist, Yelpha.
Boubacar, who is an ancestor of the present owner. Bakaina is an ancient and

traditional Djenné name.
Fig. 6.4 Prayers to the Prophet from the Maiga family collection.
This differs from Timbuktu, which seems to have had a more energetic
trade in manuscripts, not only in recent times but also back in the fourteenth
and fifteenth centuries, at the height of its importance as a centre for trade
and learning before the trans-Saharan trade routes shifted as a result of the
development of shipping along the West African coast.23 Many of Timbuktu’s
treasures have been copied in the Maghreb or in the Middle East and then
brought to Timbuktu as valuable merchandise. Djenné, on the other hand,
appears to have been less cosmopolitan in its manuscript trade, which is why
the majority of manuscripts were copied locally. The Djenné scribes were
nevertheless influenced by different calligraphic styles. With the Moroccan
conquest in the sixteenth century, the Maghreb style was copied in Djenné, just
as later the Hausa style became adopted, inspired by the arrival of students
from northern Nigeria to the Djenné Quranic schools.24
23 See, for example, Ghislaine Lydon, On Trans-Saharan Trails: Islamic Law, Trade Networks,
and Cross-Cultural Exchange in Nineteenth-Century Western Africa (Cambridge: Cambridge
24 On script styles from West Africa, see Mauro Nobili, “Arabic Scripts in West African
Manuscripts: A Tentative Classification from the de Gironcourt Manuscript Collection”,
In order to embark on the digitisation project, we had to create a new

workroom with three digital cameras and lighting units. We also bought and
installed computers and, most importantly, hired new staff to work in the
library. This latter task proved to be more problematic than anticipated due
to the system of family connections in Djenné. We all agreed that the new
staff should be local, but Samake and I insisted on good Arabic knowledge,
a good general level of education and knowledge of French. Other members
of the team, however, regarded family connections as more significant than
qualifications. To work successfully in Djenné, it is necessary to come to
viable compromises, and therefore the workroom staff were chosen by the
library management committee. With regards to the digitisation workers,
Samake and I insisted that at least one of the team should have a good
knowledge of Arabic, French and English. Ultimately, we were able to hire
Mohammed Diallo from the Ecole Normale Supérieure in Bamako. After the
staff were finally assembled, a month or so of training took place before the
work proper began in the autumn of 2011.
Fundamental for digitisation was the painstaking work to survey the
manuscripts, carried out by Garba and Yelpha, our archivists. An important
part of their task was raising awareness among the manuscript owners about
the importance of their manuscripts. The increased availability of printed
material meant that, over the last century, the manuscripts were increasingly
seen as not valuable and even redundant. Gradually, these efforts began to
bear fruit and a steady trickle of Djenné notables started depositing their
manuscripts for safekeeping in the Djenné Manuscript Library. Soon after
the project started, we noted that the documents brought to the library were
often different from those we were allowed to see on our visits to family
homes. The families who chose to bring part of their collections would
often select manuscripts that were regarded to have a high status, and these
were most likely to be Quranic or traditional Islamic texts. We decided that
it was necessary to introduce a rule that allowed for only one Quran per
family to be sent for digitisation. Otherwise, we would have run a risk of
producing a digital collection consisting predominantly of Qurans, thus
misrepresenting the types of manuscripts present and produced in the city.
Fortunately, there were also significantly high numbers of other types of
Islamic Africa Journal, 2/1 (2011), 105-33; and idem, “Manuscript Culture of West Africa,
Part 2: A Survey of Scholarly Production Dedicated to Local Collections of Manuscripts”,
Comparative Oriental Manuscript Studies Newsletter, 3 (Jan 2012), 11-17.
texts being brought, and we decided to continue the digitisation work at

the library instead of displacing moveable units into the family houses.
The reason for the steady and growing trickle of new deposits at the
library must also be linked to the fact that the manuscript owners receive
3000FCFA (around £4) per day during the time that the team are digitising
their manuscripts. This amount, although not very large, is nevertheless
three times the wage for a day-labourer in Mali, and it is a welcome addition
to the family budget in a town which has precious few opportunities for
earning money.
A few months into the digitisation project, we encountered serious
difficulties that continue to be a matter of concern. The initiative for the
construction of the library had come from the Imam of Djenné, who successfully
raised funds for this project from the European Union and the American
Embassy. Although locals believed that the library was built for the benefit
of the whole town, once it was constructed, the Imam appropriated it for
himself. This caused a serious schism and the Imam withdrew his manuscripts
from the library. He decided to build his own private library, which he did
with the assistance of SAVAMA-DCI,25 an association for the promotion
of manuscript culture from Timbuktu. The head of SAVAMA-DCI, Abdel
Kader Haidara, has been widely recognised for his work to safeguard the
manuscripts of Mali. His work has involved the opening of small libraries
with the help of external funding – a model that has been rejected in Djenné
because it is against the philosophy of its library.26 The schism between the
Imam and the town of Djenné became serious enough to call in the then
Minister of Culture, Cheick Oumar Sissoko, and it was he who put the
management committee in place in 2007.
At this point, the problem seemed to have been contained. However, with
the arrival of the support from the EAP project, this old feud re-emerged
with renewed vigour. A few months into the project, we were scheduled to
begin making protective acid-free carton boxes in which to store up to 300
manuscripts. The material for the boxes was imported from the UK. I had
hired a van and driver to deliver this bulky shipment to Djenné, and I arrived
at the library with the van just after sunset prayers on a Friday in January
25 http://www.savamadci.net
26 For a selection of the recent press coverage recognising Abdel Kader Haidara’s role in
the preservation of Mali’s manuscripts, see Joshua Hammer, The Brave Sage of Timbuktu:
Abdel Kader Haidara, The Innovators Project, http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/
innovators/2014/04/140421-haidara-timbuktu-manuscripts-mali-library-conservation
2012, having travelled the ten-hour journey from Bamako. In front of the
library, there was a gathering of some twenty people, including the Imam. As
I attempted to alight from the lorry and begin the unloading, the Imam said
to me: “I forbid you to ever set foot in this place again!” To avoid a physical
confrontation, I returned to my hotel with the truck and the material. During
the course of the evening, each of the eleven town councillors of Djenné
contacted me to insist that I return to the library the following morning and
to assure me that I would come to no harm. The next day, I returned to the
library, and we began to work on preparing boxes, after a short period of
instruction from a professional box maker from Timbuktu.27
Fig. 6.5 Two manuscript storage boxes made for the library. Photo by author, CC BY.
Although this incident had a positive conclusion, it cannot be denied that

there is a strong antipathy towards the project from the Imam, a powerful
figure on a national scale in Mali, and even beyond, and a small but powerful
section of the Djenné community. This antipathy can at least partially explain
certain rumours and attempts to bring the project into disrepute. These
attempts, which draw their venom from the eventual free Internet access of
the digitised images, were taken seriously enough by the Prefect of Djenné to
jeopardise the very existence of the project. When I was called to the Prefect’s
27 Garba Traoré is the Head Conservator at the Ahmed Baba Institute. The project relied on
him several times for teaching and lecturing.
office to explain in detail the free Internet access, he expressed his critical
view of the matter, likening it to the French colonial appropriation of the
large collections of Malian manuscripts, now found in the French National
Library.28 It was impossible to convince him that the project is not at all similar
in that it does not remove the original manuscripts from the Djenné library.
Digitisation has only recently come to be recognised as a way to preserve
manuscripts in Mali. Timbuktu has received significant support to digitise its
entire collection, with large funding from, amongst many other sources, the
Government of South Africa.29 Yet, only a small percentage of the manuscripts
were digitised at the time of the destruction of the Ahmed Baba Institute. The pace
of the digitisation and the recognition of its value have increased in the aftermath
of the Timbuktu events. There is still some reluctance towards digitisation
and, in particular, towards free Internet access to digitised manuscripts. We
should bear in mind, however, that the open access movement and notion that
access to knowledge should be free, are relatively new phenomenon even in
the western world. Moreover, in Mali there is a deep mistrust towards foreign
philanthropy, which is seen as having a veiled interest. Indeed, we have often
heard that the British Library is using the digital collection from Djenné to
make money, and nothing can be done to dissuade the majority of people
that this is not the case.30
The EAP requires free Internet access to all digitised collections. In Djenné,
this has become a major bone of contention and ultimately, in order to continue
the project, we were forced to negotiate a compromise. With the permission
of the EAP, we delayed the online publication of the Djenné collection until
2018. We convinced the manuscript holders in Djenné that this would give
us five years to promote the Djenné library and find new sponsors before the
collection went online. The compromise, reached in 2013, proved to be the
key that unlocked the impasse. The same year we were awarded a new grant
from the Programme that allows us to continue our digitisation efforts.31 By
28 Noureddine Ghali, Inventaire de la Bibliothèque ‘umarienne de Ségou, conservée à la

Bibliothèque Nationale (Paris: Édition du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique,
1985).
29 http://www.tombouctoumanuscripts.org. For other initiatives, see Dmitry Bondarev,
Safeguarding the Manuscripts from Timbuktu: A Report on the Current Situation and a Proposal
for a Larger Preservation Project, Centre for the Study of Manuscript Cultures, Hamburg, 9
May 2013, http://www.manuscript-cultures.uni-hamburg.de/cal-details/Safeguarding_
Timbuktu_Manuscripts_2013.pdf
30 On an ongoing local perception that their heritage may have been “sold to the whites”,
see Joy, “Enchanting Town of Mud”, pp. 156-57.
31 EAP690: Project to digitise and preserve the manuscripts of Djenné and surrounding
mutual agreement, there will be a three-year delay on Internet publication

after the end of the project, which means that the entire Djenné collection
will be available online in 2018.
The results of the first digitisation project, a hard drive containing 150,000
images, was delivered to the British Library in August 2013. A copy was also
delivered to the Archives Nationales in Bamako in December, in a ceremony
attended by the British Ambassador and televised by Malian TV. The same
event was used to launch the present project (EAP690). Such high profile
events are invaluable for the promoting of good will for the project, and are
used as a strategy to combat the undercurrents of ill will which still threaten
to damage the project and the library.
Alongside the digitisation supported by the EAP, we have organised
several events that aim to raise awareness of the importance of the manuscripts
of Djenné, and to promote positive attitudes towards the library. In April
2014, we organised a week-long teaching seminar on the conservation and
storage of manuscripts. The seminar culminated in a televised conference
in Djenné, attended by over a hundred people. Among the participants
were the manuscript owners who deposited their collections at the Djenné
Manuscript Library, as well as scholars and conservators from Brazil, Sweden
and Germany. The conference was supported by the EAP, the Helen Hamlyn
Trust (UK), The Rizoma Institute (Brazil) and The Centre for the Study of
Manuscript Cultures at the University of Hamburg, the latter represented
by conservator Eva Brozowski, who conducted research into traditional
inks used in the Djenné manuscripts. In association with MaliMali32 we
have also organised calligraphy workshops and competitions at the Djenné
Manuscript Library.
These events and efforts would never have been possible had the library
not received the support from the EAP. The growth of the library’s collection,
as the local population gradually deposit their manuscripts, is the most potent
sign of the success of the projects in Djenné. The collection grew from 2,172
manuscripts representing 33 families in 2011, to close to 6,000 manuscripts,
from 100 families in 2014. We are proud to see this sign of trust from the
local people, who increasingly see the library and its archivists as reliable
custodians of their collections.
villages, http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP690
32 http://www.malimali.org
References
Bondarev, Dmitry, Safeguarding the Manuscripts from Timbuktu: A Report on the Current
Situation and a Proposal for a Larger Preservation Project, Centre for the Study of
Manuscript Cultures, Hamburg, 9 May 2013, http://www.manuscript-cultures.
uni-hamburg.de/cal-details/Safeguarding_Timbuktu_Manuscripts_2013.pdf
Ghali, Noureddine, Inventaire de la Bibliothèque ‘umarienne de Ségou, conservée
à la Bibliothèque Nationale (Paris: Édition du Centre National de la Recherche
Scientifique, 1985).
Haidara, Ismaël Diadié, and Haoua Taore, “The Private Libraries of Timbuktu”, in
The Meanings of Timbuktu, ed. by Shamil Jeppie and Souleymane Bachir Diagne
(Cape Town: HSRC Press, 2008), pp. 271-75.
Hammer, Joshua, “The Brave Sage of Timbuktu: Abdel Kader Haidara”,
The Innovators Project, http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/
innovators/2014/04/140421-haidara-timbuktu-manuscripts-mali-library-
conservation
Luke Harding, “Timbuktu Mayor: Mali Rebels Torched Library of Historic
Manuscripts”, The Guardian, 28 January 2013, http://www.theguardian.com/
world/2013/jan/28/mali-timbuktu-library-ancient-manuscripts
Hassane, Moulaye, “Ajami in Africa: The Use of Arabic Script in the Transcription
of African Languages”, in The Meanings of Timbuktu, ed. by Shamil Jeppie and
Souleymane Bachir Diagne (Cape Town: HSRC Press, 2008), pp. 109-22.
Hinshaw, Drew, “Historic Timbuktu Texts Saved From Burning”, The Wall Street
Journal, 1 February 2014, http://online.wsj.com/articles/SB1000142412788732392
6104578276003922396218
Hunwick, John O., Timbuktu and the Songhay Empire: Al-Saʿdi’sTaʼrikh al-Sudan Down
to 1613, and Other Contemporary Documents (Leiden: Brill, 1999).
Joy, Charlotte, “Enchanting Town of Mud: Djenné, a World Heritage Site in Mali”,
in Reclaiming Heritage: Alternative Imaginaries of Memory in West Africa, ed. by
Ferdinand de Jong and Michael Rowlands (Walnut Creek, CA: West Coast
Press, 2007), pp. 145-59.
—, The Politics of Heritage Management in Mali: From UNESCO to Djenné (Walnut
Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, 2012).
Keech McIntosh, Susan, Excavations at Jenne-Jeno, Hambarketolo and Kaniana (Inland
Niger Delta, Mali): The 1981 Season (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press,
1995).
Lydon, Ghislaine, On Trans-Saharan Trails: Islamic Law, Trade Networks, and Cross-
Cultural Exchange in Nineteenth-Century Western Africa (Cambridge: Cambridge
Marchand, Trevor H. J., The Masons of Djenné (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University
Press, 2009).
McIntosh, Roderick J., and Susan Keech McIntosh, “The Inland Niger Delta Before
the Empire of Mali: Evidence from Jenne-Jeno”, Journal of African History, 22
(1981), 1-22.
Mommersteeg, Geert, “Allah’s Words as Amulet”, Etnofoor, 3/1 (1990), 63-76.

—, “L’éducation coranique au Mali: le pouvoir des mots sacrée”, in L’enseignement
Islamique au Mali, ed. by Bintou Sanankoua and Louis Brenner (London: Jamana,
1991).
—, “Marabouts à Djenné: enseignement coranique, invocations et amulettes”, in
Djenné: une ville millénaire au Mali, ed. by Rogier M. A. Bedaux and J. D. van der
Waals (Leiden: Rijksmuseum voor Volkenkunder, 1994), pp. 65-75.
—, “Qur’anic Teachers and Magico-Religious Specialists in Djenné”, International
Institute for the Study of Islam in the Modern World (ISIM) Newsletter, 3 (1999), 30.
Nobili, Mauro, “Arabic Scripts in West African Manuscripts: A Tentative
Classification from the de Gironcourt Manuscript Collection”, Islamic Africa
Journal, 2/1 (2011), 105-33.
—, “Manuscript Culture of West Africa, Part 2: A Survey of Scholarly Production
Dedicated to Local Collections of Manuscripts”, Comparative Oriental Manuscript
Studies Newsletter, 3 (Jan 2012), 11-17.
Rowlands, Michael, “Entangled Memories and Parallel Heritages in Mali”, in
Reclaiming Heritage: Alternative Imaginaries of Memory in West Africa, ed. by
Ferdinand de Jong and Michael Rowlands (Walnut Creek, CA: West Coast
Press, 2007), pp. 71-98.
Soares, Benjamin, “Islam in Mali in the Neoliberal Era”, African Affairs, 105 (2006),
77-95.
—, “Islam in Mali Since the 2012 Coup”, Cultural Anthropology Online, 10 June 2013,
http://production.culanth.org/fieldsights/321-islam-in-mali-since-the-2012-
coup
Thurston, Alexander, and Andrew Lebovich, “A Handbook on Mali’s 2012-2013
Crisis”, ISITA working paper, 2 September 2013, http://africacenter.org/2013/09/
a-handbook-on-malis-2012-2013
Youbba, Mohammed Ould, “The Ahmed Baba Institute of Higher Islamic
Studies and Research”, in The Meanings of Timbuktu, ed. by Shamil Jeppie and
Souleymane Bachir Diagne (Cape Town: HSRC Press, 2008), pp. 287-302.
7. The first Gypsy/Roma
organisations, churches and
newspapers
Elena Marushiakova and Vesselin Popov
In the 1970s, a young and provocative German scholar, Kirsten Martins-

Heuss, shocked the academic public with her statement that Gypsy Studies
is “a science of the plagiarist”.1 It cannot be denied that there are still some
grounds for such a critique. In the history of Gypsy (now known as Roma)
movements and organisations, inaccurate data and interpretations often
make their way from book to book without attempts at verification — for
example, scholars refer to the Gypsy Conference in Kannstadt (Germany)
in 1871, an event that never actually took place.2 However, it is not always
inaccuracy on the part of scholars which is to blame, but the unavailability
of complete or reliable records, or the use of second-hand data taken from
other publications without first checking the primary sources.
In order to avoid such traps, the research for this chapter is based mainly
on primary sources, uncovered among public or family records, most of
which were collected, investigated and digitised as part of our projects
supported by the Endangered Archives Programme (EAP).3 These sources
1 Kirsten Martins-Heuss, Zur mythischen Figur des Zigeuners in der deutschen

Zigeunerforschung (Frankfurt: Hagg Herchen, 1983), p. 8.
2 Donald Kenrick, The Romani World: A Historical Dictionary of the Gypsies, 3rd edn.
(Hatfield: University of Hertfordshire Press, 2007), p. 386.
3 EAP067: Preservation of Gypsy/Roma historical and cultural heritage in Bulgaria, http://
eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP067, and EAP285: Preservation
of Gypsy/Roma historical and cultural heritage in Bulgaria ‒ major project, http://eap.
bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP285
© Elena Marushiakova and Vesselin Popov, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.07

have been largely out of circulation until now, and they throw new light onto
several aspects of the history of the Roma movement for civic emancipation
through the creation of public organisations. Apart from these sources, no
other evidence corroborating the occurrence of most of the events discussed
has been discovered to date.4 The digitised sources we rely on are stored in
the Studii Romani Archive.5 A significant number may now also be accessed
through the EAP website.6 The books and newspapers discussed are preserved
in Bulgarian public libraries.
This chapter focuses on the sources that document the emergence and
early development of Roma social and political projects in Bulgaria during
the first half of the twentieth century, and that illuminate the main concepts
of the emerging Roma discourse. These sources chart the key stages in the
evolution of the Roma movement and encompass the movement’s different
branches and aspirations.
The first Roma organisation

The first source presented in this chapter is an historical statute officially
registering a Roma public organisation, written in the Bulgarian town of
Vidin in 1910 and published in the form of a small book that same year. This
group was, in all likelihood, the first state-approved Roma organisation in the
world. The published registration document, entitled Ustav na Egiptyanskata
narodnost v gr. Vidin [Statute of the Egyptian Nation in the Town of Vidin],
designates the Roma as Egiptyani (“Egyptians” in Bulgarian), Kıpti (“Copts”,
as in Ottoman sources) and Tsigani (“Gypsies” in Bulgarian).7
The creation and the main aims of the first Roma organisation in Bulgaria
can be understood in the context of the country’s history. Part of the Ottoman
Empire for five centuries, Bulgaria became an independent country in the
4 The historical background of these events is described in general works devoted to

Bulgarian history in the period under review. Frederick B. Chary, The History of Bulgaria
(Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2011); R. J. Crampton, Bulgaria (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1990); and Raymond Detrez, Historical Dictionary of Bulgaria (Lanham,
MD: Scarecrow Press, 2006).
5 http://www.studiiromani.org
6 See http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP067 and http://eap.bl.uk/database/
results.a4d?projID=EAP285
7 The original of the statute was not discovered in Bulgarian archives. It is available only in
published book form: Anonymous, Ustav na Egiptyanskata narodnost v gr. Vidin [Statute on
the Egyptian Nation in the Town of Vidin] (Vidin: Bozhinov & Konev, 1910). A copy of the
book is preserved in the Specialised Library within the Studii Romani Archive (ASR), and
the digitised version is forthcoming. All translations are ours unless otherwise stated.
The first Gypsy/Roma organisations, churches and newspapers 191
aftermath of the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-1878, first as the Bulgarian

Principality and from 5 October 1908 as the Kingdom of Bulgaria. Independence
changed the inter-ethnic relations of the country; whereas the position of ethnic
Turks was established by peace treaties, the Roma were left out. Therefore,
the foundation of the Roma organisation stemmed from the need to negotiate
the new citizens’ situation. The Roma needed to secure the rightful status
of their communities in the new independent state and to introduce legal
parameters to the relationship between themselves and the state and local
authorities, as well as to relations within their own community.8 Article 1
of the statute describes the main tasks of the organisation: “Under the old
custom of the aforesaid nation in Vidin, this statute establishes procedures
for their right-relations in the society and among themselves”.
The statute determined the terms of office and methods of election of the
head of the organisation as well as his responsibilities:
Article 3: For compliance and enforcement of the regulations is to be responsible
a chief, called mukhtar, who is elected indefinitely by lot from among nine
people of the neighbourhoods’ elders – these leaders (çeribaşi)9 are to be
determined by secret ballot among those who have civil and political rights.
Even better, those who are inscribed in the municipal election lists should be
eligible to become voters and to be elected. […]
Article 10: [A mukhtar is elected] to represent the group before the authorities
of the state and all public institutions, [...] to protect the general moral and
material interests of his compatriots, [...] to evoke civic awareness among his
own people and to assist measures and introduce decrees needed for decent
and respectable human life, [...] to take care of finding work for the poor,
[...] ensuring proper mental, health and social education of adults, [...] to
seek to ensure strict compliance with all lawful orders, [...] to give accurate
information to all state and public institutions on issues concerning people
of his own nationality.10
From the text of the statute, it is not clear who was the first head (mukhtar)
of the new organisation, but most likely it was the chairman of the founding
8 In the Ottoman Empire, the Roma had citizenship status, were classified according to
their ethnicity and had their own economic niches and position in the society. See Elena
Marushiakova and Vesselin Popov, Gypsies in the Ottoman Empire (Hatfield: University of
Hertfordshire Press, 2001); Faika Çelik, “Exploring Marginality in the Ottoman Empire:
Gypsies or People of Malice (Ehl-i Fesad) as viewed by the Ottomans”, EUI Working
Paper RSCAS, 39 (2004), 1-21; and Faika Çelik, “‘Civilizing Mission’ in the Late Ottoman
Discourse: The Case of Gypsies”, Oriente Moderno, 93 (2013), 577-97.
9 In the first paragraph of the statute preceding Article 3, local variants of the Ottoman
administrative term çeribaşi are used: tseribashi and malebashi.
10 Anon., Ustav na Egiptyanskata narodnost v gr. Vidin, pp. 4 and 6.
committee (comprising a total of 21 people), Gyullish Mustafa, who, as

explicitly noted in the statute, was a member of the Bulgarian army in the
position of reserve sergeant.11
All the designations used in these statute articles are taken from the
old Ottoman Empire terminology, in which the mukhtar was the mayor of
a village, elected by the population and representing the village before the
authorities, and the çeribaşi were the heads of the Roma Cemaat (Tax Unit),
responsible for collecting taxes.12 These designations were transferred to the
new realities of the independent Bulgarian state: the mukhtar became the chief
of the “Egyptians” in Vidin and its district, and the çeribaşi became the heads
of separate Roma mahallas.13 The statute of the organisation reflects an effort
to transfer and legalise existing social relations inherited from the time of the
Empire, when the Roma were referred to as Kıptı or Çingene (“Gypsies” in
Turkish); although without official status as a religious or ethnic community
(millet in Bulgarian), they were de facto treated as such.14 The statute explicitly
mentions that only those who are “inscribed in the municipal election lists”
may participate in electing the organisation’s head — that is, those who have
civil and political rights. This indicates that the organisation was established
not only out of the Roma desire to be recognised as a distinct ethnic group,
but also because of their aspirations to be publicly acknowledged as an
equal part of the overall social structure of the new Bulgarian nation-state.
From the Statute of the Egyptian Nation in the Town of Vidin, it is clear that
the organisation was self-financing. Its revenue was generated through
“[...] voluntary donations and bequests [...] fines for divorce and unlawful
cohabitation [...] interest from money-lending [... and] rents for the common
property”.15 The organisation’s leaders (the mukhtar together with his deputy
and treasurer) received annual remuneration for their “work” — a sum
collected from all families “according to their property status”, of which “it
11 Ibid., p. 15.
12 Marushiakova and Popov, Gypsies in the Ottoman Empire, pp. 39-41.
13 During the Ottoman Empire, mahalla referred to a residential ethnic neighbourhood. For
more information about Ottoman urban structure, see Nicolay Todorov, Balkanskiat grad
15-19 vek: sotsialno-ikonomichesko i demografsko razvitie [A Balkan City, 15th-19th Centuries:
Social, Economical and Demographic Development] (Sofia: Nauka i izkustvo, 1972).
14 For more detail on the functioning of the Ottoman system in regard to religious and
ethnic communities (including the Roma), see Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire:
The Functioning of a Plural Society, ed. by Benjamin Braude and Bernard Lewis, 1 (New
York: Holmes and Meier, 1982); Marushiakova and Popov, Gypsies in the Ottoman Empire;
and Reşat Kasaba, A Moveable Empire: Ottoman Nomads, Migrants, and Refugees (Seattle,
WA: University of Washington Press, 2009).
15 Anon., Ustav na Egiptyanskata narodnost, Article 16, p. 10.
is envisaged for the mukhtar to take half of the total amount and for half to
be divided between his two assistants”.16
The statute also attempts to establish the Roma as a “nation”, equal to
all other nations in the country, through symbols, signs and holidays. The
organisation’s public symbols are described in detail — an example of the
stamp of the organisation can be seen below (Fig. 7.1).
Fig. 7.1 Stamp of the Egyptian Nation organisation, Public Domain.
It is a circular stamp with the inscription “Kıptiysko mukhtarstvo – v g. Vidin

(Coptic town hall – in the town of Vidin)”. The stamp depicts St George on
horseback with a king’s daughter behind him and a spear in his hand, point
stuck in a crocodile. As specified in the statute, the picture on the stamp
illustrates “a girl who was doomed to be sacrificed to an animal, deified in
Egypt, and who was rescued by St George in the same way as the people
were saved from paganism”.17 Moreover, the mukhtar wore an oval metal
emblem on his chest bearing the inscriptions “Koptic mukhtar” and “city of
Vidin”. Between these two phrases was a graven image of the Eye of Horus,
considered to be one of the major ancient Egyptian symbols.
The references to ancient Egypt in the names used to define the community,
such as “Egyptians” and “Copts” in the organisation’s statute and symbols,
reflected the belief at that time that the Roma had originated in Egypt.18 This
belief was implied in the term Αιγύπτιοι (Aigyptioi), meaning Egyptian, whose
use was already widespread in Byzantine times.19 It was also commonplace
during the Ottoman period to use the term Kıpti to designate the Roma in
state administrative documents. This designation was accepted by the Roma
16 Ibid., Article 23, p. 13.

17 Ibid., Article 19, pp. 11-12.
18 Marushiakova and Popov, Gypsies in the Ottoman Empire, pp. 16, 17 and 26.
19 George C. Soulis, “The Gypsies in the Byzantine Empire and the Balkans in the Late
Middle Ages”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 15 (1961), pp. 141-65.
themselves, and it was the basis for the appearance of numerous etiological
legends, widespread among the Roma in the Balkans in the nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries. These legends illustrate the community’s efforts
to uncover their land of origin, “proof” of which they claimed to find in the
Old Testament.20 The links made to ancient Egypt are a clear reflection of
the Roma’s intention to express their equality with other nations that, unlike
them, had their own countries of origin.
The statute designates St George’s Day, “which remained from the old
times”, as the annual holy patron day.21 The honouring of St George as
patron of the Roma and the celebration of his day (Gergyovden in Bulgarian,
Ђurђevdan in Serbian, etc.) are reflected in both the stamp and the statute of
the organisation: indeed, there was a widespread cult of St George among
the Roma in the Balkans.22 Along with Roma Christians, the Muslim Roma
also honoured this day under the name Hıdırlez (Hederlesi, Herdelez, Ederlezi,
etc. in the Roma languages), replacing the Christian saint with the Islamic
prophets Hızır and İlyas.23
It is noteworthy that among the members of the founding committee
listed in the statute, those with Muslim names are more numerous than
those with Christian names.24 At that time, the majority of Roma living in
20 For examples and texts of numerous etiological legends, see Studii Romani I, ed. by Elena
Marushiakova and Vesselin Popov (Sofia: Club’90, 1994), pp. 16-47; Studii Romani II,
ed. by Elena Marushiakova and Vesselin Popov (Sofia: Club’90, 1995), pp. 22-45; and
Elena Marushiakova and Vesselin Popov, “Myth as Process”, in Scholarship and the Gypsy
Struggle: Commitment in Romani Studies, ed. by Thomas Acton (Hatfield: University of
Hertfordshire Press, 2000), pp. 81-93.
21 Anon., Ustav na Egiptyanskata narodnost, Article 18, p. 11.
22 For more on the cult of St George and its dissemination among Roma in the Balkans,
see Elena Marushiakova and Vesselin Popov, Gypsies (Roma) in Bulgaria (Frankfurt:
Peter Lang, 1997), pp. 136-37; Elsie Ivančić Dunin, Gypsy St. George‘s Day – Coming of
Summer. Romski Gjurgjovden. Romano Gjurgjovdani-Erdelezi. Skopje, Macedonia 1967-1997
(Skopje: Združenie na ljubiteli na romska folklorna umetnost “Romano ilo”, 1998);
Trajko Petrovski, Kalendarskite obichai kaj Romite vo Skopje i okolinata [Calendar Customs
of the Roma in Skopje and Surroundings] (Skopje: Feniks, 1993), pp. 142-47; and Tatomir
Vukanović, Romi (cigani) u Jugoslaviji [Roma (Gypsies) in Yugoslavia] (Vranje: Štamparija
„Nova Jugoslavija“, 1983), pp. 276-79.
23 Elena Marushiakova and Vesselin Popov, “The Vanished Kurban: Modern Dimensions
of the Celebration of Kakava/Hidrellez Among the Gypsies in Eastern Thrace (Turkey)”,
in Kurban on the Balkans, ed. by Bilijana Sikimić and Petko Hristov (Belgrade: Institute of
Balkan Studies, 2007), pp. 33-50.
24 Some of them even have two names: one Muslim and one Christian. Such inter-religious
names among the Roma are documented from Ottoman times, e.g. in the tax register
of 1522-1523 (Marushiakova and Popov, Gypsies in the Ottoman Empire, pp. 30-31). This
practice of using inter-religious names in Bulgaria was reinforced after the break-up of the
Ottoman Empire, which resulted in several waves of forced name changes from Muslim
Vidin were Muslims: the fact that a Christian saint is on the organisation’s
stamp shows that voluntary conversion to the new official religion (Orthodox
Christianity) in the independent Bulgarian state had not only begun, but
was already advanced. Nowadays, the conversion is complete: all Roma in
Vidin are Christians, the memory of their previous religion is faint and for
many it has already disappeared.25
To date, the Statute of the Egyptian Nation in the Town of Vidin is the only
known piece of historical evidence supporting the existence of this first
Roma organisation. It can be assumed that the organisation existed for only
a relatively short period of time; soon after its establishment, a period of
hosilities and conflicts began, which included two Balkan wars (1912-1913)
and World War I, with the result that many Roma men were mobilised as
part of the Bulgarian army and its military operations.26
Roma organisations and newspapers between

the two World Wars
Two sources discovered 2007 and 2008 enable us to outline the development
of the Roma movement in Bulgaria from the end of World War I to the
mid-1950s.27 A 1957 book manuscript by Shakir Pashov reveals a number of
important phases of this evolution in the first half of the twentieth century.
Although the title of the manuscript, Istoriya na tsiganite v Balgaria i v Evropa:
“Roma” [A History of the Gypsies in Bulgaria and in Europe: “Roma”], uses the
term “Roma” in inverted commas as the designation for the community,
the rest of the text employs the Bulgarian word Tsigani.28 The information
to Bulgarian Christian ones. Even today we can observe the practice of using double
names, as in a Rom with both a Muslim and a Christian name. See Hristo Kyuchukov,
My Name Was Hyussein (Honesdale, PA: Boyds Mills Press, 2004); Marushiakova and
Popov, Gypsies (Roma) in Bulgaria; Ulrich Büchsenschütz, Maltsinstvenata politika v
Balgaria. Politika na BKP kam evrei, romi, pomatsi i turtsi 1944-1989 [The Minority Policies
of the Bulgarian Communist Party towards Jews, Roma, Pomaks and Turks (1944-89)] (Sofia:
IMIR, 2000); and Plamena Stoyanova, “Preimenuvane na tsiganite: myusyulmani v
Balgariya [Renaming of the Roma: Muslims in Bulgaria]”, in XVII Kyustendilski chtenia
2010, ed. by Christo Berov (Sofia: Istoricheski Fakultet, SU “Climent Ohridski” and
Regionalen istoricheski muzei Kyustendil, 2012), pp. 252-68.
25 Marushiakova and Popov, Gypsies (Roma) in Bulgaria, pp. 89-90.
26 For a discussion of the scale of Roma participation in the Bulgarian army, see Velcho
Krastev and Evgenia Ivanova, Ciganite po patishtata na voynata [Gypsies on the Road of the
War] (Stara Zagora: Litera Print, 2014).
27 EAP067/1/6; ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C 4 a-d.
28 The manuscript was digitised in frames for our EAP067 project (EAP067/1/11); ASR,
we glean from this manuscript can be combined with insights provided

by Shakir Pashov’s partially-preserved (the first page is missing), signed
“Autobiography”, stored in his family archives and dated 1967.29
Shakir Mahmudov Pashov was born on 20 October 1898 in the village of
Gorna Bania (today a neighbourhood of Sofia). His whole, often turbulent,
life was dedicated to the Roma movement. He graduated from the railway
workers’ school, was conscripted into the Bulgarian army during World War
I and was wounded several times (Fig. 7.2). After his return from the War in
1919, according to his book manuscript and autobiography, he founded the
“Bulgarian Communist Party among Gypsies” group in Sofia and served there
as its secretary. He was employed by the Bulgarian State Railways until 1919,
when he was fired for his involvement in the Communist-organised railway
strike that paralysed the whole country.30
Fig. 7.2 Shakir Pashov as a soldier (EAP067/1/2/4, image 4), Public Domain.
Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 1-216.

29 EAP067/1/6.
30 Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C 4 d.; see also Lilyana Kovacheva, Shakir Pashov. O Apostoli e
Romengoro [Shakir Pashov: The Apostle of the Roma] (Sofia: Kham 2003).
In Pashov’s book manuscript, we read that on his initiative, a “Gypsy

committee” was formed in 1919. This committee met Prime Minister Alexander
Stamboliyski from the Bulgarian Agrarian Union (BAP) with a request for
the reinstatement of Roma voting rights, which had been nullified by the
Election Law of 1901.31 On 2 December 1919, the National Assembly passed
a new electoral law introducing compulsory voting for all Bulgarian citizens;
in practice, this law eliminated restrictions on the Roma’s voting rights. It
was also in 1919 that, according to Pashov’s manuscript, a Druzhestvo Egipet
(“Society ‘Egypt’” in Bulgarian) was established in which “the majority of
the Gypsy intelligentsia and all the progressive youth” of Sofia participated.
The main tasks of the society were “to raise the cultural and educational level
of the society members and of the whole Gypsy minority, and most of all,
to work to raise political and public awareness of the Gypsy minority”.32 A
few months later, however, the General Assembly of the Society “Egypt”
decided to merge with the Bulgarian Communist Party.33
In the Bulgarian archives there are no materials concerning the creation
or registration of a public organisation called the Society “Egypt”. However,
there is the statute of an association, approved by the Ministry of the Interior
and Public Health on 2 August 1919,34 named Sofiyskata obshto myusulmansko
prosvetno-kulturno vzaimospomagatelna organizacia “Istikbal-Badeshte” (Sofia’s
Common Moslem Educational and Cultural Mutual Aid Organisation
“Istikbal-Future”). The chair of this association was Yusein Mekhmedov and
its secretary was none other than Shakir Mahmudov Pashov. The association
that Pashov calls the Society “Egypt” in his book manuscript is in fact the
Sofia Common Moslem Educational and Cultural Mutual Aid Organisation
“Istikbal”. Pashov intentionally changed a wording which included the attribute
“Moslem” to something more neutral. The manuscript was written at a time
when the Bulgarian Communist Party was fighting against the “Turkisation
of Gypsies”, and so Pashov considered it inappropriate to attract attention
to his past activites in connection with Islam.35
31 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 101-102. For more details on the suspension of the
electoral rights of the majority of Roma in Bulgaria in 1901, and the struggles to defend
their constitutional rights, see Marushiakova and Popov, Gypsies (Roma) in Bulgaria, pp.
29-30.
32 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 99-100.
33 Ibid.
34 TsDA: Fund 1Б, op. 8, а.е. 596, l. 69. See also: Nyagulov, Blagovest, “Iz istoriyata na
tsiganite/romite v Balgaria (1878-1944) [From the History of Gypsies/Roma in Bulgaria
(1878-1944)]”, in Integratsia na romite v balgarskoto obshtestvo [Integration of the Roma in
Bulgarian Society], ed. by Velina Topalova and Aleksey Pamporov (Sofia: Institut po
sotsiologia pri BAN, 2007), pp. 24-42.
35 For more details, see Elena Marushiakova and Vesselin Popov, “Zigeunerpolitik und
However, in the 1919 statute, the words “Gypsy” or “Gypsies” do not

appear once in connection with the Istikbal. From this statute it is clear
that the Roma of Sofia (majority Muslim at that time) intended to use this
organisation to acquire control of the mosque and waqf (Islamic religious
endowment) properties in the capital city, manoeuvres which the local
Islamic leaders resisted. The organisation filed a number of lawsuits in its
attempt to acquire control of these assets. Indeed, the court proceedings
and litigations dragged on for more than a year, but the case was eventually
dismissed by the Supreme Administrative Court, and the organisation had,
in the meantime, changed its name (see below).36
In the 1920s and early 1930s, Pashov was very active politically. In 1922
he was a delegate to the Congress of the Communist Party, and in 1924 he
was elected municipal councillor as a member of the United Front, a coalition
between the Communist Party and the left wing of the Bulgarian Agrarian
People’s Party.37 Following the St Nedelya Church assault — a Bulgarian
Communist Party terrorist attack carried out on 16 April 1925 — Pashov was
arrested.38 Several months after his arrest, in the midst of the subsequent state
political terror, he emigrated to Turkey.39 He returned to Bulgaria in 1929 and
became an active member of the Bulgarian Workers’ Party (an organisation
linked to the then-illegal Communist Party). As such, he was involved in
the municipal election campaign of 1931. During this time, Pashov was also
employed as a mechanic at the Municipal Technical Workshop until he was
dismissed in 1935 because of his involvement in a political strike. He then
opened a small private iron workshop.40
Although the association statute states that the Istikbal was established
in 1919, Pashov claims in his manuscript and autobiograpy to have founded
the organisation on 7 May 1929, with a membership of 1,500 people. In
1930 it absorbed several other Roma organisations of different kinds, such
as mutual aid, cultural, educational and sport societies.41 The organisation
Zigeunerforschung in Bulgarien (1919-1989)”, in Zwischen Erziehung und Vernichtung.

Zigeunerpolitik und Zigeunerforschung im Europa des 20. Jahrhunderts, ed. by Michael
Zimmermann (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2007), pp. 132-33.
36 TsDA: Fund 264k, op. 2, а.е. 8413, l. 1-3,6, 14; See also: Nyagulov, “Iz istoriyata na
tsiganite/romite v Balgaria”, p.36
38 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C 4a.
39 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 101-10; ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C 4a.
40 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C 4a.; ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 101-10.
41 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 101-10, ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C 4a. This is also
confirmed in a statement from the Blagoev Regional Council regarding the “Personal
People’s Pension” issued to Pashov in 1967 (ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C 5a, 5b).
then changed its name to Obsht mohamedano-tsiganski natsionalen kulurno-

prosveten i vzaimospomagatelen sayuz v Balgaria (Common Mohammedan-Gypsy
National, Cultural, Educational and Mutual Aid Union in Bulgaria).42 The
word “Gypsy” is thus already present in the new name. Pashov himself
headed this new organisation and also started publishing a newspaper called
Terbie [Upbringing].43 According to Shakir Pashov’s book manuscript, “the
progressive youth united […] the organisations under one common name: the
Istikbal”.44 Once again Pashov retrospectively changed the organisation’s name
in order to avoid the adjective “Mohammedan”, concealing its connection
with Islam.
On 7 May 1932, a conference was held in the city of Mezdra, attended by
Roma from different cities in northwest Bulgaria. At this conference, it was
decided to open up the Istikbal, which until then had been an association
exclusively for Roma residents of Sofia, to all Gypsies living in Bulgaria,
and to distribute the newspaper Terbie throughout the country.45 Two years
later, however, the organisation was banned and the newspaper closed.
This was not a specific anti-Gypsy measure: the new pro-fascist government
of Kimon Georgiev — which came to power following a military coup on
19 May 1934 — disbanded all political parties, trade unions and minority
organisations, closing all their publications. Every attempt by Pashov to
restore the organisation was unsuccessful.
After 1934, Pashov continued his political and cultural activities, albeit in
different forms. He agitated with the Roma community to end the custom
of Baba Hakkı (Turkish for “father rights”, i.e. bride price), created a Roma
support association for funerals and established an informal Roma club,
headquartered in the famous pub By Keva (Keva was the name of a very popular
Gypsy singer and dancer of the time).46 In 1935, he organised a delegation
comprised of Roma men and women wearing traditional shalvary (Islamic
trousers) to greet the newborn Crown Prince Simeon at the King’s palace.
On 3 March 1938, Pashov organised a ball for the Roma in an urban casino in
the garden of the National Theatre, with musical and dance performances of
42 TsDA: Fund 264k, op. 2, а.е. 8413, l. 7-12, 14, 28-29

43 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 101-10. The newspaper Terbie was published in Sofia
from 1933-1934; the preserved copies are: ann. I, No. 1; ann. II, No. 2-7.
46 Ibid. For more on the famous pub By Keva, see Dragan Tenev, Tristakhilyadna Sofiya i
az mezhdu dvete voini [Three Hundred Thousand’s Sofia and Me Between Two Wars] (Sofia:
Balgarski pisatel, 1997), pp. 225-27 and 233-35; and Raina Kostentseva, Moyat roden grad
Sofia. V kraya na XIX nachaloto na XX vek i sled tova [My Home City of Sofia: At the End of the
19th Century, the Beginning of the 20th Century and After] (Sofia: Riva, 2008), p. 148.
the Arabian Nights. He personally invited Tsar Boris III, who did not attend
but did send an envelope of money for the “poor Gypsies”.47
The account of the early history of the Bulgarian Roma movement in
Pashov’s manuscript and autobiography cannot be regarded as entirely reliable:
there are several differences between the two texts, and some discrepancies
with other sources. We already mentioned the inconsistency between the
dates given for the establishment of the Istikbal — 1919 according to the
statute, a decade later according to Pashov.48 The State Archives, however,
do not contain any references to the registration of the Istikbal at this later
date, whereas they do provide supporting evidence for its creation in 1919.
We also indicated the intentional names changes of Pashov’s organisations.
In addition to the organisation’s statute, the State Archives preserve a letter
from 10 July 1934 in which the the Ministry of the Interior and Public Health
rejects its request for registration because “the Gypsy-Moslems in Bulgaria
are organised under foreign influence”.49
These “errors” in Pashov’s manuscript and in his autobiography are not
random. Pashov recounts the organisation’s development in accordance with
the Communist ideology of the time. For example, the newspaper Terbie is
described in Pashov’s manuscript as having been published on behalf of the
Istikbal, whereas his autobiography associates it with the workers in the tobacco
industry.50 The latter claim is clearly false, as the headings of the preserved
issues of the newspaper clearly state that the newspaper is published by
“the Mohammedan National Enlightenment and Cultural Organisation”,
or, from the sixth issue onwards, by “the Mutual Mohammedan National
Enlightenment and Cultural Union in Bulgaria”. Moreover, the newspaper
Terbie was published from 1933 to 1934. Consequently, and contrary to what
Pashov later claims, it would have been impossible to take the decision to
widen the newspaper’s distribution at the 1932 conference in Mezdra since the
newspaper did not at that time exist. Besides, the main problems discussed
on the pages of all issues of Terbie were the protracted conflicts and disputes
over the management of waqf properties and the admission or exclusion of
Roma Muslims as mosque trustees.
In the same way, Pashov probably exaggerated his participation in political
struggles as a member of the Communist Party. For example, he claimed to

48 Ibid.
49 TsDA: Fund 264k, op. 2, а.е. 8413, l. 1-3,6, 14; see also: Nyagulov, “Iz istoriyata na
tsiganite/romite v Balgaria”, p. 36
50 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 99-100; and ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C 4a, 4b.
have been on the electoral list of the Communist Party for seats in the Bulgarian
Parliament in the 1920s, among the leadership of the Workers’ Party in Sofia
in the 1930s, and a resistance fighter in the 1940s. There are no documents
in police archives to confirm Pashov’s claims, but there is evidence in the
protocols and annual reports of local party organisations, and in letters of
recommendation, indicating that his participation was more limited.51
In fact, Pashov’s approach to the preparation of his manuscript — his
exaggerations, omissions and inaccuracies — was a response to the situation
in Bulgaria at that time. Most probably he hoped to arrange publication
of his book, although no correspondence with publishers or other sources
has been unearthed to provide evidence for this. Under the conditions of
a totalitarian state in which Communist Party control was comprehensive,
any manuscript involving the history of the Communist Party would need
to undergo an extensive review process by Party committees and editorial
and censorship boards in order to be published. To fulfil these requirements,
Pashov presumably chose to highlight his commitment and that of his
organisations to the Communist Party, while concealing other key aspects
of their activities.
Roma organisations and newspapers under

Communist rule
In this section, we will illustrate the next stage in the development of the
Roma movement by way of the difficult transformations sustained by the
Roma organisations led by Pashov under Communist rule. The main archival
sources we discuss are connected with the statute of the United General
Cultural Organisation of Gypsy Minorities “Ekhipe” (referred to subsequently
as the Ekhipe [Unity])52 and the newspaper Romano esi [Roma Voice].53
On 9 September 1944, after the Red Army entered Bulgaria, a new
government dominated by the Communist Bulgarian Workers’ Party was
established. After several transitional years, all power was seized by the
Communist Party, and the construction of a new type of society, the socialist
state, began. In this new political situation, Roma communties became the
51 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”. Numerous documents of this kind are preserved in the ASR
and are currently being processed.
52 EAP285/1/1; ASR Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. K 1-5. The statute is not dated, but was
probably prepared in 1945 or 1946; see also the text below.
53 EAP067/7/1-9; ASR Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f.I.
object of targeted state policy. They did not present an issue of paramount
importance for the Bulgarian state — which had to solve many more urgent
and significant socio-political and economic problems — but nevertheless
their place in public policy is notable.54
For a relatively short period of time (from 1945 to 1950), the leading
political line was to promote the Roma as an equal ethnic community
within the Bulgarian nation and to encourage their active involvement in the
construction of a new socialist society. This policy was in direct correlation
with the so-called “korenizatsiia” (“indigenisation”) conducted in the USSR
in the 1920s and 1930s — a strategy which aimed to support and develop the
identity, culture, mother tongue and education of various ethnic communties,
and which ended with the adoption of the new Soviet Constitution of 1936,
also known as the Stalin’s constitution.55
In the case of Bulgaria, the promotion of Roma ethnicity in the first years of
Communist rule was certainly inspired by the Soviet “indigenisation” policy.
It is also likely to have stemmed, however, from the personal relationship
between Shakir Pashov and Georgi Dimitrov, the famous Communist leader
and Premier of the People’s Republic of Bulgaria (1946-1949). Pashov himself
describes the history of his friendship with Georgi Dimitrov as follows:
During the 1923 election for Members of Parliament, among the candidates
was also Comrade Georgi Dimitrov, who visited the polls of the Third District
electoral station [...] and for a moment the opposition gang rushed at him with
fists, but our party group, present as agitators, immediately pounced and got
their hands off Dimitrov, as other comrades also arrived. We accompanied
them to the tram and he [Dimitrov] said to me: “Shakir, when the day comes
when we gain power, you will be the greatest man, and lay a carpet for me
from the station to the palace”. And look, the glorious date 9 September 1944
arrived and it came true; I became a deputy in the Grand National Assembly,
nurtured by the ideas of the Party, because my whole life passed in struggle for
the triumph of Marxist ideas and in antifascist activities from 1919 to today”.56
54 Marushiakova and Popov, “Zigeunerpolitik und Zigeunerforschung in Bulgarien”, pp.

151-52.
55 For more on the policy of “korenizatsiia”, see Gerhard Simon, Die nichtrussischen Völker in
Gesellschaft und Innenpolitik der UdSSR (Cologne: Bundesinstitut für Ostwissenschaftliche
und Internationale Studien, 1979); and A State of Nations: Empire and Nation-Making in
the Age of Lenin and Stalin, ed. by Ronald G. Suny and Terry Martin (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2002). For more on the policy towards the Roma in the Soviet Union
in the same period, see Marushiakova and Popov, “Soviet Union Before World War II”,
Factsheets on Roma, Council of Europe, 2008, http://romafacts.uni-graz.at/index.php/
history/second-migration-intensified-discrimination/soviet-union-before-world-war-ii
56 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C4.
After a short period of belatedly emulating the Soviet “indigenisation”

policy, and after the death of Georgi Dimitrov, the Bulgarian state gradually
returned to its former pattern of policies which underestimated or neglected
Roma issues.57
While the“indigenisation” policy was still current, however, an initiative of
the Central Committee of the Bulgarian Communist Party led to the creation,
on 6 March 1945, of the Ekhipe organisation in the Roma neighbourhood of
Tatarly in Sofia. 58 Pashov was elected as chairman of the Ekhipe’s central
committee. The Central State Archive in Bulgaria preserves a draft of a statute
belonging to the organisation.59 It is undated, but was probably prepared in
1945 or 1946, since the newspaper Romano esi reported on the organisation’s
approval by the Minister of the Interior in 1946.60 Some statements in this
document are particularly interesting, because they differ from — and even
contradict — Soviet policy, thereby demonstrating the creativity of the
Bulgarian Roma:
Paragraph 1. The United Gypsy Organisation in Bulgaria incorporates all
Gypsies who belong to the Worldwide Gypsy Organisation and are members
of the local societies of the United Gypsy Organisation in Bulgaria where they
pay their membership fees.
Paragraph 2. The United Gypsy Organisation in Bulgaria is the legitimate

representative of the Gypsy movement in the country and before the Worldwide
Gypsy Organisation. All members of the organisation are Gypsies over 18
years of age, of Islamic or Orthodox religion, without discrimination on the
basic of gender or social status.
Paragraph 3. The United Gypsy Organisation has the following tasks:

А) To struggle against Fascism, as well as anti-Gypsy and racist prejudices;
B) To raise Gypsy national sentiment and consciousness among Bulgarian
Gypsies; C) To introduce the Gypsy language to the Gypsy masses as a spoken
57 Marushiakova and Popov, “Zigeunerpolitik und Zigeunerforschung in Bulgarien”, pp.

151-52. This is not a paradox: eastern European countries de facto did not follow the
same principles in matters of internal policy. While there was superficial unity on the
ideological level, since each country adhered to the “principles of Marxism-Leninism”,
in practice each country interpreted these principles in its own way and conducted its
own national policy, including its policy towards the Roma population.
58 Evidence of this can be gleaned from a report by the Chair of the Department “Masses“
to the central committee of the Communist Party regarding the need to establish Gypsy
organisations (SAA-TsDA, 1Б, 25, 71). The creation of the Ekhipe is also described in
Pashov’s manuscript, see ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 121-24.
59 SAA-TsDA, 1Б, 8, 596; for a digitised copy of this statute, see ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”,
f. K 1-5.
60 Romano esi, 1946, No. 1.
and written language; […] E) To acquaint the Bulgarian Gypsy minority with
Gypsy spiritual, social and economic culture; [...] I) To illuminate Bulgarian
public opinion about the needs of the Gypsy population; K) To create a sense of
striving among Gypsies towards developing a national home on their own land.
As can be clearly seen from the draft statute quoted above, its author(s),
presumably Pashov himself, articulate a number of specific objectives for the
new organisation, reflecting an attempt to promote equality for the Roma in
Bulgarian society. However, it is not clear what is meant by the “Worldwide
Gypsy Organisation”, since no such organisation existed at that time. Statements
of this sort may indicate that Pashov had a strategic plan to lay the foundations
for a global organisation uniting the Roma worldwide. He may have even
considered the creation of a separate, independent Roma state.
All these visions, however, are excluded from Pashov’s book manuscript,
which is understandable given that the book was written later, when
the policy of the Bulgarian state towards the Roma had changed and the
internationalisation of the Roma movement was considered undesirable. A
comparison of the aims in the draft statute to the actual development of his
organisation in the coming years demonstrates that political realities forced
Pashov to abandon his ideas of global unity for the Roma and to focus his
efforts on solving the particular problems of the Roma in Bulgaria.
Fig. 7.3 Roma youth preparing a sample of the future alphabet

The draft statute for the Ekhipe organisation specifies public symbols,
particularly a flag and an official holiday. Article 59 decrees the holiday to
be 7 May (that is, the day after the St George festivities) and the flag to be red
with two white fields and a triangle in the middle. In line with the effort to
create a Roma flag and an official holiday — symbols which are characteristic
of all nation-states — was the attempt to create a national Roma alphabet,
distinct from the Bulgarian one (Fig. 7.3).
We have collected numerous narratives from all over Bulgaria describing
these endeavours, but we were able to find only one source documenting
them: a photograph from this period which shows Roma youth preparing
a sample of the future alphabet.61 Among the youth activists in this photo,
we identified Sulyo Metkov, Yashar Malikov and Tsvetan Nikolov, who
were also active in the Roma movement in later years. Moreover, the new
organisation started publishing the newspaper Romano esi, with Pashov as
editor-in-chief. The first issue appeared on 25 February 1946.62
The Ekhipe’s draft statute clearly shows that it was founded not by
government initiative, but by the Roma themselves. The document gives
no indication of a political commitment to any socio-political formation,
but the organisation was to become politicised very quickly nonetheless.
Immediately after 9 September 1944, Pashov himself became involved in
the activities of the Fatherland Front.63 As articles in Romano esi document,
a Roma section of the Fatherland Front was established, and Pashov was
elected its chairman. He ran agitation campaigns for the inclusion of
the Roma and for their participation in the election of a Grand National
Assembly, held on 27 October 1946. Some photographs illustrating his
agitation campaigns are preserved in Pashov’s family archive.64
On 28 February 1947, a letter from the “All Gypsy Cultural Organisation”
(another name used for the Ekhipe) to the regional committee of the Fatherland
Front was discussed at a meeting of the Politburo of the Central Committee
of the Bulgarian Workers’ Party.65 The letter proposed the appointment of
Pashov as a representative of the Roma minority in Sofia in the upcoming
election on 27 October (i.e. the letter was only discussed several months
61 ASR, Fund “Roma activists”, J31.

62 These events are also described in Pashov’s book manuscript. See ASR, Fund “Shakir
Pashov”, f. E. 121-22. The digitised frames of our EAP issues of Romano esi are in the ASR,
Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. I. and EAP067/7/1/1-9.
63 The Fatherland Front was a resistance movement active during World War II. After the
war, it joined the ruling party coalition dominated by the Bulgarian Communist Party,
and later it morphed into a mass movement controlled by the authorities.
64 All photographs of Pashov’s social and political activities from his family archive were
digitised for the EAP067 project and can be viewed at http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.
a4d?projID=EAP067 and also in the ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, A1-57.
65 All documents connected to the appointment of Pashov as a representative of the Roma
minority in Sofia are preserved in SAA-TsDA, 1Б, 6, 235. The events described are not
discussed in Pashov’s book manuscript.
after the election). The letter itself was written on behalf of the “Common
Organisation of the Gypsy Minority for Combating Fascism and Racism”,
which is yet another name for the Ekhipe. Such discrepancies over the exact
name of this Gypsy organisation are also found in many other sources,
preserved in the Fund of State Agency Archives.66 According to this letter,
a conference which brought together the chairs of the different sections
(occupational unions) of the organisation, including fourteen delegates
representing 300 members, took the following decision:
Because of today’s Fatherland Front government, after 9 September 1944
wider and greater freedom was given to the Bulgarian people, and mostly
to the national minorities, such as we are, who in the past were treated like
cattle and not respected as people. In today’s democratic government we must
emphasise that we value our freedom, and must morally and materially, even
at the expenses of our lives, give support to the Fatherland Front, the only
defender [...] of national minorities. That’s why we all [...] in the upcoming
crucial moments [...] have to appoint our representative to represent the Roma
minority in the Grand National Assembly.
A secret ballot was conducted and Pashov was elected as the Roma
representative. For the discussion of this letter at the meeting of the Politburo,
two other documents are of use and relate to Pashov: his autobiographical
statement and an attestation made by the district committee of the Communist
Party. In the autobiographical statement, Pashov writes that since 1918 he had
been a member of the Bulgarian Social Democratic Workers’ Party (Narrow
Socialists), which subsequently developed into the Bulgarian Communist
Party, and that he had actively participated in its political struggles for more
than two decades. The attestation confirms his participation in the Communist
movement and also notes that he was arrested on two occasions (in 1923
and 1925), and that subsequently his membership was suspended. A special
emphasis is placed on the influence which Pashov has among the Roma and
on the fact that he “is considered as the honest one in midst of this minority”,
“progressive and with relatively higher culture”, and promising “if it comes
to selecting a candidate from Gypsy minority” since “[one] more appropriate
than he does not exist”.67 The attestation also states that with the inclusion of
Pashov as a Member of Parliament, “the party can only win since it will raise
the party in the eyes of the Gypsy minority and the party will become firmly
66 SAA-TsDA, 1Б, 6, 235.

67 Attestation signed by Ya. Petkov, secretary of Region III of the Workers’ Party. In: SAA-
TsDA, 1Б, 6, 235, l.9.
rooted among the Gypsy minority”.68 Based on the documents submitted,

the Politburo took the following decision: “[...] 2. Comrade Dimitar Ganev
to resign as MP. To recommend to the next comrades on the list [...] to resign
in order to enable the entry into the Grand National Assembly of Comrade
Shakir Pashev69 (a Gypsy)”.
Fig. 7.4 Shakir Pashov (centre) as a Member of Parliament with voters

As a member of the Grand National Assembly, Pashov worked on the

new constitution of the People’s Republic of Bulgaria (called Dimitrov’s
Constitution), adopted on 4 December 1947. It prohibited the propagation
68 Ibid.
69 Some Party documents refer to Pashov as “Pashev”.
of any racial, national or religious hatred (Art. 72), and stipulated (Art. 79)
that “national minorities have the right to learn their mother tongue and
to develop their national culture”. As a Member of Parliament and leader
of the Roma organisation, Pashov was very active (Fig. 7.4). He toured the
country, campaigned among the Roma for their engagement in public and
political life and pushed for the creation of Roma workers’ cooperatives (such
as the “Carry and Transport” association of porters and carters in Sofia).
He also helped to overcome the tension in Ruse resulting from exclusion
of Roma from the management of waqf properties, and to resolve internal
conflict among Roma in the village of Golintsi (today the neighbourhood
of Mladenovo in Lom).70
One of Pashov’s main aims was the development of Gypsy organisations
in Bulgaria. He initiated the establishment of new branches of the Ekhipe,
which until then had only been for the Roma of Sofia, and in short order
approximately ninety branches of the organisation appeared in various towns.71
The support of the ruling Communist regime was crucial to achieving this. In
July 1947, a special circular of the National Council of the Fatherland Front
was distributed.72 On the basis of articles 71 and 72 of the new constitution,
the circular instructed all local authorities and party organisations to support
the creation of Roma cultural and educational associations in every village or
town where there were at least ten Roma families living.
Local Roma organisations were officially considered to be substructures
of the united Ekhipe, though in practice they had autonomy from its central
leadership. They were not, however, independent of the Communist Party.
The dynamic is clear from the extensive collection of documents of the main
Communist Party organisation Istiklyal in Varna (and the particular Roma
neighbourhood of Mikhail Ivanov), members of which created their own
branch of the Cultural and Educational Society Istiklyal.73 The numerous
documents, letters, protocols, minutes and decisions of these two Roma
organisations outline their activities and their close links to (and de facto
dependence on) city and regional Communist Party leadership. There is
no evidence, however, of their maintaining any relations with the Ekhipe.
In 1947, at the instigation of Pashov and with his active support as a
Member of Parliament, the “First Gypsy School” in Sofia was built in the
70 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C 4b, 4c. The attestation of Shakir Pashov, made by the
District Committee of the Communist Party to confirm his activities. See SAA-SAB, 109,
1, 42.
71 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 121-24; and SAA-SAB, 109, 1, 42.
72 Circular No. 3118 SAA-SAB, 109, 1, 42.
73 SAA-SAV, 1440.
Roma neighbourhood of Fakultet. The elders of the neighbourhood still

remember these events and the school remains in operation. In his speech
at the opening of the school, Pashov said:
We must express our gratitude to the Government of the People’s Republic
of Bulgaria, which treats us as equal citizens. Before 9 September, nobody
considered us as people […] but after 9 September 1944, the Government of
the Fatherland Front gave us complete freedom and made us equal with other
citizens. It gave us complete freedom for cultural progress.74
In 1947, following the example of the famous Soviet Romen Theatre,75 the
“Central Gypsy Musical Artistic Roma Theatre” was founded under Pashov’s
leadership.76 After a personal meeting with Georgi Dimitrov, then head of the
Bulgarian state, Pashov secured from the state budget two million Bulgarian
lev for the theatre.77
With Pashov as director, the Roma Theatre regularly put on performances in
Sofia and toured around the country, presenting productions which included
the unpublished play “White Gypsy”, authored by Pashov himself.78 Bulgarian
National Radio regularly broadcast Roma music, and on St Basil’s Day a
special programme was aired to celebrate the so-called “Gypsy New Year”.79
Pashov enjoyed great popularity among the Roma in Bulgaria, as evidenced
by a poem written in the spirit of the era by a Rom, Alia Ismailov, and
published in Romano esi. It ends with the verse: “... Da zhivee Stalin, Tito,
Dimitrov / i drugariat Shakir Mahmudov Pashov! (Long live Stalin, Tito, Dimitrov
/ and Comrade Shakir Mahmudov Pashov!)”.80 In 1948, Pashov’s popularity
reached its peak, as did the Roma movement during the period of Communist
rule. On 2 May 1948, at its national conference, the Ekhipe confirmed its
74 Büchsenschütz, Maltsinstvenata politika v Balgaria, p. 48; see also ASR, Fund “Shakir
Pashov”, f. C 4; and ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. I, 10-4.
75 The Romen Theatre (Moskovskii muzykal’no-dramaticheskii teatr “Romen”), founded in 1931
in Moscow, is the oldest and most famous of Roma theatres. It became a symbol of high
Roma culture. See Alaina Lemon, “Roma (Gypsies) in the Soviet Union and the Moscow
Teatr ‘Romen’”, in Gypsies: An Interdisciplinary Reader, ed. by Diane Tong (New York:
Garland, 1998), pp. 147-66.
76 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 127-29. The activites of Roma theatre were featured in
the newspaper Romano esi, mostly through the publishing of posters and advertisements
of performances. See ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. I, 1-1, 2-2, 6-2.
77 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. C 4.
78 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, not digitised.
79 ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E 127-29. For more on the significance of St Basil’s Day
for the Roma in Bulgaria, see Marushiakov and Popov, Gypsies (Roma) in Bulgaria, p. 130;
idem, Roma Culture in Past and Present (Sofia: Paradigma, 2012), pp. 12-13; and idem,
“Roma Culture”, Factsheets on Roma, Council of Europe, 2012, http://romafacts.uni-graz.
at/index.php/culture/introduction/roma-culture
80 Romano esi, 1948, No. 10, p. 4.
commitment to the policy of the Fatherland Front, which by this time had
become a mass public organisation led by the Communist Party (Fig. 7.5).
Fig. 7.5 Shakir Pashov (centre) with participants at the national conference
of the Ekhipe (EAP067/1/1/1), Public Domain.
With the active support of the authorities, the creation of new local Roma
organisations continued after the Ekhipe’s national conference, and they were
incorporated into the Fatherland Front as “Gypsy” sections.81 Linking with
the Fatherland Front, however, had unintended consequences for the Roma
organisations and for Pashov himself: it led to the end of the Bulgarian state’s
support for Roma ethnic affirmation. In the autumn of 1948, the National
Council of the Fatherland Front commissioned an assessment of the current
activities of the Roma organisations and of the Roma Theatre. In their prepared
statement we read:
“[...] The very establishment of the organisation is positive, because it comes
to satisfy blatant needs of the Gypsies for education. But from the outset it
was not on a sound footing, lacking any connection at all with the Fatherland
Front Committees. It is for this reason that the Gypsy organisation launched
an improper policy and worked along their Gypsy, minority line. Left to
81 For more details see Marushiakova and Popov, “Zigeunerpolitik und Zigeunerforschung
in Bulgarien”.
itself without the control of the Fatherland Committees and their immediate
help, the organisation was systematically ill [...] On 2 May 1948, without
asking the opinion of the National Council of the Fatherland Front, a national
conference of the Gypsy minority in Bulgaria was held at which a Central
Initiative Committee was elected […] Among the leadership two currents
were established:
А) One stream was headed by MP Shakir Mahmudov Pashev, who
gathered around himself a set of the petite bourgeoisie; they
approved his actions and decisions uncritically.
B) The other stream was led by young communists who disagreed
with the philistine understandings of MP Pashev and mercilessly
criticised his deeds as unsystematic. [...]
Given the above, I have the following recommendations:

1. To carry out the reorganisation of the Central Initiative Committee,
since a committee for the Gypsy minority should be formed
which should be directly guided by the National Council of the
Fatherland Front.
2. To remove the county and city committees of the Cultural and
Educational Society of the Gypsy Minority and instead form Gypsy
commissions attached to the respective minority commissions of
the urban committees of the Fatherland Front. [...]
The Central Gypsy Theatre was set up in 1947-48 at the initiative of the
Cultural and Educational Society of the Gypsy Minority; however, it was not
established on the correct foundation, and because of that it is undergoing
complete collapse.82
As a consequence of these conclusions, the Theatre was suspended and its

future existence put in question. “Upon the request of the minority itself”,
the National Council of the Fatherland Front and its Minority Commission
convened a general conference, which reported on both the positive and
negative sides of the old management. A new leadership for the Roma
Theatre, headed by Mustafa/Lubomir Aliev, was selected and approved.83
The conference decided to put the Theatre under the auspices and direct
82 AMI, 13, 1, 759.

83 Mustafa Aliev (who changed his name to Manush Romanov during the so-called
“process of revival” in the 1980s) was born in 1927 in Sofia. He was active in the Workers’
Youth Union (a Communist Party youth organisation). In 1949 (at that time his name
was Lubomir Aliev), he became editor-in-chief of Romano esi, later called Nevo drom [New
Road], and director of the Roma Theatre. After the closure of the Theatre, Aliev worked for
many years as a local theatre director in the cities of Kurdjali, Montana and Kyustendil,
also finding employment with Bulgarian National Television. After the changes of 1989,
“Manush Romanov” became one of the founders (in May 1990) and chairmen of the
Democratic Union “Roma”. In 1990-1991 he was a Member of Parliament representing
the Union of Democratic Forces. He died in Turkey in 2004.
control of the Minority Commission in financial and administrative matters,

and in the hands of the Committee on Science, Art and Culture regarding
matters of artistic accomplishment.84
Pashov was dismissed from the leadership of the Roma Theatre on the
grounds of “financial and accounting irregularities in its management”.85 He
was also fired from his position as editor-in-chief of Romano esi. After the
tenth issue was printed in 1948, the letterhead of the newspaper identifies
Aliev as the head of the editorial board. This marks the begining of a long
struggle between Pashov and members of the “Saliko”, the local Roma branch
of the Communist Party, such as Tair Selimov, Aliev, Sulyo Metkov and
Angel Blagoev. The conflict expressed itself in letters containing unpleasant
accusations and sent to various authorities, in new convocations of committees
of the Fatherland Front, in new audits. Finally, a special comission of the
Central Committee of the Bulgarian Workers’ Party accused Pashov of
many misdemeanours, especially in relation to his former work as a Roma
activist before and during World War II — for example, his establishment
of a Muslim organisation in 1919 and his management during the war of
a charity in aid of Bulgarian officers and German soldiers. Finally, in the
autumn of 1949, the city committee of the renamed Bulgarian Communist
Party expelled Pashov from the Party.86
In the parliamentary elections of 18 December 1949, Pashov was replaced
by Petko Yankov Kostov of Sliven as the Roma representative in the National
Assembly.87 A few months later, the newspaper Nevo drom, which had replaced
Romano esi, contained the following official announcement:
The central leadership of the Cultural and Educational Society of the Gypsy
Minority in Bulgaria, after examining the activities of Shakir Mahmudov Pashev
at its meeting on 7 April this year [1950], took the following decisions:
For activity against the people before 9 September 1944 as an assistant
to the police and for corruption after this date as leader of the Gypsy
minority, Shakir Mahmudov Pashev is to be punished by being removed
from the position of president of the Cultural and Educational Society
of the Gypsy Minority in Bulgaria and permanently excluded from
the organisation’s ranks.
84 SAA-TsDA, 1Б.
85 Ibid. Sources on the struggle between Pashov and members of the “Saliko” (the local
branch of the Communist Party), including the letter of accusation, were preserved in the
Archive of the Bulgarian Communist Party (now non-existent) and are currently kept in
the State Agency Archives (SAA-TsDA, 1Б).
86 Marushiakova and Popov, Gypsies (Roma) in Bulgaria, p. 35; and idem, “Zigeunerpolitik
und Zigeunerforschung in Bulgarien”, p. 142.
87 Nevo drom, 1950, no. 3, p. 1.
Comrade Nikola Petrov Terzobaliev of Sliven is elected Chairman of the

Cultural and Educational Society of the Gypsy Minority in Bulgaria.88
Soon after this decision, Pashov was arrested and sent to the concentration
camp on the Danube island of Belene.89 His removal from the leadership of the
Roma organisations was followed by rapid changes in the Roma movement
as a whole. The local Roma organisations were disbanded and their members
absorbed into the regular territorial sections of the Fatherland Front, thus
losing their distinction as “Gypsy” sections.90
The Roma newspaper and Theatre suffered similar fates. Nevo drom published
its last issue in 1950. Although a proposal was put forward to dissolve the
Roma Theatre, Decision 389 of the secretariat of the Central Committee of the
Communist Party, dated 25 November 1949, recommended that the Roma Theatre
continue to exist with the status of a “semi-professional” theatre integrated into
the neighbourhood’s community centre. At that time, community centres were
organised according to ethnicity and corresponded to the specific make-up of
neighbourhoods. The Theatre ceased to exist in the 1950s.91
Pashov remained in the concentration camp until its closure on 1 January
1953. He was rehabilitated after the April Plenum of the Central Committee
of the Communist Party in 1956, during the course of which those accused
of so-called “cults of personality” and “perversions of the party line” were
convicted. In 1957, Pashov joined the leadership of the Roma community
reading centre “Ninth of September” in Sofia.92 He actively contributed to
the newspaper Neve Roma [New Roma] that the centre began to publish and
helped to create the Artistic Collective for Music, Songs and Dances “Roma”.93
88 Ibid.
89 Belene is the name of the first concentration camp for political prisoners in Bulgaria,
operating on Persin Island (Belene Island) in the period 1949-1989 (with a few
interruptions). Closed on 1 January 1953, it was rebuilt after the Hungarian events of
late 1956 and again closed on 27 August 1959. The camp was opened once more in the
mid-1980s, during the so-called “process of revival”, when many Turks were sent there.
For more details about Belene and its inmates including Pashov, see Gorchivi istini:
Svidetelstva za komunisticheskite represii [Bitter Truths: Evidence of Communist Repressions]
(Sofia: Tsentar za podpomagane na khora, prezhiveli iztezania, 2003).
90 Marushiakova and Popov, Gypsies (Roma) in Bulgaria, p. 35; and idem, “Zigeunerpolitik
und Zigeunerforschung in Bulgarien”, p. 142.
91 Ibid.
92 The community reading centre (Chtalishte in Bulgarian) is a typical Bulgarian public
institution which has existed from the nineteenth century to the present day. The
Chtalishte is a building which fulfills several functions at once, being a community centre,
library and theatre, as well as an educational centre where people of all ages can enroll in
foreign-language, dance, music and other courses.
Pashov’s resumed activism did not last long. Soon he was persecuted
again by the authorities, accused of “Gypsy nationalism” and, together with
his wife, interned for three years (1959-1962) in Rogozina, a village in the
Dobrich region (Fig. 7.6).94
Fig. 7.6 Shakir Pashov with his wife in Rogozina (EAP067/1/1/13), Orphan Work.
He was again rehabilitated in the second half the 1960s. In 1967 he was
granted the so-called personal pension, and in 1976 he received the high title
of “active fighter against fascism and capitalism” (Figs. 7.7 and 7.8).95 After
returning from internment in the Dobrich region, Pashov no longer took an
active part in public life, and his name disappeared from the public domain.
In the book Gypsy Population in Bulgaria on the Path to Socialism, published by
the National Council of the Fatherland Front in 1968, there is no mention of
Pashov or his activities.96
Shakir Pashov died on 5 October 1981 (Figs. 7.9 and 7.10).97
94 A photograph from Pashov’s life in Rogozina is preserved in his family archive. See ASR,
Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. A, 57.
95 For a digitised copy of Shakir Pashov’s ID with the title “active fighter against fascism
and capitalism”, see ASR, Fund “Shakir Pashov”, C 6 (see Fig. 7.8).
96 Dimitar Genov, Tair Tairov and Vasil Marinov, Tsiganskoto naselenie v NR Balgariya po
patya na sotsializma [Gypsy Population in the People’s Republic of Bulgaria on the Road to
Socialism] (Sofia: Natsionalen savet na Otechestveniya front, 1968).
97 Pashov’s digitised death certificate and obituary notices are kept in the ASR, Fund
“Shakir Pashov”, C7, C8, C 9 (see Figs. 7.9 and 7.10).
Fig. 7.7 Shakir Pashov as an honoured pensioner (EAP067/1/2/5), Orphan Work.
Fig. 7.8 Shakir Pashov’s card identifying him as an “active fighter

against fascism and capitalism” (EAP067/1/8), Public Domain.
Fig. 7.9 Obituary commemorating the six-month anniversary

of Shakir Pashov’s death (EAP067/1/9, image 2), Public Domain.
Fig. 7.10 Obituary commemorating the first full anniversary

of Shakir Pashov’s death (EAP067/1/9, image 3), Public Domain.
Roma churches and religious newspapers

Parallel to the events discussed above, the Roma movement in Bulgaria in
the 1930s and 1940s was marked by the rise of another new phenomenon:
the arrival of evangelicalism and the establishment of “Gypsy” evangelical
churches. In general, the establishment of the “new” churches of denominations
different from Eastern Orthodoxy and Islam had begun in the area as early
as the nineteenth century and continued under the new Bulgarian state.
Gradually an interest in the Roma arose among the missionaries. The first
successful mission among the Roma was in the village of Golintsi, the
present-day neighbourhood of Mladenovo in Lom. A legend is still recalled
by local Roma recounting the circumstances in which the “new faith” was
accepted. According to this story, a Rom found the New Testament in a bag
of maize which he stole from a Bulgarian. Being illiterate, the man gave the
holy book to another Rom called Petar Punchev, who could read and who
began to spread the word of Jesus among the Roma.98
In reality, two Roma pastors, Petar Punchev and Petar Minkov, pioneered
the establishment of Roma evangelical churches in Bulgaria. Punchev was
born in 1882 into a family of formerly nomadic Roma who had recently
settled in Golintsi. Between 1903 and 1910 he frequented the Baptist Home in
Lom, where he was baptised in 1910. He started preaching shortly thereafter
and, as a result of his activity, a separate Roma church gradually took shape,
first as a branch of the Lom church with 29 members. In 1923, Punchev was
officially ordained a pastor, and the Roma church assumed official status as
an organised church structure.99 In 1927, Punchev published the only issue
of the newspaper Svetilnik [Candlestick], with a supplement in the Roma
language (Romani) entitled Romano alav [Roma Word].100 This issue of the
newspaper includes the legend of the “stolen gospel” and reports on the
preparations of the Golintsi Roma women’s missionary society for the New
Year soirée. Evangelical texts in Romani were also published in the paper
under the heading Romano alav.
After Punchev’s death (the year of which is unknown), the Baptist church
in Lom made an unsuccessful attempt to annex the Roma church.101 Yet the
Roma church remained independent even though an ethnic Bulgarian, Petar
98 Marushiakova and Popov, Gypsies (Roma) in Bulgaria; and Magdalena Slavkova, Tsigani
evangelisti v Balgaria [Evangelical Gypsies in Bulgaria] (Sofia: Paradigma, 2007).
99 Slavkova, Tsigani evangelisti v Balgaria.
100 See EAP067/6/1 and in the ASR, Fund Newspapers, f. H.
101 Anonymous, Tsiganska evangelska baptistka tsarkva s. Golintsi [Gypsy Evangelical Baptist
Church in the Village of Golintsi] (Lom: Alfa, 1926).
Minkov, became its head.102 Minkov preached in the 1920s and 1930s among
the Roma in Golintsi, where he founded a Sunday school and where he opened
a new church building in 1930.103 He also published two miscellanies with
religious songs in Romani — Romane Svyato gili [Roma Holy Song] (1929) and
Romane Svyati Gilya [Roma Holy Songs] (1933) — as well as a second Gypsy
church newspaper in Bulgarian, Izvestiya na tsiganskata evangelska missiya
[Reports on the Gypsy Evangelical Mission] (1933). In 1933, Minkov left Golintsi
for Sofia, where he founded a school for illiterate Muslim Roma.104
In spite of the restrictive policy towards evangelical churches established
after the pro-fascist coup d’état of 1934, evangelical preaching among the Roma
continued and expanded into new regions, as illustrated by the publication
in Romani of the Gospels of Matthew and John,105 and of an entire cycle
of evangelical literature.106 Under Communist rule, the activities of Roma
churches were strongly limited and supervised by authorities, and so their
members gathered in private homes. After the breakdown of the socialist
system in eastern Europe, evangelicalism among the Roma rapidly recovered,
developed widely and became an important factor in the Roma movement.107
Postscript
We hope that this chapter has shown that the first half of the twentieth
century was a period of serious, even cardinal, changes in the social life
of the Roma communities of Bulgaria. It may be worth noting that similar
102 Ibid.
103 Slavkova, Tsigani evangelisti v Balgaria.
104 Ibid.
105 Atanas Atanasakiev, Somnal evangelie (ketapi) kataro Ioan [Holy Gospel (Book) of John]
(Sofia: Amerikansko Bibleisko druzhestvo & Britansko i chuzhdestranno Bibleisko
druzhestvo, 1932); and idem, Somnal evangelie (lil) Mateyatar [Holy Gospel (Book) of
Matthew] (Sofia: Amerikansko Bibleisko druzhestvo & Britansko i chuzhdestranno
Bibleisko druzhestvo, 1932).
106 Anonymous, Spasitel ashtal bezahanen [The Saviours Remained Without Sins] (London:
Scripture Gift Mission, [n.d.]); idem, Spasitelo svetosko [The Saviours of the World]
(London: Scripture Gift Mission, [n.d.]); Atanas Tatarev, Romane Somnal gilya [Romani
Holy Songs] (Sofia: Sayuz na balgarskite evangelski baptistki tsarkvi, 1936); idem, Shtar
bezsporne fakte [Four Indisputable Facts] (London: Scripture Gift Mission, [n.d.]); idem,
Barre pridobivke [Large Gains] (London: Scripture Gift Mission, [n.d.]); idem, Duvare
bianipe [Two Times Born] (Sofia: [n. pub.], 1933); idem, O Del vakjarda. [The Lord Said]
(London: Scripture Gift Mission, [n.d.]); idem, O drom uxtavdo [The High Road] (London:
Scripture Gift Mission, [n.d.]); and idem, Savo peresarla Biblia [What the Bible Tells]
(London: Scripture Gift Mission, [n.d.]).
107 Romani Pentecostalism: Gypsies and Charismatic Christianity, ed. by David Thurfjell and
Adrian Marsh (Frankfurt: Peter Lang 2014).
changes also occurred in all the countries of southeastern Europe. These

parallel developments may be briefly illustrated by the following list of
dates for the founding of Roma organisations in the region and at that time.
In Romania, the organisation Infrateria Neorustica was established in 1926 in
Făgăraş county; 1933 saw the foundations of the Asociaţia Generala a Ţiganilor
din Romania (General Association of the Gypsies in Romania), headed by Ion
Pop-Şerboianu (Archimandrite Calinik), and the alternative Uniunii Generale
a Romilor din Romănia (General Union of the Roma in Romania), headed by
Gheorghe A. Lǎzǎreanu-Lǎzurica and Gheorghe Niculescu. In the 1930s, the
newspapers О Rom [The Roma], Glasul Romilor [Voice of the Roma], Neamul
Ţiganesc [Gypsy People] and Timpul [Times] were published.108
In Yugoslavia, Prva srpsko-ciganska zadruga za uzajmno pomaganje u bolesti i
smrti (The First Serbian-Gypsy Association for Mutual Assistance in Sickness
and Death), headed by Svetozar Simić, was inaugurated in 1927; and in 1935,
the Udruženja Beogradskih cigana slavara Tetkice Bibije (Association of Belgrade
Gypsies for the Celebration of Aunt Bibia) was established. In 1930, the
newspaper Romano lil/Ciganske novine [Roma Newspaper/Gypsy Newspaper] was
published, while Prosvetni klub Jugoslavske ciganske omladine (The Educational
Club of Yugoslavian Gypsy Youth), which grew into Omladina Jugoslavo-
ciganska (Yugoslavian-Gypsy Youth), also took shape.109
In Greece, the Panhellenios Syllogos Ellinon Athinganon (Panhellenic Cultural
Association of the Greek Gypsies) was founded in Athens in 1939; its main
goal was to obtain Greek citizenship and passports for Roma immigrants to
Greece from Asia Minor in the 1920s.110
In the new ethno-national states of southeastern Europe, the Roma
wanted to be recognised as equal citizens of the new social realities without,
however, losing their own ethnic identity. This was the main goal of all the
Roma organisations created in the period between the two World Wars.111
The reasons for the rapid development of the Roma movement in
southeastern Europe during this period, which has no analogue in other
parts of the world, should be sought in the Roma’s specific social position
and in the specific history of the region. The Roma had lived in the region
108 Achim, The Roma in Romanian History (Budapest: CEU Press, 2004), pp. 127-32.
109 Dragoljub Acković, Nacija smo a ne cigani [We are a Nation, but not Gypsies] (Belgrade:
Rrominterpress, 2001), pp. 43-59.
110 Jean-Pierre Liégeois, Roma in Europe, 3rd edn. (Strasbourg: Council of Europe, 2007),
pp. 251-52.
111 Marushiakova and Popov, “The Roma – a Nation without a State?: Historical Background
and Contemporary Tendencies”, Orientwissenschaftliche Hefte, 14 (2004), pp. 71-100.
since Ottoman times and were an integral part of wider society, which is
why they strove for equal participation in the political life of their countries.
At the same time, they also wished to preserve their ethnic distinction. In
other words, the Roma have always existed in at least two dimensions, or
on two coordinate planes: both as a separate ethnic community (or, more
exactly, communities) and as part of a society, as an ethnically-based group
integral to the nation-state of which the Roma are residents and citizens.112
The entire modern history of the Roma represents a search for balance
between these two dimensions, without which it is impossible to preserve
their existence as a separate ethnic group. The events presented in this
chapter have illustrated the initial attempts of prominent Roma activists to
reach such a balance in Bulgaria.
The most impressive illustration of these processes — in the context of
the global social changes that occurred after World War I — is that given by
Bernard Gilliat-Smith, who, as a British diplomat in Bulgaria during those
years, offers an outsider’s perspective on the development of the Roma. It
is worth quoting his explanation of the changes in the community that he
observed:
[… it] was due, I think, to the effects of the First Great War. Paši Suljoff’s generation
represented a different “culture”, a culture which had been stabilised for a long time.
The Sofia Gypsy “hammal”113 was — a Sofia Gypsy “hammal”. He did not aspire to
be anything else. He was therefore psychologically, spiritually at peace with himself
[…] Not so the post-war generation [of Gypsies in Sofia …] who could be reckoned as
belonging to the proletars of the Bulgarian metropolis. The younger members of the
colony were therefore already inoculated with a class hatred which was quite foreign
to Paši Suljoff’s generation […] To feel “a class apart”, despised by the Bulgars who
were, de facto, their “Herrenfolk”, was pain and grief to them.
112 Elena Marushiakova, “Gypsy/Roma Identities in New European Dimension: The Case
of Eastern Europe”, in Dynamics of National Identity and Transnational Identities in the
Process of European Integration, ed. by Еlena Marushiakova (Newcastle: Cambridge
Scholars, 2008), pp. 468-90.
113 Hammal - “Porter” in Bulgarian.
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[Renaming of the Roma: Muslims in Bulgaria]”, in XVII Kyustendilski chtenia
2010, ed. by Christo Berov (Sofia: Istoricheski Fakultet, SU “Climent Ohridski”
and Regionalen istoricheski muzei Kyustendil, 2012), pp. 252-68.
Suny, Ronald G., and Terry Martin, eds., A State of Nations: Empire and Nation-Making
in the Age of Lenin and Stalin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).
Tatarev, Atanas, Romane Somnal gilya [Romani Holy Songs] (Sofia: Sayuz na balgarskite
evangelski baptistki tsarkvi, 1936).
Tenev, Dragan, Tristakhilyadna Sofia i az mezhdu dvete voini [Three Hundred Thousand’s
Sofia and Me Between Two Wars] (Sofia: Balgarski pisatel, 1997).
Thurfjell, David, and Adrian Marsh, Romani Pentecostalism: Gypsies and Charismatic
Christianity (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2014).
Todorov, Nicolay, Balkanskiat grad 15-19 vek: sotsialno-ikonomichesko i demografsko

razvitie [A Balkan City, 15th-19th Centuries: Social, Economical and Demographic
Development] (Sofia: Nauka i izkustvo, 1972).
Vukanović, Tatomir, Romi (cigani) u Jugoslaviji [Roma (Gypsies) in Yugoslavia] (Vranje:
Nova Jugoslavija, 1983).
Archives
Archive of the Ministry of Interior (AMI): Fund 13, op. 1, а.е. 759.
Specialised Library and Studii Romani Archive (ASR): Fund “Shakir Pashov”, f. E;
FC, FK; Fund “Istikbal”; Fund “Roma activists” f. J; ASR, Fund Newspapers, f. H;
ASR, Fund Romano esi, F.I.
State Agency “Archives”, Department “Tsentralen Darzhaven Arkhiv” (SAA-
TsDA): Fund 1Б, op. 6; а.е. 235; Fund 1Б, op. 8, a.e. 596; Fund 1Б, op. 25, a.e. 71;
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14, 28-29.
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Svetilnik [Candelabrum]. Edition of the Evangelical Baptist Mission among Gypsies in
Bulgaria. Edited by Pastor Petar Minkov. Lom, 1927, No. 1.
Izvestia na tsiganskata evangelska misia [Bulletin of the Gypsy Evangelical Mission].
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Terbie [Education]. An organ of the Muhammedan National Educational Organisation.
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No. 10, by Mustafa Aliev. Sofia, ann. I, 1946, Nos. 1-4; ann. II, 1947, Nos. 5-8; ann.
III, 1948/1949, Nos. 9-11.
Nevo Drom [New Way, in Romani]. An organ of The All Cultural and Educational
Organisation of the Gypsy Minority in Bulgaria. Edited by Lubomir Aliev. Sofia,
ann. I, 1949, Nos. 1-2; ann. II, 1950, No. 3.
Neve Roma [New Gypsies, in Romani]. An organ of the Gypsy People‘s Community and
Library 9th of September Centre. Edited by Sulyo Metkov. Sofia, ann. I, 1957, Nos.
1-12.
8. Sacred boundaries: parishes and the
making of space in the colonial Andes
Gabriela Ramos
To María Rostworowski
The all-encompassing influence of the Catholic Church in Spanish America

is a compelling reason to collect, preserve and study ecclesiastical records in
any Latin American country. Church archives house documents that allow
us to learn the history of people of all walks of life throughout the centuries.
Ecclesiastical archives often provide us with the only clues to the lives of many
anonymous men and women.
The Spanish Crown legitimised its sovereignty over the New World
through its commitment to convert its inhabitants and future subjects to
Christianity. To accomplish this end, significant changes were brought upon
the indigenous population. Using the digitised collections of the Huacho
diocese in Peru,1 this chapter studies the agents and circumstances behind
the formation of parishes and parish jurisdictions. The essays investigates the
meaning of parish boundaries, how these boundaries were created, how both
clergy and parishioners perceived them, and in what ways such boundaries
contributed to shaping the colonial order. Although ecclesiastical legislation
— especially that produced by the Council of Trent — provided guidance
for the establishment of parishes, local circumstances and the overlapping of
authorities and jurisdictions made parish boundaries the subject of controversy
and contestation.2
1 EAP333: Collecting and preserving parish archives in an Andean diocese, http://eap.

2 The Council of Trent, one of the most important events in the history of the Catholic
church, was held in the city of Trent in the sixteenth century (1545-47, 1551-52, 1562-
63). The Council assembled western European prelates and theologians in response to
the challenges posed by the Reformation. The Council of Trent produced canons and
decrees clarifying Catholic doctrine and practice, and aimed to reform the life of the
clergy. The literature on the subject is vast. An accessible book on Trent is John O’Malley,
Trent: What Happened at the Council (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 2013).
© Gabriela Ramos, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.08

Fig. 8.1 Map of the Valley of Canta, Peru, by Évelyne Mesclier, CC BY.
Sacred boundaries 227
The extent to which towns and urban life were widespread in the pre-
Columbian Andes is still a subject of discussion among scholars.3 Although
hundreds of years before the Spanish conquest ancient Andeans built
impressive urban centres, most of them had primarily ceremonial and
administrative functions. There is solid evidence suggesting that the state had
a fair degree of control over population movement, and that not everyone was
allowed to live in towns and cities. Temporary migrations were nevertheless
common across the ecologically diverse Andean landscape. The inhabitants
of a given area were able to claim access to land and to other resources in
places situated at considerable distance, and at lower or higher altitudes from
their usual settlements.4 To assert their control over a recently conquered
region or to increase agricultural production, the Inca, and possibly also their
predecessors, usually moved entire populations even across considerable
distances.5 Religious life in the Andes demanded a continuous interaction with
the surrounding environment. To secure their livelihoods, Andean people
also travelled variable distances to perform religious rituals honouring their
ancestors and several other protective deities scattered in the landscape.6 It is
possible to assert that mobility in the Andes was a norm, that sacred places
were numerous, and that many settlements were neither large, nor permanent.
Spanish colonists took advantage of established Inca state governmental
practices, even if at the same time colonial officials endeavoured to substantially
modify key cultural and political patterns such as the use of the space.
Mobility and dispersal were issues Spanish officials thought necessary to
address in order to achieve political control over the indigenous population,
to gain access to indigenous labour, to facilitate Christian indoctrination,
and to collect tribute and taxes. The Spanish empire’s economic, political
and evangelising ends demanded a reorganisation of the space, following
European ideas about what constituted a civilised, Christian life.7 Urban life
provided the model Spanish colonisers set out to apply in the Andes and
elsewhere in Spanish America.8
3 Krzysztof Makowski, “Andean Urbanism”, in Handbook of South American Archaeology,

ed. by Helaine Silverman and William Isbell (New York: Springer, 2008), pp. 633-57.
4 John V. Murra, The Economic Organisation of the Inka State (Greenwich, CT: JAI Press,
1980).
5 Terence D’Altroy, The Incas (Oxford: Blackwell, 2002).
6 Gabriela Ramos, Death and Conversion in the Andes: Lima and Cuzco, 1532-1670 (Notre
Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2010).
7 Jeremy Ravi Mumford, Vertical Empire: The General Resettlement of Indians in the Colonial
Andes (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012).
8 Richard Kagan, and Fernando Marías, Urban Images of the Hispanic World, 1493-1793
(New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000).
Andean colonial cities and towns were set up following a grid layout, a
format that provided a sense of order and allowed for the easy identification
of the quarters into which urban centres were divided. Although the grid
plan evoked the idea of regularity, uniformity was not the ideal pursued.
A strong sense of hierarchy dominated the design the Spanish imposed on
towns and cities throughout their New World domains. At the centre of each
city, town or village, was the plaza or public square and, at its heart, stood
the pillory, symbolising royal justice. The church, always the largest and
tallest building on the central square, was a glaring sign of Catholicism’s
prevalence; the city council building and the houses of the prominent local
officials and citizens usually surrounded the plaza. Although this description
corresponds to the leading cities, any traveller journeying across Spanish
America would observe that the model was applied in every urban settlement
independently of its size and importance.
In the years following the arrival of the Spanish, a large proportion of
what later became the Peruvian viceroyalty was immersed in wars between
bands of Spanish conquistadors fighting over the conquest booty. Some
Spaniards professed their loyalty to the king, while a few others were bold
and ambitious enough to consider appropriating the wealth of Peru for
themselves and installing a new monarchy in alliance with an Inca faction.
Years of generalised instability caused by what the historiography knows as
“The Civil Wars” delayed the organisation of a government — actually, the
first viceroy to arrive in Peru was assassinated by one of the Spanish warring
factions — while the few missionaries who were not themselves involved
in the fighting failed to make much progress in this highly toxic and chaotic
setting. Itinerant missionaries travelled throughout certain Andean regions,
but no formal church organisation was possible until after the wars were over,
when several of the first conquistadors and many of their rebel followers were
executed, and a crown representative acknowledged by most, together with the
appointed bishop, were able to act. Therefore, ecclesiastical divisions known
as parishes and doctrinas did not exist until approximately thirty years after
the arrival of the first Spaniards in the Andes.9
In the early modern period, Peru’s wealth was usually represented to
European audiences by accounts of the immense quantities of silver and
gold enclosed in its temples, palaces and tombs, or found in mines such
9 The name doctrinas was given to parishes entirely populated by Indians, thus dedicated
exclusively to their religious indoctrination. Valentín Trujillo Mena, La legislación
eclesiástica en el virreynato del Perú durante el siglo XVI con especial aplicación a la Jerarquía y
a la Organización Diocesana (Lima: Editorial Lumen, 1981).
as Potosí.10 While these riches attracted both conquistadors and migrants,

most of them soon realised that, although the stories about the abundance
of precious metals were no fabrication, the land’s main source of wealth
was its people. The Incas and their ancestors valued gold and silver for
their appearance but, since they assigned them no monetary value, wealth
consisted not in owning considerable amounts of precious metals, but in
having as many people as possible under one’s control.11 Wealth involved
power over labour, and also over the labourers’ minds, since submission
was crucial to validate power.
This idea of wealth in the Andes did not become entirely obsolete after the
Spanish conquest. The civil wars that ravaged the region soon after the military
conquest were caused by disputes over the control of people. In compensation
for their participation in the expeditions leading to the subjugation of the
Inca Empire, the first conquistadors were granted encomiendas. Known as
repartimiento in late medieval Iberia, once transplanted to the New World,
the encomienda was significantly transformed: it entitled its beneficiary to the
labour and even tribute in kind of a group of people who inhabited or claimed
domain over a territory, shared kin ties, and acknowledged the authority
of their leaders or chiefs but, in contrast with the Iberian repartimiento, the
encomendero’s12 domain was over people, not over their land.13 In return,
10 John H. Elliott, “The Spanish Conquest and Settlement of America”, in The Cambridge
History of Latin America, 1st edn., ed. by Leslie Bethell, 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1984), pp. 147-206, http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/CHOL9780521232234.008.
For a contemporary description of the Potosí mines in the sixteenth century, see Joseph
de Acosta, “Historia natural y moral de las Indias”, in Obras del P. José de Acosta, ed. by S.
J. Francisco Mateos (Madrid: Atlas, 1954 [1590]), pp. 1-24, http://www.cervantesvirtual.
com/obra-visor/historia-natural-y-moral-de-las-indias--0/html/fee5c626-82b1-11df-acc7-
002185ce6064_8.html#I_78_, book 4, ch. 6
11 John V. Murra, “Andean Societies Before 1532”, in The Cambridge History of Latin America,
1st edn., ed. by Leslie Bethell, 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), pp.
59-90, http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/CHOL9780521232234.004
12 An encomendero was the grantee of an encomienda.
13 The encomienda had its precedent in the repartimientos granted during the Reconquista,
a crucial historical period in the Iberian peninsula by which Christian kings and lords
fought intermittently throughout seven centuries to recapture territory from Muslim
domination. Whilst in Iberia, the granting of repartimientos involved land, but this
was not the case in the New World. This of course did not prevent encomenderos from
appropriating land belonging to indigenous people. Scholars have suggested that the
large landed property, known as hacienda, had its origins in the encomienda. For a classic
example of this view, see Robert Keith, Conquest and Agrarian Change: The Emergence of
the Hacienda System on the Peruvian Coast (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1976). For a brief, yet clear explanation of the encomienda in Iberian history and in the
early history of Spanish conquest and colonisation of the New World, see John H. Elliott,
“Spain and America in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries”, in The Cambridge
History of Latin America, 1st edn., ed. by Leslie Bethell, 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge
encomenderos were committed to ensuring the religious indoctrination of the

people under their charge, through enlisting priests and paying their salaries.
The first encomenderos were convinced that their grants or encomiendas were
perpetual and thus they could pass them over to their successors. However,
at the time of the Spanish conquest of Peru, the encomienda was already under
severe criticism, since it was considered the main culprit for huge population
losses in the Caribbean and Mexico.14
Denunciations against the encomienda and concerns raised over the
legitimacy of Spain’s sovereignty claims over the inhabitants of the New
World were behind the crown’s decision in 1542 to issue the “New Laws” to
protect the indigenous population from encomendero abuse and exploitation.15
Asserting royal authority over the seigniorial system that rested upon the
encomienda involved curtailing encomenderos’ power by ending the perpetuity
of encomiendas. The New Laws of 1542 that sparked vociferous protest in
Mexico and triggered armed confrontation in Peru demonstrate the degree
to which control over people was widely acknowledged as both a crucial
source and a symbol of wealth.
In colonial Spanish America, a chain of mutual obligations linked power
and its different incarnations — the pope as God’s representative, the Spanish
king, a number of Spanish subjects and officials, the Catholic clergy and
Indian chiefs and headmen — to indigenous labour and religious conversion.
The papal bull of 1493, which granted the Spanish sovereign with dominion
over the New World, entrusted the Spanish crown with the conversion of the
inhabitants of the Americas. Through the Royal Patronage, the Spanish king
was committed to support the Catholic church and all missions to the New
World.16 In exchange, he was entitled to make ecclesiastical appointments
within his domains: from parish clergy to archbishops.
We have already seen how the encomienda fitted within this scheme:
indigenous peoples gave their labour and tribute — in kind and/or in cash
— to the encomendero in return for religious indoctrination. Priests appointed
to evangelise the Indians received the sínodo, a proportion of the Indian head
University Press, 1984), pp. 147-206, http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/CHOL9780521232234.008

14 On the population crisis at the time of contact, see, for example, Noble David Cook, Born
to Die: Disease and New World Conquest, 1492-1650 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1998); and idem, Demographic Collapse: Indian Peru, 1520-1620 (Cambridge:
15 Lawrence A. Clayton, Bartolomé de las Casas and the Conquest of the Americas (Oxford:
Wiley-Blackwell, 2011).
16 For an excellent discussion of the king’s support of the Catholic church, see James
Muldoon The Americas in the Spanish World Order: The Justification for Conquest in the
Seventeenth Century (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994).
tax or tribute, in payment for their services. Indian chiefs were in charge of
collecting the head tax from their subjects and handing it to their encomendero.
After the encomienda was suppressed or disappeared, Indian chiefs continued
collecting the tribute transferring it now to Spanish magistrates known
as corregidores. The funds to pay corregidores’ salaries also came from the
indigenous head tax. Indigenous leaders or chiefs, known in the Andes as
caciques17 or curacas, were entrusted with assuring that their subordinates pay
tax, attend mass and catechism lessons, and provide their labour whenever
they were requested for the benefit of the king or his representatives, the
church, Spanish miners and farmers, or “the common good” such as when
they were required to labour in public works. In return for their governmental
duties and their cooperation, curacas were exempted from paying tribute,
an acknowledgement of their condition as “nobles”. As the crown’s vassals,
curacas and their subjects were entitled to the king’s protection.
As a result of the circumstances explained above, offices and jurisdictions
frequently overlapped. There was no question that the Indians had to be
evangelised. Even a number of curacas agreed, if admittedly many did so for
strategic and survival reasons. However, because of the Royal Patronage and
the interwoven obligations and functions already described, decisions leading
to the establishment of parishes and doctrinas involved the intervention of
other agents in addition to the representatives of the Catholic church.
The establishment of parishes and doctrinas

The circumstances surrounding the creation of new jurisdictions throughout
the Andes during the colonial period and beyond remain surprisingly
understudied. Scholars have focused on the formal and legal underpinnings
of reducciones.18 Reducciones were settlements modelled following a grid plan,
where the indigenous population were forced to move since Spanish officials
thought that population dispersal was not favourable to their good government
and religious indoctrination. The ideas, conflicts and negotiations behind
the formation of reducciones need further attention. In the Peruvian Andes,
although Spaniards sought to create reducciones a few years after their arrival,
a sweeping plan to implement them gained momentum during the rule of
viceroy Francisco de Toledo (1569-1581), to the point that today the idea
17 The term cacique, a word that the Spanish had learned in the Caribbean, was widely used
across the Americas to refer to indigenous chiefs.
18 The resettlement of the indigenous population was carried out with mixed results all
over Spanish America. In the Andes these settlements were known as reducciones and in
Mexico they were called congregaciones.
of reducción is often closely associated with his name.19 Because reducciones

were meant to ease the religious conversion of the indigenous population,
the presence of churches within them is normally assumed, but the story
of the shaping of ecclesiastical jurisdictions — in other words, the creation
of a complex hierarchy of parishes and chapels and their connection with
reducciones — needs further scrutiny.
In the sixteenth century, the Council of Trent saw it necessary to reform
parishes. The reforms aimed at achieving a more effective presence of the
secular church in both cities and countryside. The council mandated that
bishops should live in their dioceses and the clergy should settle closer to, and
interact regularly with, their flocks. If a parish priest was unable to tend to the
needs of the population — either because of their numbers, their dispersal, or
both — it was imperative to set up new jurisdictions. The bishops attending the
Council of Trent anticipated that these reforms were likely to elicit resistance
among parish priests concerned about the imminent and possibly substantial
cuts to their income and weakening of their influence, since the economic
interest and political importance of a parish depended heavily on the number
of people within its boundaries. The council decrees advised the bishops to
carry on establishing new parishes regardless of the opposition.20
19 Alejandro Málaga Medina gives a long-term overview of reducciones from the time
of the conquest up to a few years after their implementation by viceroy Toledo. His
research is based mostly on legislation and official documentation related to reducciones.
See Alejandro Málaga Medina, “Las reducciones en el virreinato del Perú (1532-1580)”,
Revista de Historia de América, 80 (1975), 8-42. Daniel W. Gade and Mario Escobar offer
a long-term perspective of settlements situated in a highland province of Cuzco. The
authors are geographers, and the discussion presented is guided almost in its entirety
by fieldwork, and by inferences transposed from the present to the past. See Daniel W.
Gade and Mario Escobar, “Village Settlements and the Colonial Legacy in Southern
Peru”, Geographical Review, 72 (1982), 430-49. From the field of archaeology, Steven
Wernke has published several works about reducción formation, focusing on the Colca
valley in southern Peru. See, for example, Steven Wernke, “Negotiating Community and
Landscape in the Andes: A Transconquest View”, American Anthropologist, 109 (2007),
130-52. The most ambitious study to date on the subject is Mumford, who also offers
an overview of reducción as a critical component of the colonial project; the strength
of his book is the refreshing discussion of the legal and political debates surrounding
reducciones. Mumford maintains that the documentary evidence for the founding and
early history of reducciones is insufficient. For a discussion of these issues although
for a later period in northern Peru, see Alejandro Diez, Comunes y haciendas: procesos
de comunalización en la sierra de Piura, siglos XVIII al XX (Cuzco: CIPCA and Centro
Bartolomé de las Casas, 1998).
20 “As regards those churches, to which, on account of the distance, or the difficulties of
the locality, the parishioners cannot, without great inconvenience, repair to receive the
sacraments, and to hear the divine offices; the bishops may, even against the will of the
Population, territory and boundaries

The circumstances behind the formation of the most elementary ecclesiastical
jurisdictions or, more precisely doctrinas, in the colonial Andes are varied
and not always easy to elucidate. Repartimientos — social units formed
by family groups related to each other through kin ties, often subdivided
in smaller units, and each with its own leaders — were at the origins of
several doctrinas, possibly established by missionaries belonging to the
regular clergy.21 This means that in several cases pre-conquest indigenous
settlements could have constituted the initial places for the establishment
of primitive churches or sites of worship and indoctrination. The First Lima
Council, presided over by the Dominican friar Jerónimo de Loayza in 1551,
referred to an already completed partition of the population and territory
between the religious orders. The council advised the regular clergy to set
up their convents in the best, most important or most populated region
possible (en la mayor comarca) within the province under their charge.22 In
other instances encomiendas and pre-Toledan reducciones were the sites of
the first Indian parishes.
The bishops provided guidance to priests and missionaries on how to
select the places where churches should be built: the churches should be
established in settlements where the leading indigenous chiefs had their
main residence, and which had the largest population. The ruling was
followed by the instruction that missionaries should either burn or tear down
pre-existing sites of worship and, if the places where these pagan temples
and shrines were conveniently located, Christian churches should be built
rectors, establish new parishes, pursuant to the form of the constitution of Alexander III,
which begins, Ad audientiam…”. The Canons and Decrees of the Sacred and Oecumenical
Council of Trent, ed. and trans. by J. Waterworth (London: Dolman, 1848), Twenty-First
Session, Decree on Reformation, ch. 4, p. 147, http://history.hanover.edu/texts/trent/ct21.
html
21 Repartimientos were the grants of people given to encomenderos as compensation for
their participation in the conquest (see above, note 13). A seventeenth-century Spanish
dictionary defines repartimiento as the effect of dividing something into parts. Sebastián
de Covarrubias, Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española (Barcelona: Alta Fulla, 2003
[Madrid: Luis Sánchez, 1611]), p. 905. What early Spanish chroniclers and travellers
described as provincias (provinces) were later divided between religious orders and
encomenderos. Repartimientos stemmed from these initial divisions. It is apparent that the
term repartimiento had a shifting meaning throughout the colonial period.
22 “Primer Concilio Provincial Limense, Constituciones de los Naturales”, in Concilios
Limenses, ed. by Rubén Vargas Ugarte, 3 vols (Lima: [n. pub.], 1951), 1, Constitución 29,
p. 24. See also Mumford, p. 120.
in their stead. These instructions allow us to suggest that a number of new

parishes were in fact erected on pre-Columbian indigenous settlements.
To signal the distinctiveness of the new places of worship, priests were
advised to acquire works of art to make the main churches attractive and
worthy of gaining the people’s appreciation. In smaller and secondary
settlements, missionaries were to build churches of modest dimensions but
no less dignified and, if enough people and means of support to the parish
were not available, to set up a chapel or at the very least erect a cross.23
Although repartimientos are often described as primarily involving people
and only secondarily territory, the circumstances behind the establishment
of doctrinas, the instructions given to priests on how to organise and conduct
indoctrination, and the interactions between priests and parishioners
throughout time, suggest that the notion of a clear-cut separation between
people and territory is difficult to pin down.24 There was an overlap between
repartimiento, encomienda, and doctrina. The notion behind the repartimiento
and the encomienda revolved around people acknowledging the authority
of a curaca or chief and/or, as explained above, sub-chiefs or principales. The
close link between repartimiento and provincia involved the idea of not only
population, but also of a territory claimed by those who inhabited it. Early
accounts and descriptions penned by chroniclers and travellers, as well
as church legislation support this view.25 Local Andean populations also
acknowledged salient features in the landscape like mountains, caves, lakes
23 Vargas Ugarte, 1, Constitución 2, pp. 8-9; idem, Constitución 40, p. 33. A similar directive
is found in the decrees of the Second Lima Council (1567) in idem, 1, p. 251. In this text,
the bishops advised that encomenderos and curacas should also be consulted about the
most adequate place to build a church.
24 Mumford, pp. 28-29. Mumford presents an interesting discussion on the subject
of repartimientos. On Andean political organisation, see also María Rostworowski,
Estructuras andinas del poder: ideología religiosa y política (Lima: Instituto de Estudios
Peruanos, 1983).
25 See, for instance, Pedro Cieza de León, Crónica del Perú, Primera parte (Lima: Pontificia
Universidad Católica del Perú, 1984). The link between parish and territory is best
represented in the legislation concerning pastoral visitations. Both the Council of Trent
and the local church councils ruled that bishops should periodically visit the towns within
their dioceses to inspect the functioning of their parishes, to assess priest behaviour and
competence, and to certify the correct indoctrination of their parishioners. Council of
Trent rulings on visitations are found in Session 24, Reformation decrees, ch. 3, http://
history.hanover.edu/texts/trent/ct24.html. Constitution 44 of the Lima First Council
ruled that bishops should inspect the towns within their dioceses every two years (Vargas
Ugarte, 1, p. 62). On inspection visits in the Lima diocese, see Gabriela Ramos, “Pastoral
Visitations as Spaces of Negotiation in Andean Parishes,” in The Americas (forthcoming).
and rock formations, as well as tombs and funeral monuments as markers

signifying their domain over a territory.26
The idea that the jurisdiction of a parish involved people but not territory,
as if their status was identical to that of repartimientos and encomiendas needs
further scrutiny. The Constitutions of the First Lima Council instructed priests
on how to indoctrinate the Indians, implying that parishes had territorial
jurisdiction: priests were advised to say mass in the most populated town of
their doctrinas and to make sure that parishioners living in subsidiary towns
were also in attendance. This emphasis on place later shifted to a greater accent
on people. The Second Lima Council (1567) ruled that to ensure priests were
able to accomplish their obligations, a maximum of 400 married men were to
be assigned to a parish.27 Perhaps the drastic population changes experienced
across the Andean region due to high mortality rates, displacement, and
migration are behind this emphasis on population numbers. Different or
shifting understandings concerning the sphere of influence of parish, encomienda,
province, and repartimiento led to confusion and eventually to conflict. It should
be noted that the equivocal status of parishes concerning their population
scope and territorial boundaries was not a phenomenon unique to the Andes.28
While a diocese definitely involved territory — a bishop’s jurisdiction
clearly was the territory of his diocese — the intersection between the notions
of repartimiento and doctrina, and the emphasis these two entities had on
people rather than on place made the latter difficult to pin down but also
easier to manipulate. In the Andes, the transformations brought by Spanish
colonisation, such as significant population losses and continuous Indian
migrations — voluntary and forced, temporary and permanent — added to
the difficulty in determining parish or doctrina boundaries.
26 As attested by The Huarochirí Manuscript, ed. by Frank Salomon (Austin, TX: University of
Texas Press, 1991); and Cristóbal de Molina’s Fábulas y Mitos de los Incas, ed. by Henrique
Urbano and Pierre Duviols (Madrid: Historia 16, 1988). For archaeological studies
supporting this view, see William Harris Isbell, Mummies and Mortuary Monuments: A
Postprocessual History of Central Andean Social Organization (Austin, TX: University of
Texas Press, 1997); and Brian Bauer, The Sacred Landscape of the Inca: The Cusco Ceque
System (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1998). A historical interpretation of this
extended practice can be found in Ramos, Death and Conversion, pp. 9-33.
27 “Sumario del concilio provincial que se celebró en la ciudad de Los Reyes el año de mil
y 567”. Vargas Ugarte, 3, p. 249. Based on a study of the laws produced by the church in
the sixteenth century, Trujillo Mena assures that territory was a constitutive part of the
doctrina (p. 242).
28 Oliver Rackham described parish boundaries in England as “a rebuke to administrative
tidiness”. Oliver Rackham, “Review of ‘Discovering Parish Boundaries’”, Journal of
Ecclesiastical History, 43 (1992), 504.
A petition to close down a Doctrina
Fig. 8.2 Cover page of the records of the petition to close down
the parish of Pariamarca in the corregimiento of Canta, 1650
A file belonging to the historical archives in the Huacho diocese holds a

petition of the “headmen” (Fig. 8.2) of the doctrina of Canta, a town in the
highlands north of the city of Lima (Fig. 8.1), presented to the archbishop
in 1650.29 The petitioners sought to close down the doctrina of Pariamarca.30
Following the filing of the petition, the archbishop started an investigation
into the doctrina of Pariamarca. The doctrina, created on an unknown date, was
separated from the parish of Canta to facilitate the indoctrination of, and the
administration of the sacraments to, the labourers of a textile mill belonging
to the repartimiento of Canta. Known as obrajes, textile mills flourished in
different areas across Spanish America producing basic fabrics for the local
market, namely Indian, African and other low-income consumers. Combining
rudimentary technology with harsh working conditions, and normally set
up when raw materials were readily available, a number of obrajes across
colonial Spanish America prospered by meeting the demand from cities,
mining centres, plantations, and other landed properties using slave labour.31
Apparently, the obraje of Pariamarca was economically successful enough
to provide the indigenous people of the area with additional income and
pay for the priest’s salary. Even though this was clearly advantageous
for the Indians, when a fire destroyed the obraje, the corregidor (Spanish
magistrate) decided against its reconstruction and ordered the demolition of
its premises. The fact that a manufacture that was thriving was given such a
sudden and extreme end does not seem reasonable. Regrettably, the sources
do not explain the corregidor’s decision, and we can only hypothesise that
competitors benefiting from the obraje’s extinction were behind it.
29 I use the word “headmen” here and throughout because — for reasons that would be
worth investigating, although not at this time — the documents describe most indigenous
authorities as governors and principals, but — with one exception — not as caciques or
curacas as it was customary in other areas of the Andes.
30 “Autos de la supresión de la doctrina de Pariamarca en el corregimiento de Canta que se
pretende por los indios de dicha doctrina”, in Archives of the Diocese of Huacho (ADH),
Curatos, Leg. 2, Exp. 1, 1653. For a good overview — although focused on Cuzco and
Peru’s southeast — of how Andean settlements were organised and the participation
indigenous people had in their government, see David Garrett, Shadows of Empire: The
Indian Nobility of Cusco, 1750-1825 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp.
15-44.
31 On textile mills (obrajes) in the Andes and other regions of Spanish America, see Miriam
Salas de Coloma, De los obrajes de Canaria y Chincheros a las comunidades indígenas de
Vilcashuamán, siglo XVI (Lima: Sesator, 1979); Neus Escandell, Producción y comercio de
tejidos coloniales: Los obrajes y chorrillos del Cusco 1570-1820 (Cusco: Centro Bartolomé
de las Casas, 1997); Javier Ortiz de la Tabla Ducasse, “Obrajes y obrajeros del Quito
colonial”, Anuario de Estudios Americanos, 39 (1982), 341-65, and Richard Salvucci, Textiles
and Capitalism in Mexico: An Economic History of the Obrajes, 1539-1840 (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1987).
Fig. 8.3 In this letter, Don Gerónimo de Salazar y Salcedo, parish priest of San
Antonio de Pariamarca, explains that because of the fire that destroyed the textile
mill of Pariamarca, he requested the closing down of the doctrina. Lima, 11 October
1651 (EAP333/1/3/11 image 46), Public Domain.
Fig. 8.4 Register of the inhabitants (men, women and youth) of the doctrina of San
Antonio de Pariamarca, 1650 (EAP333/1/3/11 image 23), Public Domain.
Deprived of this source of income, the parish priest, don Gerónimo de Salazar,
requested the archbishop to close down the doctrina, possibly because he
thought that in this way he could leave Pariamarca and get another assignment
(Fig. 8.3). The archbishop’s reply requested that Salazar exhibit the parish
registers to determine the number of parishioners in Pariamarca (Fig. 8.4).
Noting that 500 people were listed, Salazar’s petition was denied. Anticipating
the difficulties he would face in collecting his salary with the obraje gone,
Salazar filed another petition, this time to the viceregal government, requesting
that his salary be funded with the proceeds of a farm — also belonging to the
repartimiento of Canta — that had produced the wool used in the now extinct
textile mill. Salazar’s petition was successful, but his parishioners opposed
the move, arguing that the farm was never meant to fund the priest’s salary
(Fig. 8.5). In fact, the indigenous headmen argued that the farm was too far
away from Pariamarca, and not within the priest’s reach. According to the
headmen, the shepherds labouring at the farm were under the care of the
curate of another doctrina where the farm was located. The repartimiento of
Canta paid the priest a modest annual sum for performing his pastoral duties.
Salazar left the scene shortly thereafter as he was appointed to another
parish. However, his departure did not bring the dispute to an end because
the archbishopric stood fast in its decision not to close down the doctrina;
in fact, a call for applicants to the vacant post started to circulate. To make
the matters worse for the Indians, the government had accepted Salazar’s
argument that the doctrina of Pariamarca had been established counting on
the proceeds from both the obraje and the farm belonging to the Indians of
Canta. Although in the course of the investigation no papers certifying the
parish origins were found at the diocesan archives, the government admitted
as valid a document that the local scribe of Canta had provided Salazar
attesting that the proceedings of the farm had been assigned to the doctrina
of Pariamarca from its very beginnings.
To rend legible these and other incidents of the proceedings, it is worth
pointing to the issues at stake thus far. First, how many people were necessary
to set up a parish? Second, in the context of the doctrina (an Indian parish),
did the number of people required to form a parish include everyone, or
only taxpayers (tributarios)? Third, were the Indians supposed to pay for the
priest’s salary with means other than their taxes?
Fig. 8.5 In this letter, the protector of the Indians, don Francisco Valençuela, states
that the priest of Pariamarca’s salary cannot be paid with the proceeds of the
Indians’ assets. Lima, c. 1651 (EAP333/1/3/11 image 54), Public Domain.
Different viewpoints were advanced to answer these questions. We have seen

that when Salazar was asked to show the parish registers, the archbishop’s
representative concluded that, since 500 people appeared in them, the
continuity of the doctrina was entirely justified. While the Second Church
Council (1567) had established that a parish should have no more than
400 married Indians,32 the Third Church Council (1583) decreed that “any
Indian town with more than 200 or 300 taxpaying Indians33 should have
its own curate, and if there were less than 200 the prelate should make
sure that they were permanently settled34 so that they could be adequately
indoctrinated and ruled”.35 The Indian headmen of Canta contested the
archbishop’s interpretation of Salazar’s parish registers, because although
500 people “small and large” (chicas y grandes) were listed, only 66 of them
were taxpayers. While the Indians insisted on this aspect of the council
decree (only those who paid tax were to be counted), the archbishop
highlighted the words indicating that it was the prelate’s right to decide
on the adequate number of people to form a parish.
Three years after the original filing of the petition, the archbishop
commissioned the priest of the neighbouring doctrina of Quivi, don Juan de
Escalante y Mendoza, to conduct a population count that should include
“all the Indians, small and large, men and women, boys and girls as well
as those exempted from tax,36 foreigners, and all other residents in the
parish of Canta and subsidiary towns, with as much meticulousness as
possible”.37 Escalante started his investigation shortly after his appointment
by requesting data from three different sources: governmental, ecclesiastic,
and indigenous. The first were the records of the latest headcount, from an
inspection carried out in 1640, the second were the parish registers, and the
third were the tax registers kept in the hands of the repartimiento’s governor.
In his efforts to obtain these documents, Escalante reported encountering
resistance. He had to demand the magistrate’s assistant repeatedly for his
32 See note 21.

33 Males from eighteen to fifty years of age were subject to paying head tax.
34 The decree in Spanish uses the word “reducido”, which I interpret here as established in
a town or reducción and therefore under the government’s control.
35 “Los decretos del santo concilio provincial celebrado en la ciudad de Los Reyes del Perú
en el año de 1583”, in Vargas Ugarte, 2, ch. 11, p. 348.
36 Exempted from tax were “reservados”. These included men older than fifty years old;
also, the ill or injured and unable to work, and those holding a position in the church,
such as choristers and sacristans.
37 The order was issued on 7 October 1653, “Autos de la supresión…”, ADH, Curatos, Leg.
1, Exp. 2, f. 88.
cooperation. Also, when the Indian governor, don Gabriel Tantavilca, handed
him his registers, Escalante found that these contained only the numbers
of people classified by towns, but no individual names or details of each
household. Furthermore, when Escalante compared the three registers,
he noticed that the disparity between them was such that he decided to
conduct a population count himself. Escalante commanded the indigenous
headmen that on Sunday — when everyone in the doctrina attended mass
at the main parish church — the Indian parish officers38 should allow no
one to leave whilst Escalante carried out a house-by-house search to see if
anyone was hiding. He would then proceed to the headcount.
Escalante may have thought that his authority was uncontested and his
plan was infallible, but on Sunday a fire consumed the parish church and
he reported that he had instead spent his time with the parishioners trying
to save the edifice from complete ruin. Whether the fire was intentional or
accidental, Escalante did not allow himself to be distracted by the incident
and carried on with the investigation. He ordered Tantavilca and all other
Indian officers to assemble all their subjects on Thursday, the day when
everyone in the doctrina was meant to attend cathechism instruction, and
when he could proceed with the headcount.39
When Escalante was appointed to conduct the investigation into the
doctrina, he was asked to be as meticulous as possible, and meticulous he
was. The document resulting from the headcount provides to my knowledge
one of the most detailed pictures we have of the conditions in which the
inhabitants of a rural parish in mid-colonial Peru lived (Figs. 8.6, 8.7 and
8.8). Escalante aimed to describe the repartimiento as a whole, then the two
parts40 in which it was divided, and the ayllus or kin groups in which the
towns were subdivided. This was followed by a description, household by
household, noting the names and estimated age of each household dweller,
and — when possible — the whereabouts of those who were absent.
38 These parish officers were known as fiscales and alguaciles. Their duties could be described
as those of a church police. Both fiscales and alguaciles had to make sure that everyone in
town attended mass and cathechism instruction and observed correct behaviour.
39 “Autos de la supresión…”, ADH, Curatos, Leg. 1, Exp. 2, f. 97.
40 These parcialidades, in which repartimientos were divided, were not necessarily exact
halves, as the case of Canta. Each moiety was subdivided in kin groups or ayllus. The
number of ayllus in each moiety could vary. For a view on how repartimientos were
organised, see Mumford, pp. 28-29.
Fig. 8.6 Sample page of the census conducted in 1653 by Juan de Escalante y
Mendoza showing part of the headcount of the ayllu (kin group) Julcan Yumay
Fig. 8.7 Sample page of the census conducted in 1653 by Juan de Escalante y
Mendoza, showing part of the headcount of the ayllu Allauca Pacha
In 1653, the repartimiento of Canta was organised into two parcialidades: Canta
and Loccha.41 Canta was subdivided in eight ayllus while Loccha was much
smaller, with only four. Canta had a larger number of head tax payers, or
tributarios (forty), as well as more people, with 290 in total. Loccha had 27 head
taxpayers and a total of 192 people were counted. Loccha’s smaller number
of adult males and population did not mean it had a politically diminished
status, because its governor, Tantavilca, was a member of the parcialidad, and
presided over the ayllu Curaca Loccha, a name that suggests that this kin group
had been holding for a while the office of indigenous governor.
Although outside academia the ayllu is often seen as the fundamental
organisational unit in Andean society that has preserved most of its features
since pre-Columbian times, historical evidence shows that while the term
ayllu persisted throughout times, ayllu members have changed its form and
composition to accommodate varying situations. The formation of new ayllus
has also been part of this long-established process of social transformation. The
image of the ayllu as an institution that hardly admits change is due in great part
to the ability of its agents to make adjustments to new circumstances appear
as mere reproductions of the old.
The inspection and headcount of the Canta repartimiento provides a good
example of the ways in which larger transformations in Andean colonial society
can be verified at the local level. Records of inspections of the Canta repartimiento
carried out in 1549 and 1553, before Spanish settlements or reducciones were
implemented, list ayllu names and numbers that differ from those appearing on
the records formed 100 years later. The ayllu names correspond to smaller towns
that later became settlements subsidiary to the doctrina of Canta.42 Among the
eight ayllus of the Canta parcialidades listed in 1653, the one that stands out as
significantly different is that of the plateros tributarios, or silversmith taxpayers. It
is known that under Inca rule, artisans were moved between regions to facilitate
the formation of new settlements and to make their output more easily available
to the elites.43 The inspections records of 1549 and 1553 do not list silversmiths,
which suggest that this kin group of artisans was introduced under Spanish
colonial rule. This may have been because they were moved to the reducción
when Spanish officials set it up in the late sixteenth century, possibly as an
attempt to emulate the Inca governmental strategy of transferring specialised
workers into a new settlement to accommodate the state’s interests.
41 These parcialidades are mentioned in the records of an inspection carried out in 1553.
María Rostworowski, “Las visitas de Canta de 1549 y 1553”, in Obras Completas, 2 (Lima:
Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 2002), pp. 289-314.
42 Such as Carhua, Visca and Lachaqui. See map in Rostworowski, “Las visitas”, p. 294.
43 Waldemar Espinoza Soriano, “Migraciones internas en el reino Colla: Tejedores,
plumereros y alfareros del estado imperial Inca”, Chungará, 19 (1987), 243-89.
The most salient change in the social structure of the doctrina is the inclusion
in 1653 of two ayllus of forasteros, or foreigners whose presence considerably
modified not only the social, but also the ethnic composition of the community.44
The first forastero ayllu in the 1653 headcount in Canta included non-Indian
males, all of them married to local Indian women. The first person on the list
was a Spanish man, married to an elite Indian woman. The others were mestizo
or mixed race men, a mulatto man, and two single women of African and Indian
descent. The second forastero ayllu was formed by Indians that had arrived from
other towns and places, some of them as far as Cuzco, in the southeast, and
Zaña, on the north coast. All the men in this ayllu were married to local women.
Since adult males in these ayllus were exempted from the onerous head tax or
paid a lower sum, and were not subject to draft labour (mita), it is likely that
these circumstances explain the larger number of people of all ages belonging
to this ayllu (98) as compared to all other kin groups in Canta.
The inspection records show a total of 83 taxpayers in the two parcialidades and
in the thirteen ayllus of the doctrina. The whole population excluding foreigners
was 512.45 When compared to the figures listed 100 years earlier, we note a
considerable population decline. When interviewed by the inspectors in 1549,
Diego Flores, a Spanish man in charge of the encomendero’s affairs, estimated
there were 750 adult males in Canta.46 That the population of Canta had not
collapsed entirely in the following decades was probably due to the arrival of
new forasteros who, by marrying local women, had gained access to land. Since
these foreigners were exempted from paying the head tax or, if they did pay
tax this was certainly at a lower rate, they possibly had more opportunities
to prosper.47 When added to the registered population, the approximate total
44 From very early in the colonial period, Spanish colonial officers aimed to keep the
indigenous population separated from Spaniards, mixed-race and Africans, arguing that
Indians were thus protected from abuse and bad example. Although this goal proved
unattainable in the large urban centres, it is often assumed that such was not the case in
small provincial settlements. On Spanish colonial policies about race and racial mixing, see
Kathryn Burns, “Unfixing Race”, in Histories of Race and Racism: The Andes and Mesoamerica
from Colonial Times to the Present, ed. by Laura Gotkowitz (Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 2011), pp. 57-71. On the significance of forasteros in Andean colonial society, see
Nicolás Sánchez Albornoz, Indios y tributos en el Alto Perú (Lima: Instituto de Estudios
Peruanos, 1978); and Ann Wightman, Indigenous Migration and Social Change: The Forasteros
of Cuzco, 1570-1720 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1990).
45 Including the 75 people of all ages found in the inspection of the town of Carcas,
subsidiary or annex of the doctrina of Canta, a settlement situated further up the valley.
The headcount does not provide total numbers, but only for the first ayllu of the first
moiety registered. According to this view, the number of taxpayers would have been
higher, since Escalante incorporated to the headcount those who were absent.
46 Rostworowski, “Las visitas”, p. 347. The population losses are appalling. The friars
carrying out the inspection in 1549 also noted a number of abandoned houses. Ibid., p. 295.
47 The incorporation of forasteros into the registers of taxpayers was not uniform throughout the
Andes. It is not apparent from the documents herein studied that forasteros were also taxpayers.
number of people living in Canta rose to 610. Although additional evidence

would be necessary to better understand their place within the community, it
would be safe to say that forasteros contributed with their labour to the benefit of
the whole community — in constructing and maintaining irrigation works, for
example — and also engaged with ritual life within the doctrina, a participation
that also demanded family and community expenditures.
Fig. 8.8 Sample page of the census conducted in 1653 by Juan de Escalante y Mendoza showing
part of the headcount of reservados, adult men and women who because of their occupation, age
or health were exempted from paying tribute (EAP333/1/3/11 image 106), Public Domain.
The presence of forasteros made figuring out the number of people required
to form a doctrina problematic. The Canta headmen’s request was to make the
number of taxpayers correspond with the number of heads of households, while
the view of the church was to count the total number of doctrina inhabitants,
independently of age, gender and fiscal status. This was a serious matter
of contention because of the crucial issue placed at the core of the petition
presented at the start: who was supposed to pay for the priest’s salary and
what was its rightful source?
As we have seen, the priest’s salary was a portion of the taxes the
repartimiento Indians paid to the encomendero and, once the encomienda ceased
to exist, the payment was due to the corregidor. The indigenous headmen
from Canta reasoned that if there were not enough taxpayers an additional
doctrina was not justified. This view was not only based on the manifest
decline in population, but also on the understanding that they had a right
to be protected from abuse.48 From the viewpoint of the church, the decision
to include every single inhabitant of the doctrina — whose souls had to be
saved through the administration of the sacraments — was not arbitrary
but legally supported by the decrees of the Council of Trent and the Lima
church councils.49
A closely connected issue in the dispute was the source that provided
the funds to pay for the priest’s salary. The petitioners challenged the
archbishop’s decision to use the revenue from the community-owned farm
now that the Pariamarca textile mill was closed, arguing that community
assets were to be used only for the Indians’ own benefit.50 The fact that
revenues from the obraje had been assigned to the doctrina at the time of its
foundation was exceptional, they maintained. The status of Pariamarca, its
inhabitants and resources is nevertheless left in the dark. For reasons that
remain unexplained, Escalante carried out the headcount in the town of
48 On the political principles that guided the link between the Spanish king and the
indigenous vassals, see Alejandro Cañeque, The King’s Living Image: The Culture and
Politics of Viceregal Power in Colonial Mexico (London: Routledge, 2004). An excellent
discussion about how indigenous people understood and made use of the law under
Spanish colonial rule can be found in Brian P. Owensby, Empire of Law and Indian Justice
in Colonial Mexico (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2008).
49 See note 15, and “Autos de la supresión…” f. 44v, where the archbishop’s representative
argues that even if the population is smaller than the required number of parishioners
established by law, ultimately the decision to create or maintain a parish belonged to the
bishop.
50 Community assets were meant to provide extra income when resources were insufficient
for the maintenance of community members or to acquire the necessary means to pay for
the head tax.
Canta and in the subsidiary settlement of Carcas, situated on the same river
valley, but apparently he did not visit Pariamarca or the towns nearby (Figs.
8.9 and 8.10). This is intriguing, since Escalante’s knowledge of the doctrina
was far from superficial: before his appointment as priest of the doctrina of
Quivi, he had been parish priest at Pariamarca.51
Fig. 8.9 Cultivated fields in Pariamarca, August 2014. Photo by Évelyne Mesclier, CC BY.
The 1549 and 1553 inspections records of Canta, published by María

Rostworowski, shed light on the special circumstances of Pariamarca. At
that time, Pariamarca was not described as a village. The indigenous chiefs
informed the inspectors in 1549 that it had no inhabitants and that under
Inca rule weavers spent limited periods of time there producing cumbi, the
51 The historical archives of the archdiocese of Lima (AAL) hold the file of a petition
Escalante presented in 1640, wherein he describes himself as “el bachiller don Juan de
Escalante y Mendoza, presbítero, cura y vicario del pueblo de Pariamarca y sus anexos…”.
AAL, Curatos Diversos, 1622-1899, exp. 42v. The reference is found in Melecio Tineo,
Vida eclesiástica, Perú colonial y republicano: Catálogos de documentación sobre parroquias y
doctrinas de indios. Arzobispado de Lima, siglos XVI-XX, 1 (Cuzco: Centro Bartolomé de las
Casas, 1997), p. 403.
finest textiles that only elite individuals were allowed to use.52 The inspectors
arriving in 1553 in Pariamarca described it as a place where artisans belonging
to the seven moieties of Canta assembled to weave cumbi. The inspectors
found 29 well-built houses, and cultivated plots of land, but the people they
interviewed informed them that there were no permanent residents and the
houses they had seen were but temporary dwellings.53
The early sixteenth-century inspection records reveal that Pariamarca
was a pre-Columbian centre of textile production. That the site did not have
a permanent population was not exceptional, as a number of settlements
across the Andes were used only temporarily.54 After the Spanish conquest,
Pariamarca became an obraje and remained in indigenous hands. When
the archbishop of Lima, Toribio Alfonso de Mogrovejo visited the diocese
in 1598, Pariamarca was not yet a parish; it was listed in the records
as a subsidiary village (pueblo) of the doctrina of Canta. It appears that
because of the obraje, Pariamarca’s status was exceptional. The headcount
carried out during Mogrovejo’s inspection yielded a total of 335 people
in Pariamarca, but not all of them were included in the total population
count of the doctrina. The textile mill was mentioned as a place in addition
to the subsidiary towns of Canta.55
Who exactly were the labourers at the obraje is unclear. According to
the headmen of Canta that requested the closing down of the doctrina in
1653, production at the obraje relied on draft labour (mitayos);56 this explains
why, once the textile mill was destroyed, the labourers disbanded. The
52 In the course of the visitation, the inspectors noted sixteen abandoned villages and were
informed that artisans lived in them only temporarily. Pariamarca is mentioned in the
records as Paron Marca Cambis. Rostworowski, “Las visitas”, p. 345. On the role of
textiles and especially of cumbi in Andean society, see Gabriela Ramos, “Los tejidos y la
sociedad colonial andina”, Colonial Latin American Review, 19 (2010), 115-49.
53 Rostworowski, “Las visitas”, pp. 370-71.
54 Mumford, p. 25.
55 José Antonio Benito, Libro de visitas de santo Toribio de Mogrovejo (1593-1605) (Lima:
Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 2006), p. 172. Unfortunately, the inspection
records do not provide an explanation for how the headcount was conducted. It is unclear
why the obraje was noted apart. The omission is probably not entirely Mogrovejo’s
secretary’s fault: the transcription of the pastoral visitations is poorly edited and the
errors are so many that scholars must use it with much caution.
56 The Inca used draft labour, regularly levied for several purposes, from agriculture to
public works. Spanish colonial officers adapted this system for the benefit of miners,
encomenderos, farmers, obrajes, various entrepreneurs, and urban centres. The system was
called mita and the labourers were known as mitayos. See Mumford, pp. 95-96; and Karen
Spalding, “The Crises and Transformations of Invaded Societies: The Andean Area”, in
The Cambridge History of the Native Peoples of the Americas, ed. by Frank Salomon and
Stuart B. Schwartz, 3 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 904-72.
inspections of 1549 and 1553 present a different view, as they suggest that
all the Canta parcialidades, ayllus and settlements periodically sent labourers
to Pariamarca to weave cloth. Cloth and clothing were also produced
domestically, and the products were taken to Lima and sold to get the cash
necessary to pay the head tax.57
Finding out the names and number of the obraje labourers, as well as
where they resided was crucial to determine the boundaries of the parish.
If the labourers were from the doctrina, then Pariamarca had to continue to
exist, as the archbishopric’s representative maintained. If they were coming
from elsewhere, as the Canta headmen argued, the labourers had already
left, their pastoral care was under other parish jurisdictions, and there was
little justification for keeping the doctrina in Pariamarca.
These issues were difficult to elucidate because, in order to pursue their
productive activities and to respond to the demands of the colonial state,
the local population was and needed to be very mobile. In fact, many adult
men and a smaller number of women moved out from their doctrinas never
to return, as the case of the forasteros living in Canta demonstrates. When
Escalante conducted the headcount in 1653, several adult men, a few boys and
a couple of women were registered as missing (ausentes). Indigenous officers
were constantly accused of hiding their subjects to evade tribute payments
and, as the case of the non-inhabited, although non-abandoned, villages
demonstrates, in the Andes people often made use of their space differently
from the way certain Spanish authorities were prepared to understand.
There was more to this case. Having learned about the petition to close
down the doctrina of Pariamarca, don Francisco Pizarro Caruavilca, the
cacique of the village of Lachaqui (subsidiary of Pariamarca) requested the
archbishopric that, if the Canta headmen were successful, his town of Lachaqui
and all others under his authority should not become subsidiary to Canta.
Don Francisco adduced that the long distances in between villages, the rough
terrain, and the difficulties involved in travelling up the valley, especially
during the rainy season, made Lachaqui’s attachment to the doctrina of Canta
inconvenient. He explained that his people spent most part of the year not
in Lachaqui, but working in their farms in the low-altitude, warmer sections
of the valley, in a location called Mallo. The people of Lachaqui, argued don
Francisco, regularly attended mass at Mallo and, when necessary, at Quivi,
where they also went regularly to comply with the mita or draft labour.58
57 Rostworowski, “Las visitas”, p. 372.

58 Among a number of duties, Indians complying with the mita had to provide services at
Fig. 8.10 A street in Pariamarca, August 2014. Photo by Évelyne Mesclier, CC BY.
If Pariamarca ceased to exist as a doctrina, don Francisco and his people would
be compelled to travel to Canta to attend a series of unavoidable religious
functions, from regular mass and confession to Holy Week and Corpus
Christi, not to speak of the contributions in money and labour the curate at
Canta was likely to demand from them. This situation would threaten their
welfare, for the long and dangerous journeys to Canta would not allow them
to look after their farms. The archbishopric requested don Diego de Vergara,
a canon in the Lima cathedral chapter and a former parish priest at Quivi, to
offer his opinion on the petition. One by one, displaying knowledge about the
conditions of the terrain, about the weather, about the villages in the region
and the distances between them, Vergara dismissed don Francisco’s points.
Don Alonso Osorio, also a canon and former parish priest, presented a brief
inns (tambos) located in key points on Andean roads. One of these inns was situated in
the town of Quivi.
statement sharing Vergara’s views. But these interventions from the high
clergy did not dismiss the cacique’s petition, for both Vergara and Osorio also
advised against the closing down of the doctrina of Pariamarca.
The canons’ involvement in the proceedings had the effect of disempowering
the cacique by accusing him of misrepresenting the situation, but in an oblique
manner, their statements were also a boost for don Francisco, who must
have been relieved at the prospect that his people would not fall under the
dominance of the curate of Canta and possibly, that of its indigenous headmen.
Conclusion
Fig. 8.11 A view of the town and valley of Canta, August 2014.
Photo by Évelyne Mesclier, CC BY.
The file ends rather abruptly, leaving us wondering about the outcome of
the proceedings. Once Escalante finished the headcount in Canta, we find
don Francisco’s petition, followed by Vergara’s and Osorio’s depositions.
The final pages, written three years later in 1656, contain two petitions
addressed to the viceregal justice. The first, by the Protector general de los
indios, or Indians’ attorney, and the second by don Phelipe Quispi Guaman
Yauri, governor of the Canta repartimiento. Both petitions reiterate the request
to close down the doctrina of Pariamarca and warn about the political costs
of keeping a parish that so obviously represented a burden on a population
whose numbers continued to decline. We get the impression that the case
would hover indefinitely.
The lack of a conclusion to the proceedings is frustrating, although
unsurprising. In colonial Spanish America — and Peru was no exception
— legal disputes could take years, even decades, without ever reaching
a resolution. Historians investigating the social significance of law under
Spanish colonial rule maintain that its power resided in the proceedings
rather than in the results.59
Parish boundaries in colonial Peru represent a complex set of issues. For
the church and the Spanish crown, dividing the territory to carry out the
evangelising endeavour seemed both appropriate and necessary. Contemporary
ideas about Christian duty were combined with the crown’s imperative to
compensate a number of soldiers, clergymen, entrepreneurs, and bureaucrats
for their services to the king. This was no easy amalgam. The Catholic church,
at the global and local level, provided the principles guiding the procedure.60
Implementing these norms involved dealing with the local populations, which
held their own religious views and kept their own sacred places, had their
own political institutions and systems of authority, in addition to their own
ways of controlling and using vital resources such as land and water. In the
Peruvian Andes, parish boundaries were linked to aspects such as dwindling
population numbers, as well as kinship ties and political alliances that had
been severely affected by the Spanish conquest and continued to evolve. As
all other parts of the colonial edifice, parishes rested upon indigenous labour.
The case studied here exemplifies the extent to which the very existence of
the parish, its functioning and reach, concerned perhaps more than any other
colonial institution, the lives and livelihood of the people.
59 See Owensby. On late August 2014, I visited the town of Pariamarca along with friends
and colleagues, whose company and support I would like to acknowledge: Évelyne
Mesclier, Ana María Hurtado and César Iglesias. From our conversations with the locals,
we learned that no one knows today that in Pariamarca there was ever a textile mill.
Pariamarca has a church, but does not have parish status. For government administration
purposes, Pariamarca is today subordinated to Canta.
60 In 1564 the Spanish crown incorporated the decrees of the Council of Trent as law of the
state. On this subject, see Primitivo Tineo, “La recepción de Trento en España (1565):
disposiciones sobre la actividad episcopal”, Anuario de Historia de la Iglesia, 5 (1996),
241-96.
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Archival resource
Autos de la supresión de la doctrina de Pariamarca en el corregimiento de Canta que se
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Curatos, Leg. 2, Exp. 1, 1653.
9. Researching the history of slavery
in Colombia and Brazil through
ecclesiastical and notarial archives
Jane Landers, Pablo Gómez,
José Polo Acuña and Courtney J. Campbell
This chapter addresses the history of slavery and development in two of the
most African locales in colonial South America: the Pacific and Caribbean
coasts of modern Colombia and northeastern Brazil. Both modern nations
have recognised the historical and civic neglect of the “black communities”
within their borders and now offer them legal and cultural recognition,
as well as, at least theoretical, recognition of ancestral communal land
ownership.1 The endangered archives digitised under the auspices of the
British Library’s Endangered Archives Programme enable researchers, as
well as these neglected populations, to know more about their often hard
to discover past.2
1 “Ley 70 sobre negritudes”, cited in Aline Helg, Liberty and Equality in Caribbean Colombia,
1770-1835 (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2004), pp. 1-2; “Lei No.
7.668, de 22 de agosto de 1988”, http://www.planalto.gov.br/ccivil_03/leis/L7668.htm;
“Programas e ações”.
2 In 2005, with funding from the National Endowment for the Humanities, Vanderbilt
University launched a major international initiative to begin locating and preserving
ecclesiastical and notarial records of Africans in Cuba and Brazil, Ecclesiastical and
Secular Sources for Slave Societies (http://www.vanderbilt.edu/esss/index.php). With
funding from the British Library, the project was expanded into Colombia (EAP255,
EAP503 and EAP640) and into additional areas of Brazil (EAP627).
© J. Landers, P. Gómez, J. Polo Acuña and C.J. Campbell, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.09

Colombia’s rich colonial history began in the early sixteenth century

when war-hardened adventurers like Alonso de Ojeda, already experienced
in the conquest and colonisation of Española (modern Dominican Republic
and Haiti) first explored its Caribbean coast in search of gold, Indian slaves,
and potential profits.3 In 1525, after decades of brutal coastal raids, another
veteran of Española, Rodrigo de Bastidas, founded Santa Marta using slave
labour. However, some of the slaves soon rebelled and burned the fledgling
town before running to the rugged interior hinterlands where they formed
runaway, or maroon, communities known as palenques. Some of these maroon
settlements survived for centuries, resisting the Spanish military expeditions
that attempted to eradicate them.4
Undaunted, in 1533, another émigré from Española, Pedro de Heredia,
founded Cartagena de Indias, also on the Caribbean coast of New Granada.5
Treasure hunters from Cartagena initially employed African slaves to
extract gold from looted tombs of the Sinú Indians.6 As those treasures were
depleted, Spanish settlers established plantations, ranches and gold mines
in the central valley of Colombia, all of which required large numbers of
enslaved African labourers.
The Magdalena River, which runs through the central valley, became
Colombia’s main artery to the interior and it, too, became a largely African
region (Fig. 9.1). Soon enslaved Africans replaced Indian rowers on the
boats transporting goods to and from Cartagena and Mompox, which was
essentially an inland Caribbean port. Enslaved Africans also built the vast
complex of fortifications and public works that protected Cartagena, while
3 Carl O. Sauer, The Early Spanish Main (London: Cambridge University Press, 1966),
pp. 104-19 and 161-177; Erin Stone, Indian Harvest: the Rise of the Indigenous Slave Trade
from Española to the Circum-Caribbean, 1492-1560 (Ph.D. thesis, Vanderbilt University,
2014); and Nicolás del Castillo Mathieu, “Población aborigen y conquista, 1498-1540”,
in História Económica y Social del Caribe Colombiano, ed. by Adolfo Meisel Roca (Bogotá:
Ediciones Uninorte-ECOE, 1994), pp. 25 and 43.
4 Jane Landers, “The African Landscape of 17th Century Cartagena and its Hinterlands”,
in The Black Urban Atlantic in the Age of the Slave Trade (The Early Modern Americas), ed.
by Jorge Cañizares-Ezguerra, James Sidbury and Matt D. Childs (Philadelphia, PA:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), pp. 147-62.
5 Castillo Mathieu, pp. 43 and 25; Anthony McFarlane, Colombia before Independence:
Economy, Society and Politics under Bourbon Rule (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1993), pp. 17-18; and María del Carmen Borrego Plá, Cartagena de Indias en el Siglo
XVI (Seville: Escuela de Estudios Hispano-Americanos, 1983), pp. 58-61 and 423-35.
6 McFarlane, p. 8.
Researching the history of slavery in Colombia and Brazil 261
potentially more fortunate slaves served as domestics in the private homes

and the many convents of the city.7
Cartagena was designated as an official port of the Spanish fleet system as
early as 1537, and became “by far the largest single port of [slave] debarkation
in the Spanish Americas”.8 Most of the early slave shipments into Cartagena
originated from Upper Guinea (the Rivers of Guinea) and Cabo Verde.
Later shipments through São Tomé brought slaves from Lower Guinea and
Angola.9 David Wheat has used previously unknown port entry records
to document 463 slave ships arriving in Cartagena between 1573 and 1640
that disgorged more than 73,000 enslaved Africans who were recorded by
port officials.10 How many more were smuggled into Cartagena cannot be
known, but these numbers clearly show that the city and its hinterlands,
where even fewer whites resided, quickly took on the aspect of an African
landscape. When the slave ships came into port, agents from as far away as
Lima descended upon Cartagena to conduct purchases, and a number of the
newly arrived slaves were subsequently transported to Portobello (modern
Panama) or to the mines of Potosí in modern Bolivia.11 Many also escaped
to form a network of palenques encircling Cartagena.12
7 Castillo Mathieu, pp. 44-45; and María del Carmen Borrego Plá, “La conformación de una
sociedad mestiza en la época de los Austrias, 1540-1700”, in História Económica y Social, ed.
by A. Meisel Roca (Bogotá: Ediciones Uninorte-ECOE, 1994), pp. 59-108 (pp. 66-68).
8 António de Almeida Mendes, “The Foundation of the System: A Reassessment of the
Slave Trade to the Spanish Americas in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries”, in
Extending the Frontiers: Essays on the New Transatlantic Slave Trade Database, ed. by David
Eltis and David Richardson (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008), pp. 63-94.
9 After the union of the Spanish and Portuguese crowns in 1580, the Portuguese Company
of Cacheu began to export more slaves from Angola and the Kingdom of Kongo. Borrego
Plá, Cartagena de Indias, pp. 58-61 and 423-35.
10 David Wheat, Atlantic Africa and the Spanish Caribbean, 1570-1640 (Chapel Hill, NC:
University of North Carolina Press, forthcoming), ch. 3. Wheat also participated in the
EAP project in Quibdó, EAP255: Creating a digital archive of Afro-Colombian history
and culture: black ecclesiastical, governmental and private records from the Choco,
Colombia, http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP255
11 Linda A. Newson and Susie Minchin, From Capture to Sale: The Portuguese Slave Trade to
Spanish South America in the Early Seventeenth Century (Leiden: Brill, 2007); and Borrego
Plá, “La conformación”, p. 68.
12 Landers, “The African Landscape of 17th Century Cartagena and its Hinterlands”; Jean-
Pierre Tadieu, “Un proyecto utópico de manumission de los cimarrones del ‘Palenque de
los montes de Cartagena’ en 1682”, in Afrodescendientes en las américas: trayectorias sociales
e identitarias: 150 años de la abolición de la esclavitud en Colombia, ed. by Claudia Mosquera,
Mauricio Pardo and Odile Hoffman (Bogotá: Universidad Nacional de Colombia, 2002),
pp. 169-80.
Fig. 9.1 Map of Pacific and Caribbean Colombia,

by James R. Landers, CC BY-NC-ND.
Spanish efforts to control Colombia’s western Pacific coast were simultaneous

to those made on the Caribbean coast, and followed a similar trajectory. Gold-
seeking raiders killed hundreds of natives, burned native villages, attempted
to establish fortified settlements, and were repeatedly driven away. From
the Isthmus of Panama, the Spaniards moved eastward into the Darién and
then eventually pushed farther south into the rugged Chocó, Colombia’s
northwestern region of dense jungles noted for its hot and humid climate and
extreme rainfalls. Hostile native groups with deadly poison-tipped arrows also
prevented Spaniards from settling in the area in the early years of exploration.13
One unhappy Spaniard called the Chocó “an abyss and horror of mountains,
rivers, and marshes”.14 Although for many years, Spaniards considered the
Chocó a useless and unhealthy frontier, discoveries of gold, silver, and later
platinum, attracted miners to the region, and they brought large numbers of
enslaved Africans to extract the precious metals.15 As in other contact zones,
smallpox and later epidemics of measles combined with unaccustomed
labour led to a dramatic decline among the native populations of the Chocó,
and more African labourers were brought in to replace them in the mines
and agricultural production. The newly imported African bozales arriving in
Quibdó and Buenaventura in the eighteenth century lived in small villages or
rancherias located in the tropical rainforest while working on alluvial mining
centers.16 Independent free prospectors called mazamorreros were also drawn
to work in the Chocó.17 The region, therefore, acquired a distinct culture that
blended indigenous, African and European peoples and traditions, although
people of African descent predominated by the eighteenth century.18
In 1654, Spaniards established San Francisco de Quibdó along the Atrato
River that leads to the Caribbean and the small village served as the first
regional capital of the Chocó (Fig. 9.1). Quibdó remained relatively isolated,
13 Sauer, Early Spanish Main, pp. 161-77, 268-69 and 288-89.

14 William Frederick Sharp, Slavery on the Spanish Frontier: The Colombian Chocó, 1680-1810
(Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1976), pp. 19 and 13.
15 Vicente Restrepo, Estudio sobre las minas de oro y plata de Colombia, 2nd edn. (Bogotá: Banco
de la República 1952); Enrique Ortega Ricaurte, Historia documental del Chocó (Bogotá:
Editorial Kelly, 1954); Helg, p. 72; and Sergio A. Mosquera, El Mondongo: Etnolingűística
en la historia Afrochocoana (Bogotá: Arte Laser Publicidad, 2008).
16 See William F. Sharp, “The Profitability of Slavery in the Colombian Chocó, 1680-1810”,
The Hispanic American Historical Review, 55 (1975), 468-95.
17 On the early establishment of mines in the Chocó and the enslaved miners and
mazamorreros who worked them, see Mario Diego Romero, Poblamiento y Sociedad en el
Pacífico Colombiano siglos XVI al XVIII (Cali: Universidad del Valle, 1995). For an overview
of the historiography of this region see Mónica Patricia Hernández Ospina, “Formas de
territorialidad Española en la Gobernación del Chocó durante el siglo XVIII”, Historia
Crítica, 32 (2006), 13-37.
18 On the artistic traditions of the region, see Martha Luz Machado Caicedo, La escultura
sagrada chocó en el contexto de la memoria de la estética de África y su diaspora: ritual y arte
(Bogotá: Universidad Nacional de Colombia, 2011); and Sharp, pp. 20-21.
however, because in 1698, in a vain attempt to curtail contraband trade,

officials of the Royal Audiencia of Santa Fe de Bogotá banned commerce on
the river. The village of Nóvita, on the San Juan River in the southern Chocó,
therefore, became the first important mining center in the region, as well as
the Chocó’s new regional capital. Although Indian attacks led Spaniards to
abandon Nóvita several times, the area’s gold deposits always lured them
back to re-build it. In 1784, Bourbon reformers re-opened the Atrato River to
legal maritime trade, and Quibdó finally gained importance as a commercial
center. In the nineteenth century, it again became the regional capital.19 The
abolition of slavery in 1851 disrupted labour supplies for the gold mines of
Nóvita causing it to decline in economic importance, but Quibdó’s commerce
was relatively unaffected.20 Many of the formerly enslaved in Quibdó had
already purchased their freedom with gold mined on days off or stolen from
their owners, and by the eighteenth century the Chocó was home to a large
free population of African descent.21
Still considered an inhospitable locale for its distinctive climate, the Chocó
is today also notorious for the activities of leftist and paramilitary groups and
drug trafficking organisations including the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias
de Colombia (FARC), which has been waging war against the Colombian state
for more than five decades. An estimated 20,000 Chocoanos, most of African
descent, have been displaced by the violence.22 While creating misery for the
local inhabitants of the Chocó, this military conflict has also exacerbated the
threat to local history and the remaining archives in the region. Supported
by the project EAP255, Pablo Gómez trained students from the Universidad
Tecnológica del Chocó “Diego Luis Córdoba” to digitalise some of the most
endangered colonial records of the region (Fig. 9.2). The project captured
images from the First Notary of Quibdó and the Notary of Buenaventura,
a city in the Department of Valle, in southern Colombia. All date from the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and many have suffered damage from
humidity, fungus and lack of attention in poorly maintained storage space.
19 Orián Jiménez, “El Chocó: Libertad y poblamiento, 1750-1850”, in Afrodescendientes en las

américas, pp. 121-41.
20 Royal orders repeated this prohibition many times over the course of the eighteenth
century. Sharp, Slavery on the Spanish Frontier, pp. 10, 14 and 15.
21 Ibid., pp. 148-70; and Sergio Mosquera, “Los procesos de manumisión en las provincias
del Chocó”, in Afrodescendientes en las américas, pp. 99-120.
22 Carlos Rosero, “Los afrodescendientes y el conflicto armado en Colombia: La insistencia
en lo propio como alternativo”, in Afrodescendientes en las américas, pp. 547-59.
Fig. 9.2 The Quibdó team examines a notarial register at the EAP workshop.
Africans and their descendants living in Colombia’s remote peripheries like

Quibdó received little attention either from the colonial or state-building projects
and, later, they were largely ignored in Colombia’s historical narratives. The
records recovered by the EAP255 project allow researchers to reconstruct the
history of these largely forgotten regions and populations. Notarial documents
from the region include land sales, mortgages, and many slave sales that offer
interesting data not only about the age, sex, and profession of each slave,
but also, occasionally, information about the slave’s past history, physical
appearance, characteristics and health.23 These records contain untapped
23 Some published examples appear in Sergio A. Mosquera, Memorias de los Ultimos

Esclavizadores en Citará: Historia Documental (Carátula: Promotora Editorial de Autores
Chocoanos, 1996).
information related to the most important economic activity in the region: gold
and platinum mining by black slaves, and the social conditions in the towns
and mines developed around this enterprise. They hold registers related to
the sale and transfer of property (including slaves), certificates of payment
and of debt cancelation, wills, ethnic origin of slaves arriving in Chocó and
the south Colombian Pacific, and activities of different state and ecclesiastical
actors, including visits by the Inquisition office during the eighteenth century.
These sources also provide important data related to the development of
independent communities and maroon settlements and their relationships with
Emberá-Wounaan groups that inhabited the area for centuries. Indeed, almost
every slave inventory from the eighteenth century lists at least one or two slave
runaways. Registers of slave manumission in Chocó date as early as 1720, and
after buying their freedom former slaves started migrating to places like the
Baudo valley where they formed largely black towns with cultural and social
characteristics similar to the palenques established by escaped slaves.24
These communities lived in the most difficult conditions. The Colombian
Pacific still has — as it has since reliable records begin — some of the highest
morbidity and mortality rates of any place in the Americas. This should not be
surprising given the harsh climate of the area, the impoverished conditions in
which most of the inhabitants of the region still live, and the violence that has
characterised the rise and decline of mining and narcotic plantation booms in
the region. Starting in the mid-eighteenth century notarial records, most of the
registers of slaves’ sales, denunciations for mistreatment, or death registers, also
describe the usual roster of diseases that challenged life in the early modern era:
yellow fever, malaria, typhus, smallpox, bubonic plague, syphilis and leprosy,
among many others. While traveling around the Atrato and San Juan Rivers in
the 1820s, French geologist Jean Baptiste Boussingault wrote:
The black sailing my piragua was a magnificent human specimen. However,

he had on his thigh an enormous scrofulous, or venereal tumor, a disease that
was very common around the places through which we were traveling. […]
At around six in the afternoon we disembarked in a Rancheria close to a place
called “Las Muchachas”. The blacks who received us were covered in venereal
ulcers and disfigured by cancerous afflictions [certainly symptoms of leprosy].
They live very happily as a family when there is a complete nose for ten people.
This is a most sad spectacle.25
24 Sharp, Slavery on the Spanish Frontier.

25 As quoted in Sergio A. Mosquera, Don Melchor de Barona y Betancourt y la esclavización
en el Chocó (Quibdó-Chocó: Universidad Tecnológica del Chocó “Diego Luis Córdoba”,
2004), p. 162.
Fig. 9.3 Notarial Document from Quibdó (EAP255/2).

Photo by Quibdó team member, CC BY-NC-ND.
The register of slave sales from Chocó and Buenaventura amply confirm
Boussingault’s observations about the prevalence of leprosy. Among the specific
designations uniquely referring to leprosy that appear in the records we have
digitalised are “galico reventado, llaga, ahoto, gota coral, and tumors”, among
others. For instance, Fig. 9.3 provides an example of the sale in 1810 in San
Francisco de Quibdó, capital of the province of Citará (today Chocó) of two
slaves, Antonino and his wife, Micaela. The seller was José María Palomeque
who was registered as a vecino (registered inhabitant) of the city of Cartago,
but lived in the province of Citará. Palomeque sold the two slaves to Rita
Alarcon, also a resident of Citará for four hundred and two hundred pesos
respectively. In the sale document, Palomenque expressly took responsibility
for “all the vices, tachas [marks or scars], defects, and public diseases, such as
it is the galico reventado [my emphasis] of which said Micaela suffers and other
hidden ones [they might have]”.26
Hundreds of similar records contain information about the different
diseases suffered by communities of free and enslaved blacks, with most
of the cases pertaining to leprosy and/or syphilis. The records coming from
the Colombian Pacific also illustrate the dynamics of community formation
in these rancherias that were outside the purview of the state. They add an
important chapter to the historiography of public health in the country,
centered, in this case, on descriptions of leprosarium and the “aldeas de
leprosos” (villages of lepers) in the Andes and northern Colombia.27
Eighteenth and nineteenth-century slave trading records from Chocó and
the Colombian Pacific include cases of masters who had to sell their slaves
for a reduced price due to the lesions produced by leprosy. These cases are
probably but a fraction of the real incidence of the disease in the population.
Except for anecdotal reports coming from travellers like Boussingault, there
is virtually no information, outside the records saved by the EAP255 project,
regarding the health conditions, or for that matter, economic, demographic
and social conditions of the black population of these villages on the banks of
26 Notaria Primera de Quibdo, Libro de Venta de Esclavos 1810-188, Fol. 132r. Notaría
Primera de Riohacha Archive, Protocolo 1, Riohacha, 23 March 1831. Notaría Primera de
Riohacha Archive, Protocolo 1, Riohacha, 4 May, 1831. Baptism of María Olalla, Book of
Baptisms, San Gerónimo de Buenavista, Montería, Córdoba, 20 February 1809.
27 See, for instance, Diana Obregón, “Building National Medicine: Leprosy and Power
in Colombia, 1870-1910”, Social History of Medicine, 15 (2002), 89-108; or Pilar Sabater,
“Discurso sobre una enfermedad social: La lepra en el virreinato de la Nueva Granada en
la transición de los siglos XVIII y XIX”, Dynamis, 19 (1998), 401-28; and Abel F. Martínez
Martín, El lazareto de Boyacá: lepra, medicina, iglesia y estado 1869-1916 (Tunja: Universidad
Pedagógica y Tecnológica de Colombia, 2006).
the Atrato and San Juan Rivers at that time. The isolation of most of the towns
in the Chocó and the Valle del Cauca gave rise to communitarian models
for the perception of disease that emerged spontaneously and preceded
mandatory isolationist projects that public health officials enacted during
the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.
The early twentieth century saw the consolidation of the Colombian State,
the formation of a national bourgeoisie and the inclusion of the nation within
the world economy through the expansion of coffee exports. Modernisation
of the country became a national priority, for which leprosy was an obstacle.
According to nineteenth century publications on the geography of leprosy,
Colombia competed with India for primacy in terms of incidence of the
disease — a contest that the Colombian elites refused to win. If Colombia
was seen by outsiders as a pestilent country, a “leprosarium” in the words
of none other than Gerard Amauer Hansen, the Norwegian scientist who
discovered the mycobacterium causing the disease, Chocó became increasingly
portrayed as a place inhabited by sick black people.28
While the Chocó’s early settlers struggled to exploit the gold and platinum
mines and survive its hostile environment and inhabitants, the lesser
frequented, and less settled northeastern coasts of Colombia, first noted as
a source of pearls, became infamous in the later sixteenth century as sites of
contraband, piracy and illegal slave importations.29 Nuestra Señora de los
Remedios del Río de la Hacha, later known simply as Riohacha, was said
to be “rich only in pearle and cattell”.30 Its beleaguered governor reported
it suffered repeated attacks by “the cruelest Indians of these regions”.31
Riohacha also suffered frequent attacks by French and English pirates and
smugglers. In the 1560s, John Hawkins illicitly sold slaves seized in Sierra
Leone to local pearl fishermen and, in 1596, his kinsman, the famous English
pirate Francis Drake, sacked Riohacha and sailed away with 100 African
slaves as part of his booty.32 Riohacha remained a smuggling centre in the
28 Diana Obregón, “The Anti-leprosy Campaign in Colombia: The Rhetoric of Hygiene and
Science, 1920-1940”, História, Ciências, Saúde-Manguinhos, 10 (2003), 179-207.
29 Kenneth R. Andrews, The Spanish Caribbean: Trade and Plunder 1530-1630 (New Haven,
CT: Yale University Press, 1978), pp. 27-29; Kris E. Lane, Pillaging the Empire: Piracy in the
Americas 1500-1750 (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe, 1998), pp. 27, 36-38, 106 and 117; and K.
R. Andrews, The Last Voyage of Drake and Hawkins (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1972), p. 95.
30 David Laing Purves, The English Circumnavigators: The Most Remarkable Voyages Round the
World by English Sailors (London: William P. Nimmo, 1874), p. 103.
31 Relación, 24 January 1596, Archivo General de Indias, cited in Andrews, The Spanish
Caribbean, p. 29.
32 Andrews, The Spanish Caribbean, pp. 49, 84, 118-19, 124-25 and 164-65.
seventeenth century for buccaneers such as Henry Morgan sailing out of

newly-English Jamaica.33
In this Caribbean port, as in the mines of the Chocó and on the Magdalena
River of the central valley, African slaves soon replaced native labourers,
working primarily as divers in the coastal pearl fisheries. Conditions were
brutal and many of the enslaved, like their counterparts elsewhere in Colombia,
soon fled their misery eastward to the La Guajira Peninsula where they joined
indigenous rebels fighting their mutual Spanish oppressors.34
Although Riohacha’s pearl fisheries were eventually exhausted, smuggling
continued along Colombia’s northern coast throughout the eighteenth century.
Riohacha became part of a wider Caribbean and Atlantic commercial network
of informal trade and smuggling, centred on nearby Jamaica and Curaçao. The
bulk of this highly profitable, but in Spanish law, illicit, trade was in livestock
(horses, cattle, mules and goats), textiles and slaves.35 In 1717, Spain’s Bourbon
Reformers attempted to regain economic and political control of the region by
making Riohacha part of the newly created Viceroyalty of New Granada, but
based on his extensive research in Spanish colonial treasury accounts, Lance
Grahn argues that “as much if not more, contraband passed through Riohacha
than any other single region in the Spanish New World”.36
East of Riohacha, the La Guajira Peninsula jutted northward into the
Caribbean and closer, still, to British commercial centres. The Wayúu Indians
controlled the Guajira Peninsula and long resisted Catholic evangelisation and
Spanish domination. The peninsula existed in a state of almost permanent war
well into the eighteenth century and the beleaguered Spanish governor Soto
de Herrera referred to the Wayúu as “barbarians, horse thieves, worthy of
death, without God, without law and without a king.”37 A large Spanish force
sent from Cartagena in 1771 “to reduce the rebellious Guajiros to obedience
33 Lane, pp. 27, 36-38, 106 and 117; and Andrews, The Last Voyage of Drake, p. 95.
34 Miguel Acosta Saignes, Vida de los Esclavos Negros en Venezuela (Caracas, Hespérides
1967), pp. 255-58.
35 Lance R. Grahn, “An Irresoluble Dilemma: Smuggling in New Granada, 1713-1763”, in
Reform and Insurrection in Bourbon New Granada and Peru, ed. by John R. Fisher, Allan J.
Kuethe and Anthony McFarlane (Baton Rouge, LA: Louisiana State University Press,
1990), pp. 123-46. Also see Ernesto Bassi Arevalo, Between Imperial Projects and National
Dreams: Communication Networks, Geopolitical Imagination, and the Role of New Granada
in the Configuration of a Greater Caribbean Space, 1780s-1810s (Ph.D. thesis, University of
California, Irvine, 2012).
36 Lance Grahn, The Political Economy of Smuggling: Regional Informal Economies in Early
Bourbon New Granada (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1997), ch. 3.
37 Eduardo Barrera Monroy, “La Rebelión Guajira de 1769: algunas constants de la Cultura
Wayuu y razones de su pervivencia”, Revista Credencial Historia (June, 1990), http://
www.banrepcultural.org/blaavirtual/revistas/credencial/junio1990/junio2.htm
through respect for Spanish military might” thought better of a fight when met
with more than seven times their number of Indians armed with British guns.38
The fierce Wayúu acquired many of those guns through adept contraband
trade in pearls and brazilwood.39 The Wayúu also acquired contraband slaves
from British and Dutch merchants. For example, in 1753, Pablo Majusares and
Toribio Caporinche, two powerful Wayúu chiefs living in the northern region
of the Guajira Peninsula, owned eight African slaves who they employed in
pearl fishing.40 Other slaves belonging to them were destined for service in
the Wayúu’s feared military force.41
Fig. 9.4 Project directors and University of Cartagena student team at EAP
workshop. Photo by Mabel Vergel, CC BY-NC-ND.
EAP503: Creating a digital archive of a circum-Caribbean trading entrepôt:

notarial records from La Guajira42 enabled students from the Universidad de
Cartagena, under the supervision of José Polo Acuña and assistants Mabel
Vergel and Diana Carmona to digitalise notarial documents that show that
slaves continued to be important in the economy of nineteenth-century
38 Grahn, The Political Economy of Smuggling, ch. 3; Helg, Liberty and Equality in Caribbean
Colombia, pp. 27-31 and 43-48; and Eduardo Barrera Monroy, Mestizaje, comercio y
resistencia: La Guajira durante la segunda mitad del siglo XVIII (Bogotá: Instituto Colombiano
de Antropolgía e Historia, 2000), p. 35.
39 José Polo Acuña, Etnicidad, conflicto social y cultura fronteriza en la Guajira, 1700-1850
(Bogotá: Universidad de los Andes, 2005). The Wayúu also traded with British and Dutch
merchants for gunpowder, knives, slaves, textiles and foodstuffs. Monroy, Mestizaje,
comercio y resistencia, p. 98.
40 Petra Josefina Moreno, Guajiro-Cocinas: Hombres de historia 1500-1900 (Ph.D. thesis,
Complutense University, Madrid, 1984), p. 188.
41 Ibid.
Riohacha (Fig. 9.4).43 Documents from the Notaría Primera of Riohacha offer
numerous examples of slave transactions. For example, on 23 March 1831, the
widow Ana Sierra sold a 25-year-old mulatta slave named Felipa to Maria
Francisca Blanchard, a merchant in Riohacha, for 250 pesos.44 Sometime later,
Blanchard sold the same slave to Miguel Machado for 200 pesos, although
the documents offer no clues as to why the slave’s price dropped.45 The same
Miguel Machado appears again in the notarial documents when he bought
a seventeen-year-old slave named Francisco Solano from Maria Encarnacion
Valverde for 100 pesos. Francisco was the son of another slave who served
in Valverde’s household.46
These notarial records also document links between merchants in Riohacha
and their factors in the islands of Aruba, Curacao and Jamaica, and show how
authorities in Riohacha were able to strengthen their grip on the fertile lands
located south of the Rancheria River through peace treaties with formerly
hostile indigenous groups. Peace allowed for the southward expansion of the
agricultural and cattle ranching frontier, increased production for internal
consumption and commercial exchange, and the further integration of Riohacha.
As Bourbon reformers of the eighteenth century attempted to halt smuggling
and encourage development in Riohacha, they also established new towns to
help support their most important port of Cartagena de Indias. Some of the
new towns located south of Cartagena in the Department of Córdoba were
connected to it via the Sinú River, which also connected the southern towns
to the Atrato River, Quibdó and the Pacific.47
The EAP640 project also enabled teams from the University of Cartagena
to digitalise ecclesiastical records from the churches of Santa Cruz de Lorica
and San Jerónimo de Buenavista in Montería in the Department of Córdoba
in northern Colombia (Figs. 9.5 and 9.6).48
43 José Polo Acuña, “Territorios indígenas y estatales en la península de la Guajira (1830-

1850)”, in Historia social del Caribe Colombiano: Territorios, indígenas, trabajdores, cultura,
memoria e historia, ed. by José Polo Acuña and Sergio Paolo Solano (Cartagena: La Carreta
Editores, 2011), pp. 45-71.
44 Notaría Primera de Riohacha Archive, Protocolo 1, Riohacha, 23 March 1831.
45 Ibid.
46 Notaría Primera de Riohacha Archive, Protocolo 1, Riohacha, 4 May, 1831.
47 José Polo Acuña and Ruth Gutiérrez Meza, “Territorios, gentes y culturas libres en el
Caribe continental Neograndino 1700-1850: una síntesis”, in Historia social del Caribe
Colombiano, pp. 13-44.
48 EAP640: Digitising the documentary patrimony of Colombia’s Caribbean coast: the
ecclesiastical documents of the Department of Córdoba, http://eap.bl.uk/database/
overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP640
Fig. 9.5 Endangered ecclesiastical records from the Iglesia de Santa Cruz de Lorica,
Córdoba. Photo by Cartagena team member, CC BY-NC-ND.
Fig. 9.6 Students learn to film endangered records at Vanderbilt’s digital workshop
at the University of Cartagena. Photo by David LaFevor, CC BY.
Montería was established in the eighteenth century along the Sinú River,
which links it to the Caribbean Sea. It is noted as a ranching capital and
also an ethnically and culturally diverse region where Zenú Indians and
descendants of Spaniards and Africans all interacted. An official history of
Montería states that two different delegations of Zenú Indians presented
their chiefs’ petitions to the governors of Cartagena asking that the Spanish
town be established in their territory.49
Fig. 9.7 Cathedral of San Jerónimo de Buenavista, Montería, Córdoba.

Photo by Mabel Vergel, CC BY-NC-ND.
The ecclesiast records of San Gerónimo de Buenavista (as it was earlier spelled)
(Fig. 9.7) provide insights into one of the most ethnically diverse areas of
Córdoba. The Catholic church mandated the baptism of African slaves in the
fifteenth century and extended this requirement across the Catholic Americas.
Once baptised, Africans and their descendants were also eligible for the
sacraments of marriage and a Christian burial.50 Baptism records such as the
one below give the date of the ceremony, the name of the priest performing it,
49 See http://www.cordoba.gov.co/cordobavivedigital/cordoba_monteria.html. Also see

Pilar Moreno de Ángel, Antonio de la Torre y Miranda Viajero y Poblador (Bogotá: Planeta
Colombiana Editorial, 1993).
50 Jane Landers, “African ‘Nations’ as Diasporic Institution-Building in the Iberian
Atlantic”, in Dimensions of African and Other Diasporas, ed. by Franklin W. Knight and
Ruth Iyob (Kingston: University of the West Indies Press, 2014), pp. 105-24.
the name of the person baptised (whether child or adult), the parents’ names
if known, and whether the child or adult was born of a legitimate marriage, or
was the “natural” child of unmarried parents. Priests also noted if the baptism
was performed “in case of necessity”, allowing researchers to track epidemic
cycles. The names of the baptised person’s godparents are also given in these
records. Godparents had the responsibility for helping raise their godchild
in the Catholic faith, and in case of the parents’ deaths, they were to raise the
child as their own. Thus, community networks can be traced through patterns
of compadrazgo (godparentage).
Fig. 9.8 Baptism document of Maria Olalla, San Jerónimo de Buenavista Cathedral,
Montería, Córdoba (EAP640). Photo by Cartagena team member, CC BY-NC-ND.
The records of San Gerónimo de Buenavista, unlike those from other Caribbean
sites, do not specifically note the race of the person baptised, supporting modern
theories about the historical invisibility of Afro-Colombians. However, researchers
can at times find racial clues in the names of parents. In Fig. 9.8, the priest, Don
Manuel José Beractegui, baptises the legitimate child, María Olalla, born on
12 February 1809 to parents Victoriano Congo and his wife, Simona Sánchez.
That the father bore an ethnic surname suggests that he is African-born, or at
least not recognised as fully acculturated. However, he is a free man; otherwise
his enslaved status would have been noted. A notation to the left of the entry
indicates that the baptism was performed as an act of charity, meaning that the
parents could not afford the standard ecclesiastical fee.51
As Spaniards explored, exploited and finally colonised the northern coast of
what is today Colombia, the Portuguese followed similar patterns along Brazil’s
northeastern coast. Despite challenges from French and Dutch competitors in
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the Portuguese successfully colonised
Brazil, transferring techniques of sugarcane cultivation and slaves from West
and Central Africa to the coast of Brazil.52 Brazil’s early sugar cultivation
concentrated along its northeastern coast.53 The region’s settlers exported
sugar and other products and imported goods and enslaved Africans through
the major port cities of Recife, Olinda and Salvador, but sugar mills were
scattered throughout the countryside and smaller cities also supplied sugar
for export. Settlers deep in the sertão (backlands) also raised livestock for local
consumption.54
The history of the state of Paraíba (situated to the north of Pernambuco and
to the south of Rio Grande do Norte and Ceará) has received less attention
than that of its northeastern neighbours despite its interest and significance for
Brazilian and Atlantic World history (see Fig. 9.9 for a map of colonial Paraíba
and Fig. 9.10 for a map of modern-day Paraíba).55 When the Portuguese Crown
formed the Capitania of Paraíba in 1574, French settlers still lived in the region,
51 Baptism of María Olalla, Book of Baptisms, San Gerónimo de Buenavista, Montería,

Córdoba, 20 February 1809.
52 For an overview of this period, see Marshall Eakin, Brazil: The Once and Future Country
(New York: St Martin’s Griffin, 1997), pp. 7-66. On African contributions to Brazil see
Linda M. Heywood and John K. Thornton, Central Africans, Atlantic Creoles, and the
Foundation of the Americas, 1585-1660 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007),
pp. 49-108.
53 For an annotated bibliography of suggested readings on this region, see Courtney J.
Campbell, “History of the Brazilian Northeast”, in Oxford Bibliographies in Latin America,
ed. by Ben Vinson (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014).
54 J. Costa Porto, O pastoreio na formação do Nordeste (Rio de Janeiro: Ministério da Educação
e Cultura, Serviço de Documentação, 1959).
55 José Américo de Almeida, A Paraíba e seus problemas, 3rd edn. (João Pessoa: Estado da
Paraíba, Secretaria da Educação e Cultura, Diretoria Geral da Cultura, 1980 [1923]), p. 54.
and the competing Europeans soon allied with warring indigenous nations
to battle one another.56 The Portuguese defeated the French and the Potiguar
Indians in 1584 and established the city of Nossa Senhora das Neves, which
became the political centre of Paraíba, and which is today João Pessoa.57 After a
brief Dutch occupation of some coastal areas of Paraíba from 1634 to 1654, the
Portuguese expanded into the interior sertão in the late seventeenth century.
The names and dates of the first settlers to the region are unknown but they
clustered along river routes to raise livestock and routinely battled the Cariri
and Tarairiu Indians.58
Fig. 9.9 Nova et Accurata Brasiliae Totius Tabula made in 1640 by Joan Blaeu. Note the Capitania
de Paraiba, highlighted on the northeastern coast. Ministério das Relações Exteriores do Brasil,
Public Domain (http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Blaeu1640.jpg).
56 José Octávio de Arruda Mello, História da Paraíba, 11th edn. (João Pessoa: A União, 2008),
pp. 25-26 and p. 263.
57 Ibid., p. 263. Before acquiring its modern name the town was known as Felipéia de Nossa
Senhora das Neves, Frederica, and Paraíba.
58 Ibid., 265. These indigenous groups were later defeated in bloody massacres by
bandeirantes (a type of scouting explorer). José Leal, Vale da Travessia, 2nd edn. (João
Pessoa: Editora e Gráfica Santa Fé Ltda, 1993), p. 17.
Fig. 9.10 Map of Paraíba, highlighting São João do Cariri in the interior and João
Pessoa on the coast, created by Courtney J. Campbell, CC BY-NC-ND.
The interior town of São João do Cariri received its first official land grant
in December 1669 for a place referred to simply as “Sítio São João”, but
this land was probably settled prior to this date. Settlers built the town
centre near where the Rio da Travessia (now the Rio Taperoá) and the
Riacho Jatobá meet. When the parish church was built in 1750, the town
was re-named Travessia dos Quatro Caminhos (Crossing of Four Roads).59
The town’s settlers dedicated themselves to raising livestock (cows, horses,
59 The town was run by the Coronel and cattleman José da Costa Ramos (formerly Costa
Romeu). Leal, p. 25.
sheep and goats) and cultivating cotton, cereals and manioc.60 The area also
developed an important internal market of manioc flour, the liquor known
as aguardente, and compressed sugar. Traveling salesmen with convoys of
donkeys distributed these products throughout the hinterland towns.61
When the parish of Nossa Senhora dos Milagres da Ribeira do Cariri (later
Nossa Senhora dos Milagres do São João do Cariri) was founded by the
Jesuits in 1750, and its church constructed in 1754, it became the largest
parish in Paraíba.62
Although we know from church records that São João do Cariri had
a significant number of enslaved Africans and people of African descent,
there is surprisingly little in the historical literature of the region about
this population. That historians have only recently begun to emphasise the
importance of reconstructing and analysing the history of this population
is not surprising, given their subaltern status. The enslaved Africans of the
sertão were doubly oppressed: first by the institution of slavery and the
slave trade, and then by the cruelty of the recurrent droughts in the region
which left their population especially exposed, abandoned and affected.
These recurrent droughts killed livestock and slaves and created a cycle
of poverty in the region from which, some would say, it has never fully
recovered.63
To better understand the relationship between the sertão, the coastal colonies
and the cities in Brazil’s colonial and imperial history — and to analyse the
role of indigenous and Afro-Brazilian populations in the development of
the region’s economy, culture and history — researchers must consult the
oldest documents remaining in the northeastern region. Unfortunately, as
the examples that follow demonstrate, these sources are frequently in poor
condition and in danger of disintegrating or disappearing within the next
decade. To mitigate this fate, in 2013 a team of researchers supported by the
EAP627 project began digitising documents from the Instituto Histórico e
Geográfico Paraibano (IHGP) in João Pessoa, the Arquivo Histórico Waldemar
Bispo Duarte in João Pessoa, and the Paróquia de Nossa Senhora dos Milagres
do São João do Cariri (Fig. 9.11).64
60 Ibid., p. 55; Padre João Jorge Rietveld, O verde Juazeiro: história da paróquia de São José de
Juazeirinho (João Pessoa: Imprell, 2009), pp. 96-98.
61 Mello, p. 266.
62 Campina Grande superseded it in 1769. Rietveld, p. 98.
63 Ibid., pp. 96-99.
64 EAP627: Digitising endangered seventeenth to nineteenth century secular and
ecclesiastical sources in São João do Cariri e João Pessoa, Paraíba, Brazil, http://eap.bl.uk/
database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP627
Fig. 9.11 Students from the Universidade Federal da Paraíba filming ecclesiastical
records from Nossa Senhora dos Milagres do São João do Cariri (EAP627).
Photo by Tara LaFevor, CC BY.
The IHGP holds volumes of correspondence between royal officials in Portugal

and colonial administrators in João Pessoa, administrative records, notarial
registers, volumes of land grants ceded by Portuguese royalty to colonials,
maps, and some photography. The Arquivo Histórico Waldemar Bispo
Duarte, also in João Pessoa, houses correspondence, and administrative and
notarial records referring to colonial administration, the sale of slaves and
land grants. Finally, the Paróquia de Nossa Senhora dos Milagres in São João
do Cariri, in the backlands, holds baptismal, marriage, death, communion
and church financial records.
As demonstrated in Fig. 9.12, the sesmaria (land grant) records held at
the IHGP and especially at the Arquivo Histórico Waldemar Bispo Duarte
are in such precarious condition that they are no longer made available to
researchers. The iron-based ink originally used to record these documents
has oxidised, eating through the paper and leaving fragile, brittle pages
that either break into strips or seem to disintegrate at the slightest touch.
Preserving a digital copy of these records, then, is the only way to ensure
further research in these documents.
Fig. 9.12 Sesmaria (land grant) document from Paraíba (EAP627).

Photo by Courtney J. Campbell, CC BY-NC-ND.
A sesmaria was a type of land grant by the Portuguese Crown to petitioners

throughout the Portuguese Atlantic World, including Brazil and Angola,
from 1375 to 1822.65 Colonial subjects (who were often already in unofficial
possession of the land) had to petition the governor for these land grants. The
governor would respond to the petition with a letter determining a period
by which the petitioner had to cultivate the land and, once the petitioner had
met these requirements, he or she would send a new petition to the King
who would confirm the sesmaria. These grants came with strings attached:
in order to maintain ownership of the land, the landowner had to cultivate
65 Carmen Margarida Oliveira Alveal, Converting Land into Property in the Portuguese Atlantic
World, 16th-18th Century (Ph.D. thesis, Johns Hopkins University, 2007).
it productively; otherwise, the Portuguese Crown would rescind the grant.66

Carmen Alveal found that the Crown granted sesmarias to “men, women,
Indians, mestiços [persons of European and indigenous descent], free Africans,
clergy, new Christians [that is, Jewish converts to Christianity], soldiers,
[and] religious and civil institutions”.67 The grants affected not only the
petitioners and land grantees, but also the free and enslaved labourers who
worked the lands.
Fig. 9.13 Sesmaria document from Paraíba (EAP627).

Through further study of these documents, researchers might come to a better

understanding not only of the colonial period, but also of the unequal land
distribution that persists in Brazil today. For example, the document in Fig.
66 Ibid., p. 7.
67 Ibid., p. 4.
9.13 housed at the Arquivo Histórico Waldemar Bispo Duarte, describes a

sesmaria grant that was “three leagues long and one wide with two springs
called Coati and Fricheira in the heathen language in the Sertão do Cariri”
to a man named Francisco de Arruda Camara e Salvador Pereira in March of
1735. While these land grants are fairly formulaic, we learn particular details
from each. The sesmaria above provides the name of the grantee and grantor,
the size of the grant, and the ways of measuring the land (“running from
sun-up [East] to sun-down [West]”). The frequent mention of the springs on
the property demonstrates the importance of water in this arid region and
the necessity to register water sources as territory, while the insistence on the
names as belonging to the “heathen language” (Tupi-Guaraní), emphasises
that, to understand and describe the layout of the territory, not only the
Portuguese colonists, but also the Portuguese Crown had to adopt indigenous
terminologies. This grant also describes the land as “uncultivated and not used
to advantage”, the state of the land as “brush and shrub”, and the purpose of
granting as “settlement”. Finally, the inclusion in this letter of handwritten
copies of other letters exchanged with various authorities about this particular
grant allows the reader to witness the various levels of bureaucracy involved
in the granting of one plot of land.
Fig. 9.14 Nossa Senhora dos Milagres do São João do Cariri Church (EAP627).
Fig. 9.15 Book of Baptisms, Marriages and Deaths, 1752-1808, from Paróquia de Nossa
Senhora dos Milagres do São João do Cariri Paraíba (EAP627).
Fig. 9.16 Book of Baptisms, Marriages and Deaths, 1752-1808, from Paróquia de Nossa
Senhora dos Milagres do São João do Cariri Paraíba (EAP627).
Ecclesiastical documents are also essential sources for studying populations

that have not been proportionately represented, including enslaved Africans
and Indians, mixed-race and indigenous slaves and labourers, free workers,
and poor farmers.68 The pages above (Figs. 9.15 and 9.16), for example, come
from the oldest book of baptisms, marriages and deaths of the Paróquia de
Nossa Senhora dos Milagres do São João do Cariri, the Livro 1: Batizados,
casamentos e óbitos anos de 1752 a 1808. This volume is in a particularly damaged
state, suffering from both insect damage and oxidisation of iron-based ink,
with the above page being one of the few that is in one piece and fully legible.
Recognising the historical value of the documents, the church agreed to
allow our team to digitise and make available online the 55 volumes they
house in a small cabinet in the parish office (Fig. 9.14). The collection at this
parish includes bound, handwritten records related to baptisms (1752-1928),
marriages (1752-1931), deaths (1752-1931), confirmations (1778-1816) and
genealogy (1891-1917) of the white, black, Indian, mixed, free, freed, and
slave populations from the region, including Africans from the Mina Coast,
“Guinea” and Angola. It also includes documents referring to the parish
finances (1766-1861). Of particular interest in this book are the terms used to
describe those baptised, married or buried. Baptismal records describe adults
and children as enslaved and freed, legitimate or not, Brazilian-born, African,
black, “pardo” (of mixed ancestry), mulatto, “cabra”, “curiboca”, “mestiço” (of
mixed ancestry), and even “vermelho” (red), demonstrating the commonplace
nature of racial mixing and the very rootedness of miscegenation in the
hinterlands of Paraíba in the eighteenth century.
As seen in the legible page above, parish priests baptised not only
children (referred to as “innocents”), but also adult Africans. At times, slaves
also served as godparents. Marriage records from the same book include
marriages between and among free and enslaved men and women from the
parish and from outside of it, and include Brazilian-born Africans, Indians
from the Nação (nation) Cavalcantes, and Africans from the Coast of Mina,
“Guinea” and Angola. We also learn from this document details about the
layout of the region, the names of the fazendas (ranches), and the names of
smaller chapels where burials were also performed.69
68 Citing EAP project documents, Solange Pereira da Rocha demonstrates that using these
lesser studied sources, “it is possible to elaborate new understandings of the multiplicity
of experiences of men and women that lived the experience of captivity, their perceptions
of their condition as slaves, and the ways in which they reconstituted family ties and
established links with people from other social groups.” Solange Pereira da Rocha, Gente
negra na Paraíba oitocentista: população, família e parentesco espiritual (São Paulo: Editora
UNESP, 2009), p. 66.
69 For comparison, on seventeenth-century church records from Rio de Janeiro see Mariza
Baptismal records have already begun to inform academic research on this

region. For example, Maria da Vitória Barbosa Lima examines the meanings
of freedom among the free and enslaved black population working in the
livestock- and sugar-producing areas of nineteenth-century Paraíba. She
demonstrates that slaves often tried to purchase freedom or escape, while the
poor black population lived precariously on the edge of freedom and slavery.70
Solange Pereira da Rocha’s study of free and enslaved black populations of
nineteenth-century Paraíba analyses baptismal records, focusing on formal
and informal kinship and family formation among both free and enslaved
black residents.71 Rocha finds that slaves advanced their positions “with the
weapons at their disposal – such as intelligence and astuteness”.72
One of these weapons was the creation of kinship ties through baptism.
Slaves used baptism to establish kinship relations with free people in an
attempt to seek freedom, or, at the very least, to create social conditions
that eased their survival in captivity.73 Solange Mouzinho’s forthcoming
Master’s dissertation relies primarily on ecclesiastical records from the
Paróquia de Nossa Senhora dos Milagres do São João do Cariri digitalised
by the British Library’s Endangered Archives Programme.74 Her research
examines how enslaved men, women and children in Vila Real de São João
do Cariri related with others – whether enslaved, freed or free – through
religious life. Mouzinho’s research will give insight into the family and social
relations that the enslaved population of the region created and influenced,
and within which they lived and worked. Through these historical studies,
based on ecclesiastical sources, we learn about the lives, social relations and
culture of the enslaved African and Afro-Brazilian populations of Paraíba.
de Carvalho Soares, People of Faith: Slavery and African Catholics in Eighteenth-Century Rio
de Janeiro (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2011).
70 Maria da Vitória Barbosa Lima, Liberdade interditada, liberdade reavida: escravos e libertos
na Paraíba escravista (século XIX) (Brasília: Fundação Cultural Palmares, 2013). This book
won the 2012 Concurso Nacional de Pesquisa sobre Cultura Afro-Brasileira, a national
award for research on Afro-Brazilian culture given by the Fundação Cultural Palmares,
discussed in more detail below. This recognition demonstrates that the importance of
histories based on these endangered sources has gained national attention as Brazilian
scholars emphasise the importance of studying the effects of slavery on its multi-ethnic
population.
71 Rocha, p. 27.
72 Ibid., p. 294.
73 Ibid.
74 Solange Mouzinho, Parentescos e sociabilidades: experiências de vida dos escravizados no sertão
paraibano de São João do Cariri, 1752-1816 (Master’s dissertation, Universidade Federal da
Paraíba, 2014). Mouzinho used the documents to create a database of the population of
São João do Cariri.
Yet, it is not only scholars who are interested in these records. As Brazil
struggles to come to terms with the legacies of indigenous displacement and
African slavery, quilombos (maroon-descended communities) and indigenous
groups might draw upon these records to legally establish their lineage or
vindicate their rights. The Fundação Cultural Palmares (FCP) — so named
after the famed quilombo called Palmares in Pernambuco (modern-day
Alagoas) that resisted colonial domination for over a century — is an agency
of the Brazilian Ministry of Culture dedicated to “promoting the cultural,
social and economic values resulting from black influence in the formation
of Brazilian society”.75 The FCP was established by the Constitution of 1988,
and has the official mission of “preserving, protecting and disseminating
black culture, with the aim of inclusion and for the development of the black
population in the country”.76 Toward this end, one of the FCP’s specific
actions is to carry out research, studies and surveys about Afro-Brazilian
cultural legacies. The FCP also is in charge of protecting the legal rights of
quilombos and pulling together the documentation necessary to support their
historical justification. Ecclesiastical records, like those used to support the
research of Lima, Pereira, and Mouzinho, are fundamental in the preservation
of Afro-Brazilian patrimony.
Further, social movements dedicated to restoring lands granted by sesmaria
to indigenous groups rely on historical documents to make their claims. The
best-known of these groups, the Tabajara of Paraíba, have been struggling
since 2006 to reclaim lands granted to them by sesmaria in the seventeenth
century. By combining data from historical sources with GIS and satellite
technologies, the Tabajara and socially-dedicated scholars have joined forces
with some humble, yet significant successes.77 Making the records digitalised
by the EAP freely available through the Ecclesiastical and Secular Sources
for Slave Societies online archive not only preserves historical patrimony,
but also offers legal support to groups struggling with the economic, social,
cultural and legal legacies of Brazil’s history of colonisation and slavery.
75 “Programas e ações”, Fundação Cultural Palmares, accessed July 29, 2014, http://www.
palmares.gov.br/?page_id=20501
76 “Lei No. 7.668, de 22 de agosto de 1988”, accessed on July 29, 2014, available online:
http://www.planalto.gov.br/ccivil_03/leis/L7668.htm; “Programas e ações”.
77 On the Tabajara movement, see: Ismael Xavier de Araújo, Viviane dos Santos Sousa,
Roméria Santana da Silva Souza, Jeremias Jerônimo Leite, Tânia Maria de Andrade, and
Rodrigo Lira Albuquerque dos Santos, “Processo de emergência étnica: povo indígena
Tabajara da Paraíba”, in Congresso Norte Nordeste de Pesquisa e Inovação (CONNEPI)
(2012). Available online at http://propi.ifto.edu.br/ocs/index.php/connepi/vii/paper/
view/2110/1626
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10. Convict labour in early
colonial Northern Nigeria:
a preliminary study
Mohammed Bashir Salau 1
Scholars have developed a lively and fruitful interest in the history of slavery
and other forms of unfree labour in early colonial Northern Nigeria. Paul
E. Lovejoy and Jan Hogendorn have investigated how various measures
implemented by the colonial government resulted in the “slow death of
slavery”;2 Chinedu N. Ubah has examined how the end of slave trading
came about in three stages;3 Alan Christelow has emphasised how Emir
Abbas of the Kano Emirate dealt with cases involving emancipation and
redemption;4 and Ibrahim Jumare has looked at how the 1936 proclamation
marked the beginning of the last phase of domestic slavery in all parts
of Northern Nigeria.5 While the history of slavery has attracted the most
critical attention, the history of forced labour has not been neglected.
1 The research for this article was funded by the Endangered Archives Programme and the
College of Liberal Arts award from the University of Mississippi. I would like to thank
the editor and anonymous reviewers of this volume for their comments and support.
2 See for instance Jan S. Hogendorn and Paul E. Lovejoy, “The Reform of Slavery in Early
Colonial Northern Nigeria”, in The End of Slavery in Africa, ed. by Suzanne Miers and
Richard Roberts (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1988), pp. 391-411.
3 Chinedu N. Ubah, “Suppression of the Slave Trade in the Nigerian Emirates”, Journal of
African History, 32 (1991), 447-70.
4 Alan Christelow, “Slavery in Kano, 1913-1914: Evidence from the Judicial Records”,
African Economic History, 14 (1985), 57-74. Related to Christelow’s work on the Kano
region is Polly Hill, “From Farm Slavery to Freedom: The Case of Farm Slavery in
Nigerian Hausaland”, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 18 (1976), 395-426.
5 Ibrahim M. Jumare, “The Late Treatment of Slavery in Sokoto: Background and
Consequences of the 1936 Proclamation”, International Journal of African Historical Studies,
27/2 (1994), 303-22.
© Mohammed Bashir Salau, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.10

Michael Mason, for example, has drawn our attention to the use of forced
labour in railway construction,6 while other general studies on wage labour
in Northern Nigeria have made considerable reference to either slavery or
forced and bonded labour in general.7
Although there is evident interest in the history of slavery and unfree
labour in Northern Nigeria, as well as a burgeoning interest in the history
of the prison system across Nigeria,8 I am not aware of any comprehensive
study on convict labour in the region. I have referred to the employment
of convict labour in agricultural production in early colonial Kano, but in a
book that focuses primarily on the pre-colonial period.9 Other writers have
written comprehensive studies dealing mainly with the post-colonial use of
convict labour in other parts of Africa.10 Whereas most extant literature on
convict labour focuses on the post-colonial era, Allen Cook’s work on convict
labour in South Africa, unlike this study, mainly explores the “relationship
of the prison labour system to other aspects of apartheid.”11 This paper
seeks to add to the growing literature on convict labour in Africa, among
the forms of unfree labour, by introducing to the debate colonial records
related to the use of convict labour in early colonial Northern Nigeria.
The colonial records used in this study were written by Frederick Lugard,
the first Governor of Northern Nigeria, and other colonial administrators
in the region.12 After the British conquest of Northern Nigeria in 1897-1903,
Lugard fashioned an administrative system of indirect rule, mainly because
6 Michael Mason, “Working on the Railway: Forced Labor in Northern Nigeria, 1907-
1912”, in African Labor History, ed. by Peter C. W. Gutkind, Robin Cohen and Jean Copans
(London: Sage, 1978), pp. 56-79.
7 See, for instance, Kohnert Dirk, “The Transformation of Rural Labour Systems in Colonial
and Post-Colonial Northern Nigeria”, Journal of Peasant Studies, 13/4 (1986), 258-71.
8 Examples of works that focus comprehensively or less comprehensively on the prison
system in Nigeria include Viviane Saleh-Hanna, ed., Colonial Systems of Control: Criminal
Justice in Nigeria (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2008); Tanimu Bashir, “Nigeria
Convicts and Prison Rehabilitation Ideals”, Journal of Sustainable Development in Africa,
12/3 (2010), 140-52; and T. O. Elias, ed., The Prisons System in Nigeria: Papers (Lagos: Lagos
9 Mohammed Bashir Salau, The West African Slave Plantation: A Case Study (New York:
Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), pp. 124-25.
10 See for instance Kwame Frimpong, “Botswana and Ghana”; Gail Super, “Namibia”; and
Dirk Van Zyl Smit, “South Africa”, in Prison Labour: Salvation or Slavery?: International
Perspectives, ed. by Dirk van Zyl Smit and Frieder Dünkel (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), pp.
25-36, pp. 153-68 and pp. 211-40 respectively.
11 Allen Cook, Akin to Slavery: Prison Labour in South Africa (London: International Defence
and Aid Fund, 1982), p. 3.
12 For more details on Lugard see, for instance, I. F. Nicolson, The Administration of Nigeria,
1900-1960: Men, Methods and Myths (London: Oxford University Press, 1969); and
Margery Perham, Lugard: The Years of Authority 1898-1945 (London: Collins, 1960).
Convict labour in early colonial Northern Nigeria 295
Britain was not prepared to bear the cost involved in employing a large
number of its citizens as administrators in Africa. Under this system, just
a few European officials were able to rule through an agency of native
administration. These Europeans often lived in separate quarters and enjoyed
many privileges. Over time, the administrators in question promoted many
policies and programmes such as railway construction, road construction
and cash crop production.13
The colonial records used in writing this study were largely obtained in
2012 as part of a major digitisation project (EAP535) funded by the Endangered
Archives Programme at the British Library.14 This project targeted materials
stored at the National Archives of Nigeria in Kaduna and written during
the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in Hausa, Arabic and English.
It succeeded in creating an updated catalogue of materials that focus on
the pre-colonial and early colonial history of Northern Nigeria (see Figs.
10.1-10.4 for examples of targeted materials). This catalogue contains 2,376
items dealing with such diverse topics as colonial policies, slavery, religion,
forced labour, convict labour, pawning, agriculture and culture.15 The research
team turned all of the physical paper items associated with this catalogue
into 62,177 digital files. We have also deposited copies of all the digitised
materials at the National Archives of Nigeria and at the British Library.16
The research team did not digitise all of the colonial records available
in the National Archives or even all of the materials related to the various
series mentioned below. The project leader and the relevant officials of the
National Archives jointly selected materials for digitisation. Two major
criteria for selection were the historical value of the records and the state of
their physical preservation.
13 Examples of works on European administrators and their activities in Northern Nigeria

include Robert Heussler, The British in Northern Nigeria (London: Oxford University
Press, 1968); and Charles William James Orr, The Making of Northern Nigeria, 2nd edn.
(London: Cass, 1965).
14 EAP535: Northern Nigeria: Precolonial documents preservation scheme - major project,
http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP535
15 The British Library has published the catalogue online at: http://searcharchives.bl.uk/
primo_library/libweb/action/search.do?dscnt=1&scp.scps=scope%3A%28BL%29&frbg
=&tab=local&dstmp=1413822282462&srt=author&ct=search&mode=Basic&dum=true&
indx=1&vl%28freeText0%29=EAP535*&fn=search&vid=IAMS_VU2&fromLogin=true&
fromLogin=true
16 http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP535
Fig. 10.1 Kitāb tārīkh Zazzau [A History of Zazzu or Zaria Emirate] by B. Ulama-i, 1924.
Digitised handwritten Arabic document (EAP535/1/2/3/2, image 2), Public Domain.
Fig. 10.2 Digitised original file description written in English on an Arabic document
by Sultan Muhammad Bello, n.d. (probably 1954-1966). The National Archives,
Kaduna (EAP535/1/2/3/3, image 2), Public Domain.
Fig. 10.3 A Guide to Understanding Certain Aspects of Islam, by Sultan Muhammad Bello,
1809. The National Archives, Kaduna (EAP535/1/2/3/3, image 3), Public Domain.
Fig. 10.4 Waqar jami-yah by Sheikh Ahmadu ti-la ibn Abdullahi, n.d.
The underlying rationale of the project was to provide better access to

endangered and unique materials dealing with slavery and unfree labour in
Northern Nigeria. The colonial records we digitised in the course of EAP535 are
classified in two distinct categories: the EAP535 Secretariat Northern Provinces
Record Collection (SNP) and the EAP535 Provincial Record Collection. The
first collection has been arranged into six series based on the order in which
the records were originally accumulated by the National Archives:
The EAP535 Secretariat Northern Provinces Record Collection (SNP)

SNP6 Series Official correspondence exchanged from 1904 to 1912
between the office of the British High Commissioner for
the Northern Provinces and other colonial officers in
various parts of Northern Nigeria. SNP6 represents the
earliest record accumulation transferred from the Office
of the Colonial Civil Secretary of Northern Nigeria at
Kaduna to the National Archives, while the other series
represent materials subsequently accumulated.
various parts of Northern Nigeria.
The EAP535 Provincial Record Collection has been organised into seven
series by place/geographical areas:
The EAP535 Provincial Record Collection

Zaria Provincial Records Official correspondence exchanged from
(Zarprof) Series 1904 to 1938 between the office of the
Resident of Zaria Province and other
colonial officers in various parts of the
province in question.
Sokoto Provincial Records Official correspondence exchanged from
(Sokprof) Series 1903 to 1929 between the office of the
Resident of Sokoto Province and other
Ilorin Provincial Records Official correspondence exchanged from
(Ilorprof) series 1912 to 1926 between the office of the
Resident of Ilorin Province and other
Lokoja Provincial Records Official correspondence exchanged from
(Lokoprof) Series 1917 to 1929 between the office of the
Resident of Lokoja Province and other
Makurdi Provincial Records Official correspondence exchanged from
(Makprof) series 1922 to 1938 between the office of the
Resident of Makurdi Province and other
Minna Provincial Records Official correspondence exchanged from
(Minprof) Series 1910 to 1928 between the office of the
Resident of Minna Province and other
Kano Provincial Records Official correspondence exchanged from

(Kanprof) Series 1913 to 1921 between the office of the
Resident of Kano Province and other
Few of the materials in both the EAP535 collections focus primarily on convict
labour. Rather, the majority are in the form of intelligence reports, district
assessment and reassessment reports, letters, memoranda, provincial annual
reports, provincial quarterly reports and touring reports.
The archival documents digitised in the course of EAP535 present a number
of problems. For instance, most of the documents are culturally biased: none
of them come from the convicts’ viewpoint. In one document, a European
official commenting on the colonial police states that: “The fact is that this
country does not produce men who can be trusted out of sight of European
officers”.17 Implicitly, this statement characterises the local people of Northern
Nigeria as incapable of the same strength of character that the policemen are
assumed to possess. It reveals a conscious effort to depict Africans as inferior
while portraying Europeans as members of a superior race.
The limitations of such materials notwithstanding, they constitute a valuable
source of information about convict labour when analysed together. They tell
us about the criminal records of convict labourers, the development of the
prison institutions in which they lived, the health issues they experienced,
their discipline and their work activities (see examples of colonial records that
highlight such issues in Figs. 10.5-10.8). Furthermore, the materials demonstrate
that colonial records focusing exclusively on the prison institution/convict
labourers do indeed exist.18
17 EAP535/3/7/2/7: Sokoto Province, monthly report no. 25, May and June 1905.
18 While investigating documents in the National Archives of Nigeria in Kaduna, I
discovered that the Prison Department in colonial Northern Nigeria maintained monthly
and annual reports. Also, many records in the Public Works Department (PWD), as well
as other SNP and provincial files dealing with the late colonial era, contain references
to the use of convict labourers. Unfortunately, mainly due to the limited duration of the
project, the research team could not digitise all materials related to the use of convict
labour during the colonial era.
Fig. 10.5 Report on the annual inspection of Zungeru prison by Lieutenant Colonel
Hasler, 1906 [1] (EAP535/2/2/5/4, image 7), Public Domain.
Fig. 10.6 Report on the annual inspection of Zungeru prison by Lieutenant Colonel
Hasler, 1906 [2] (EAP535/2/2/5/4, image 5), Public Domain.
Fig. 10.7 Report on Bornu Province prisons by W. P. Hewby, 1906 [1]

Fig. 10.8 Report on Bornu Province prisons by W. P. Hewby, 1906 [2]

The partially-extant archival documents digitised in the course of EAP535

tell us a great deal about prisons and convict labourers from the first
decade of the twentieth century to the 1930s. This chapter will, for clarity
of exposition, be predominantly based on materials written within the first
two decades of the twentieth century, and it will focus on what these items
tell us about the work activities of convicts.
In addition to materials digitised as part of EAP535, I have consulted
another body of colonial records, Northern Nigeria Annual Reports, obtained
from the Harriet Tubman Institute at York University in Toronto, Canada.19
These reports were written by the High Commissioner or Governor of
Northern Nigeria and addressed to the Colonial Office in Britain. I will focus
here on the annual reports from 1902 to 1913. The strengths and limitations of
this group of reports are similar to those of other colonial records discussed
above. To mitigate these limitations, in particular the colonial European
bias, I have also consulted a number of primary and secondary sources,
such as oral evidence from the Yusuf Yunusa Collection20 and published
works on slavery in the Sokoto Caliphate and Northern Nigeria.
In my analysis of colonial records, I argue that there are clear connections
between convict labour and cash crop production, the construction of public
facilities, the cultivation of crops to meet the food needs of both European
and African administrators, the cost-effectiveness of colonial administration
in Northern Nigeria, and the construction of European hegemony. Before
substantiating these arguments, I will discuss the history of the prison
system in pre-colonial Northern Nigeria.
Convict labour in the pre-colonial Sokoto Caliphate

Prisons existed in the Sokoto Caliphate before the British conquest, but
little attention has been devoted to examining pre-colonial imprisonment.
Nevertheless, it is clear from extant sources that the inmates in Sokoto
Caliphate prisons could be classified into three major groups: war prisoners,
19 The Harriet Tubman Institute probably obtained these materials from the British Library,
although such colonial records could be found in other archives based elsewhere.
20 The Yusuf Yunusa Collection consists of interviews recorded on cassette tapes in 1975.
The tapes have been deposited at the Northern History Research Scheme of Ahmadu
Bello University, Zaria, and at the Harriet Tubman Institute, York University, Toronto.
They are also available on CDs or in digital format at the Tubman Institute.
freeborn people imprisoned for political or other crimes, and slaves. 21

Generally, most inmates could be ransomed, executed, enslaved or exchanged.
Although many of those enslaved (from all three groups of prisoners) were
used as domestic servants, others were sent to ribats (frontier fortresses)
where they served as soldiers and/or in other roles such as plantation
labourers, builders, concubines and weavers.22
There is evidence that convicts based within Sokoto Caliphate prisons
(including those war prisoners who were yet to be ransomed, executed,
enslaved or exchanged) often worked under close supervision on state fields
“the entire day before returning to their cells”.23 Inmates, like many Sokoto
Caliphate slaves, frequently experienced physical cruelty and starvation.24
Even though slave owners mostly punished their own slaves outside the
prison, there is evidence that the slaves within Sokoto Caliphate prisons
were often sent there by private estate owners or administrators of state
holdings.25
In the Kano area, the major prison to which recalcitrant slaves were
banished was Gidan Ma’ajin Watari.26 Situated less than a kilometre northeast
of the Emir’s palace in Kano city, it was owned by the state and managed
by the state official called Ma’ajin Watari. Masters sent defiant slaves,
21 Salau, pp. 83-84; Northern Nigeria Annual Report (henceforth cited as NNAR) 1902,
p. 29; Thierno Bah, “Captivity and Incarceration in Nineteenth-Century West Africa”,
in A History of Prison and Confinement in Africa, ed. by Florence Bernault (Portsmouth,
NH: Heinemann, 2003), pp. 69-77 (p. 74); and David Killingray, “Punishment to Fit the
Crime?: Penal Policy and Practice in British Colonial Africa”, in Prison and Confinement in
Africa, pp. 97-118 (p. 100).
22 For further details on how slaves were used to foster Hausa-Fulani or Muslim hegemony
in the Sokoto Caliphate see, for instance, Salau, pp. 45-54.
23 Bah, p. 74.
24 F. D. Lugard, The Dual Mandate in British Tropical Africa (Edinburgh: William Blackwood,
1922), p. 199; and Bah, p. 74.
25 Ibrahim Jumare, Land Tenure in Sokoto Sultanate of Nigeria (Ph.D. thesis, York University,
Toronto, 1995), p. 193; and Hugh Clapperton, Journal of Second Expedition into the Interior
of Africa from the Bight of Benin to Socaccatoo (London: Frank Cass, 1829), p. 210.
26 Salau, p. 83; Yusuf Yunusa, Slavery in the 19th Century Kano (Bachelor’s dissertation,
Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, 1976), pp. 23-24; and Paul E. Lovejoy, “Slavery in
the Sokoto Caliphate”, in The Ideology of Slavery in Africa, ed. by Paul E. Lovejoy (Los
Angeles, CA: Sage, 1981), pp. 200-43 (p. 232). See also the Yunusa Collection at the
Harriet Tubman Institute, York University, particularly the testimonies of Muhammadu
Sarkin Yaki Dogari (aged 70 when interviewed at Kurawa ward, Kano city, 28 September
1975), Malam Muhammadu (aged 75 when interviewed at Bakin Zuwo, Kano Emirate,
9 October 1975), and Sallaman Kano (aged 55 when interviewed at the Emir’s palace, 20
September 1975). Sallaman Kano was resident at the palace and responsible for the royal
holdings at Giwaram and Gogel.
including those whom they did not want to sell or otherwise dispose of,
to this prison for reform or, as Yusuf Yunusa puts it, “to be punished and
preached to”.27 On a slave’s arrival at the prison, the master was expected
to declare the specific offence the slave had committed and the type of
punishment to be meted out. Thereafter, the erring slave was admitted
to the facility through two doors, being severely beaten in the process.28
The conditions at Gidan Ma’ajin Watari were terrible, as an early colonial
record indicates:29
A small doorway 2 ft. 6 in. by 18 in. gives access into it; the interior is divided
by a thick mud wall (with a smaller hole in it) into two compartments, each 17
ft. by 7 ft. and 11 ft. high. This wall was pierced with holes at its base, through
which the legs of those sentenced to death were thrust up to the thigh, and
they were left to be trodden on by the mass of other prisoners till they died of
thirst and starvation. The place is entirely air-tight and unventilated, except
for one small doorway or rather hole in the wall through which you creep.
The total space inside is 2,618 cu. ft., and at the time we took Kano [1903] 135
human beings were confined here each night, being let out during the day to
cook their food, etc., in a small adjoining area. Recently as many as 200 have
been interned at one time. As the superficial ground area was only 238 square
feet, there was not, of course, even standing room. Victims were crushed to
death every night — their corpses were hauled out each morning.30
While in prison, a slave was usually subjected to torture by fellow inmates

as well as by guards.31 Masters could occasionally pay a visit to the prison
to determine whether or not their slaves should be released. During such
visits, the masters often presented their slaves with cowries or food, while
the slaves, in turn, would plead for forgiveness. Ultimately, it was the master
who decided how many days the slave would spend in the facility.32
Whether or not it was standard practice for masters in all parts of the
Sokoto Caliphate to send slaves to various state prisons for reform, three
facts are clear from the pre-colonial era. First, a prison system existed prior
27 Yunusa, “Slavery in the 19th Century”, p, 23.

28 Salau, p. 83; and Yunusa, “Slavery in the 19th Century”, pp. 23-24.
29 Northern Nigerian Annual Report 1902, p. 29, as quoted in Lugard, p. 99 n. For a similar
description of the deplorable conditions of prisons in the Sokoto Caliphate, see Jumare,
Land Tenure, p. 193; and Clapperton, p. 210.
30 Lugard, p. 199.
31 Salau, p. 84; and Yunusa, “Slavery in the 19th Century”, pp. 23-24.
32 Ibid., pp. 23-24. See also the Yunusa Collection, particularly the testimonies of
Muhammadu Sarki Yaki Dogari and Sallaman Kano.
to British conquest in pre-colonial Muslim Nigeria. Second, convicts were

sometimes made to work on state fields. Third, for all the physical punishment
of convicts, the notion of rehabilitation appears to have been part of the ethos
of both the caliphal state and the caliphal slaveholders.
Convict labour under colonial rule

After the British conquest in 1897-1903, the state established new prisons
and maintained some old ones.33 The vast majority of the current prisons in
Northern Nigeria, such as the Kano central prison and the Kazaure central
prison, were built during the colonial era.34 The colonial government saw to
it that agriculture emerged as the most important economic activity. This
was due to several factors, of which the most prominent were: the growing
demand for raw materials like cotton, rubber, groundnuts, palm oil and
palm kernel by British industries; the need to make Britain independent
of America for its raw cotton; and the need to generate revenue for the
administration of the protectorate/colony.35 Given that colonial economic
activities were mainly directed towards satisfying these needs, it is not
surprising that the focus of agricultural production was on cash crop
cultivation.36 The state and European firms provided seeds and employed
other strategies to encourage owners of small farms to produce mainly
groundnuts and cotton.37 Slave labour on plantations was instrumental to
the expansion of groundnut production, as evidenced by the contribution
of the royal estate in Fanisau to its development in Kano.38
33 On the maintenance of old prisons, see NNAR 1902, p. 76; and on the construction of new
prisons, see Viviane Saleh-Hanna and Chukwuma Ume, “Evolution of the Penal System:
Criminal Justice in Nigeria”, in Colonial Systems of Control: Criminal Justice in Nigeria, ed.
by Viviane Saleh-Hanna (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2008), pp. 55-68.
34 For further details on the growth of the prison system in Nigeria, including Northern
Nigeria, see ibid., pp. 55-68.
35 NNAR 1904, p. 61.
36 For references to the predominance of cash crops in Nigerian agriculture of the time
see, for instance, Jan S. Hogendorn, Nigerian Groundnut Exports: Origins and Early
Development (London: Oxford University Press, 1979); F. A. Okediji, An Economic History
of Hausa-Fulani Empire of Northern Nigeria, 1900-1939 (Ph.D. thesis, Indiana University
Bloomington, 1972); and Bade Onimode, Imperialism and Underdevelopment in Nigeria: The
Dialectics of Mass Poverty (Lagos: Macmillan, 1983).
37 For further details on such incentives see, for instance, Hogendorn, Nigerian Groundnut
Exports, pp. 16-35 and 58-76.
38 For further details on steps taken to enhance groundnut production in colonial Northern
Nigeria see, for instance, Salau, pp. 122-25; and Hogendorn, Nigerian Groundnut Exports,
pp. 58-76.
In addition to encouraging the production of cash crops on small

holdings and plantations, the state initiated agricultural experimental
centres in prisons so as to help determine whether specific regions in
Northern Nigeria were suitable for growing specific cash crops. These
centres were often located on prison “farmlands,” which were also
responsible for the production of food.39 The prison farmlands varied
in size, but in general they occupied public land or land owned by the
government, rather than land rented, purchased or borrowed.40 Because
of that, the prison farmlands did not face significant obstacles in terms
of land use. Consequently, colonial prison administrators could increase
the acreage under cultivation at any point and locate farmlands either “on
the ground in the immediate vicinity of gaol[s]” or elsewhere.41 In one
report, it was proposed to move a farmland to an area relatively distant
from the prison because “The ground in the immediate vicinity of the
gaol is not suitable for farming purposes, the ground being very stony,
and the crops were not successful”.42
The evidence discovered among the documents we digitised suggests
that, unlike the use of convict labourers for food production, their use
in cash crop production was not practised in all the prison farmlands
that existed in early colonial Northern Nigeria. Specifically, it suggests
that the use of these labourers in cash crop production was limited to
several areas in Northern Nigeria including Zungeru, Lokoja, Niger
Province, Kabba Province and Nassarawa Province. In these areas,
convicts cultivated cash crops that were important both in Europe and
also locally. Thus, in Nassarawa Province, convicts cultivated soya beans
as well as the Nyasaland and Ilushi types of cotton; in Niger Province,
convicts cultivated cotton; in Kabba, convicts cultivated cotton and soya
beans; in Zungeru, convicts cultivated ceara rubber and sisal hemp;
and in Lokoja, convicts cultivated cocoa and kola.43 Outside the actual
cultivation of cash crops by convicts in these regions, there is evidence
39 NNAR 1912, p. 10; EAP535/2/2/10/26: Nassarawa Province quarterly report, June 1911;
EAP535/2/2/11/18: Niger Province annual report, 1911.
40 For an excellent discussion of colonial land policies in early colonial Northern Nigeria
and the problems of land use faced by slaves in particular, see Jan S. Hogendorn and
Paul E. Lovejoy, Slow Death for Slavery: The Course of Abolition in Northern Nigeria, 1897-
1936 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).
41 EAP535/2/2/11/18.
42 Ibid.
43 NNAR 1912, p. 18; EAP535/2/2/10/26; EAP535/2/2/11/18; EAP535/2/2/11/8: Kabba
Province annual report, 1911.
that the Director of Agriculture advocated the experiment of growing

wattle in Zaria Province in 1913, although we do not know whether or
not this experiment was conducted.44
Although data on the quantity of cash crops produced by convicts are
lacking for almost all the regions mentioned above, we do have documents
indicating that ten acres of cotton were cultivated in Nassarawa in 1911 and
that 150 lbs of cotton were picked in Niger Province in 1911 (Fig. 10.6).45
Given this available data, and the fact that convicts represented a small
percentage of the colonial workforce, one can assume that the cash crops
produced by convicts were generally of little quantitative importance.46 On
the other hand, the experimental cash crop cultivation on prison farmlands,
whether successful or unsuccessful, helped to determine whether the soil
and climate of specific regions were suitable for the cultivation of specific
cash crops.47 Accordingly, this experimental cultivation must have been one
of the factors that helped to foster the expansion of cash crop production
in early colonial Northern Nigeria.
The work done by the prisoners employed in farming was considered
“light” in comparison to the work prisoners did elsewhere.48 Although
farm work was ideally meant only for convicts certified as medically unfit
for hard labour, there is evidence that convicts employed for “hard” or
non-agricultural work were sometimes also employed for farming.49 The
working day could start from 6am-12pm and finish between 2pm-5.15pm,
six days per week.50 Sometimes non-convicts assisted convicts in work on
prison farmlands. In Niger Province in 1911, for instance, “Two acres of
land were planted on July 4th with cotton and on December 13th the first
picking was done by some of the Resident’s staff. All the labour other than
the actual picking, was carried out by prisoners”.51
44 EAP535/2/5/1/81: Zaria Province quarterly report, March 1913.

45 EAP535/2/2/10/26; and EAP535/2/2/11/18, p. 33.
46 It is difficult to determine the precise scale of production of cash crops in Northern Nigeria.
However, according to Hogendorn, little more than 50,000 to 100,000 bales of cotton were
already grown in the Kano-Zaria region alone by 1907 (Nigerian Groundnut Exports, p. 29).
Given that a bale of cotton generally weighs about 500 pounds, it is logical to say that the
cash crops produced by convicts were generally of little quantitative importance.
47 NNAR 1912, p. 18.
48 NNAR 1908-09, p. 12.
49 EAP535/2/2/10/26.
50 Ibid.
51 EAP535/2/2/11/18.
Fig. 10.9 Document from the Niger Province annual report

on cotton production for 1911 by Major W. Hamilton Browne, 1912
Although this is not spelled out, the evidence suggests that convicts relied
on the use of traditional implements and technologies (Fig. 10.9). According
to one report, cash crop production, and farming in general, was often
“undertaken in a really strenuous manner”; moreover, at least in Nassarawa
Province before May 1911, the amount of food “originally provided was quite
inadequate for men working as hard as they do”.52 This is not to say that
colonial administrators regularly starved the convicts. Indeed, some colonial
administrators viewed the productive activities of convicts as important.
Consequently they believed that prisoners should be fed at least the minimum
amount and quality of food necessary to maintain their productivity. For
example, on noting that the “contract agreement”53 system was responsible for
the inadequate amount of food supplied to convicts in Nassarawa Province
before his tenure as the Resident of Nassarawa Province in May 1911, Major
Larymore discontinued this system. Instead he instituted a prisoner’s food
committee consisting of “one clerk, one Political Agent, and the sergeant of
police” who eventually saw to it that convicts received “rather more than
twice what they did before, under a contract agreement”.54 Overall, cash
crop production, whether or not prisoners received an inadequate amount
of food in the course of their activity, was less beneficial to the convicts than
the food crops they produced, and the emphasis on cash crop production
resulted in convicts being forced into strenuous labour.55
Convict labour in colonial public works

The colonial administrators saw an effective transport system as an
indispensable accessory to the task of subordinating the economy of
Northern Nigeria and making it serve the needs of Europe. Soon after
gaining control, the British began the construction of roads and railroads
not only to connect various parts of Northern Nigeria to each other, but
also to connect Northern Nigeria in general to Southern Nigeria and its
Atlantic ports.56 This infrastructure made it possible to move cash crops
easily and relatively inexpensively to the various ports located along the
52 EAP535/2/2/10/26.
53 Ibid. It is important to stress that this source seems to suggest that prisons depended
on local contractors/merchants for part of their food supplies under the “contract
agreement” system.
54 EAP535/2/2/10/26.
55 Ibid.
56 Mason, p. 57.
Nigerian Atlantic coast. It also enabled the colonial government to move

troops and other resources easily to various parts of Northern Nigeria
in order to reinforce its control over the peoples of this region. Finally, a
good transport system meant that imports from Europe, such as European
fruits, vegetables and manufactured goods, could be distributed within
Northern Nigeria at a relatively fast pace and at relatively low prices.57
In colonial Northern Nigeria, as in the Southern Provinces of Nigeria,
the Public Works Department (PWD) was responsible for the construction
and maintenance of roads and railroads. Since its inception, this department
was also charged with “the maintenance of public buildings and roads
and the extension of electric lighting, telegraphs, piers, public transport,
among other things”.58 To carry out its diverse responsibilities, the PWD
relied partly on wage labour. Because of labour shortages and the desire
to lower the cost of work, the Department was also compelled to resort to
the forced labour of slaves and convicts.59
Colonial administrators recorded an example of the use of convict
labourers by the PWD in Yola Province in 1906.60 In that year, a foreman in
charge of related government projects could not find local labour to hire.
Moreover, he was unable to check the flight of non-convicts who were
conscripted into forced labour. To address these challenges, the foreman
suggested they import fresh batches of labour. It was in part this foreman’s
request for more labourers and in part the recognition that convicts were
a cost-effective labour pool, while imported labour “would add greatly
to the cost of work”, that caused convict labourers to be employed in the
execution of the PWD project in Yola Province.61 It is equally important
to stress that, according to one telegraph, once convict labourers were
placed at the disposal of the PWD, the “necessity to import labour” no
longer existed.62
57 See, for instance, ibid.; Hogendorn, Nigerian Groundnut Exports, pp. 16-35; and Northen
Nigeria Annual Report 1902, p. 58.
58 Toyin Falola and Matthew M. Heaton, A History of Nigeria (New York: Cambridge
University Press, 2008), p. 116; and Matthew M. Heaton, Black Skin, White Coats:
Nigerian Psychiatrists, Decolonization, and the Globalization of Psychiatry (Athens, OH: Ohio
University Press, 2013), p. 32.
59 For details on land policies and other factors that compelled slaves to take part in
infrastructural works in early colonial Northern Nigeria, see Hogendorn and Lovejoy,
Slow Death for Slavery, pp. 136-58.
60 EAP535/2/2/4/20: Difficulty of obtaining labourers at Yola.
61 Ibid.
62 Ibid.
The work performed by prisoners employed on projects supervised

by the PWD was generally described as hard labour.63 Convicts involved
in hard-labour activities were often certified as being medically fit for
the work they did. They were also, in the vast majority, men. Indeed,
in line with the late-Victorian attitude that women should take care of
domestic responsibilities, the documents declared that “Female convicts
are exclusively employed in domestic duties — drawing water, preparing
the prison food &c”.64
The hard labour done by convicts included “road and railway earthwork
construction”, 65 in addition to “ordinary labour connected with the
prison”.66 This “ordinary labour” probably included improving sanitation
by clearing bushes around government establishments; planting of hedges
and trees; and constructing, extending and maintaining prison facilities
and other public buildings. Most of these activities, such as watering
shrubs and carrying bricks, stones and sand for public buildings or works,
could be undertaken by unskilled labourers. Some, such as brickmaking,
roofing, woodworking, finish-plastering, flooring and the like, required
skilled or semi-skilled workers. 67 Colonial officials usually described
convicts employed on skilled labour activities as “more intelligent”.68
To ensure that skilled convict labourers were always available for use on
colonial projects, many inmates “who showed any aptitude” were trained
in the skills mentioned above, while others were taught “other useful trades
and employed as tailors”, shoemakers, mat-makers, rope-makers, weavers
and hoe-makers, among other things.69 While the training of skilled workers
may have been meant to help rehabilitate the convicts,70 the products of
this skilled workforce undoubtedly had commercial value that benefitted
the prison.71 Although convicts engaged in manufacturing mainly worked
for the benefit of the institution, one colonial report indicates that they
63 NNAR 1908, p. 31. For a similar classification, see EAP535/2/2/5/4: Report on prisons for
year ending 21 December 1905.
64 NNAR 1907-08, p. 31. For a similar entry see, for instance, EAP535/2/2/5/4.
65 NNAR 1908, p. 12; and NNAR 1909, p. 15.
66 NNAR 1908, p. 31.
67 NNAR 1907-08, p. 31; and NNAR 1909, p. 15.
68 See, for instance, EAP535/2/2/11/9: Bornu Province annual report, 1911.
69 NNAR 1903, p. 25.
70 For examples of the use of reform rhetoric by colonial officials see, for instance, NNAR
1906-07, p. 41; and EAP535/2/2/10/38: Nassarawa Province quarterly report, September
1911.
71 Inferred from ibid.
could take private commissions from clients. In particular, it reveals that

“among other works this gang was lately able to repair an ordinary English
snaffle, and the broken dashboard of a four-wheeled Buckboard American
trap belonging to Capt Seccombe”.72
Convicts employed on projects supervised by the PWD were often
divided into gangs. Thus, for instance, while one gang could be employed
on station work and improvement, watering shrubs and trees, another
gang could be employed in the construction of a road, and yet another
gang could be used to carry materials for building operations.73 Each gang
was usually escorted, guarded and supervised by security officials such as
police officers, dogarai74 and armed warders.75 The archival sources do not
indicate whether skilled or more experienced and hardworking convicts
were given supervisory roles subordinate to those of security officials.
Similarly, we have very little information about the treatment of convict
workers employed on the PWD’s projects. Nevertheless, one document
clearly indicates that the dogarai in the Zaria Emirate were ordered to flog
prisoners who did not work, even though they were ill (Fig. 10.10).76 This
same document also reveals that prisoners were often chained in pairs
while working, and that they “were starved to death, and shown in the
records as having died of natural causes”.77
72 EAP535/2/2/10/44: Bornu Province quarterly report, December 1911.

73 Ibid. For further references to the division of convicts into gangs for such productive
activities see, for instance, EAP535/2/2/5/16: Bornu Province quarterly report, September
1906; EAP535/2/2/7/39: Kano Province twelve-year report, 30 June 1908; EAP535/2/2/9/1:
Sanitation labourers for Katsina Allah; and EAP535/3/7/2/5: Sokoto Province monthly
report no. 23, February 1905.
74 Dogarai refers to native administration police, some of whom served as each Emir’s
guards and messengers.
75 For references on the use of the three category of guards see, for instance, NNAR 1903,
p. 23; NNAR 1904, p. 117; NNAR 1908, p. 12; NNAR 1909, p. 14; and EAP535/3/2/2: Kano
Province annual report, 1917.
76 EAP535/2/3/6/18: Report of unsatisfactory conduct of Maaji of Zaria. The main report in
this file was written by the District Officer in charge of the Zaria Emirate, Y. Kirkpatrick,
to the Resident of Zaria Province. This report deals with the conduct of the Maaji, a senior
Native Administration official who was responsible for the Emirate’s treasury. Although
it focuses mainly on various transactions mostly in connection with the collection of
taxes in Zaria Province, it also points to malpractice in the prison system. In addition to
issues related to the treatment of prisoners mentioned above, the report provides useful
information on convict resistance and on the colonial prison system in Northern Nigeria
in general.
77 EAP535/2/3/6/18. For more details on the flogging of prisoners see, for instance,
EAP535/2/3/6/9: Flogging in gaols for prison offences: amendment of regulations.
Fig. 10.10 Report on the unsatisfactory conduct of the Maaji of Zaria by the District
Officer in charge of the Zaria Emirate, Y. Kirkpatrick, to the Resident of Zaria
Province, 1921 [1] (EAP535/2/3/6/18, image 20), Public Domain.
Like the colonial document on Zaria discussed above (Figs. 10.10-10.12), Michael
Mason’s exploration of the use of forced labour in railway construction also
demonstrates that convict labourers employed by the PWD often experienced
physical cruelty.78
In colonial Northern Nigeria, convict labourers of diverse cultural
backgrounds were often accommodated in the same prison, and the prisons
themselves were often located in settlements consisting of African immigrants
and non-African, mainly European residents. Each of these diverse groups
wanted to maintain their own food consumption habits, which required
the cultivation of specific crops. It seems that one of the reasons the state
allowed some of the prison farmlands in virtually all parts of Northern
Nigeria to be used as centres for the cultivation of varieties of food, fruits
and vegetable crops was to meet the culinary needs of people from diverse
African and European backgrounds.79 Allowing such use of some of the
prison farmlands helped to address the increasing food demand of convicts
in many prisons. It also lowered the cost of the prisoners’ maintenance and
improved the nutritional content of their diet.80 Crops cultivated in prison
farmlands in early colonial Northern Nigeria included yams, potatoes,
beans, Indian peas, guinea corn, soya beans, cassava, “tropical fruits and
English vegetables”.81 In determining what crop should be grown in each
prison farmland, colonial officials sometimes based their suggestions, and
probably decisions, on the results of experiments in their private gardens,
as the following excerpt suggests:
Potato farms on a fairly large scale should certainly be tried this year. The
results in my private garden were thoroughly successful. The produce of one
case resulted in three months’ sufficiency or nearly three cases. I should imagine
that the prison earnings from this source would be considerable (Fig. 10.9).82
Fruit and vegetable crop production in these prison farmlands had further
advantages. It involved little or no capital investment by the state and it was
not related to technological improvements in agricultural techniques. The
78 Here, forced labourers refer to non-convicts who were conscripted into forced labour.
See Mason.
79 NNAR 1912, p. 18.
80 NNAR 1906-07, p. 41; and NNAR 1912, p. 18. For discussion related to the issue of proper
nutrition for prisoners, see p. 15.
81 See, among others, NNAR 1906-07, p. 41; EAP535/2/2/11/18; EAP535/2/2/11/8;
EAP535/3/6/5/4: Niger Province annual report no. 6, 1913; EAP535/2/2/8/1: Zaria Province
quarterly report, December 1908.
82 EAP535/2/2/11/18.
production of the crops in prison was also a great boon to local Europeans,
and to many Africans, because it significantly lowered food prices. The
additional revenue generated for the prisons allowed them to pay for the
provision of other food items to convicts, such as palm oil, fish and salt, or
for any other necessary maintenance expenses.
Many prison farms planted with edible crops yielded good results, at least
during specific agricultural seasons.83 Nevertheless, prison-farm production
of crops — whether fruits and vegetables or cash crops — was not without
problems. Their production was not cost-free, at least to the convicts; for
most of them, the cultivation and care of such crops involved strenuous or
“unpleasant” forced labour.84 Other issues included poor seeds and related
planting materials, an inadequate workforce at times when prison labour
was moved to other public works, an inadequate supply of water, poor soil
conditions, poor supervision by colonial officials, natural disasters and poor
farming skills.85 The colonial administrators recognised that these problems
put constraints on the agricultural yields and that poor harvests, in turn, made
the cost of feeding the prisoners higher than it should be. In one report, for
instance, Lugard noted that:
There has been a general increase in the expenditure on prisoners’ food during
the year, particularly at Bornu, Bassa, Kano and Kabba, which is ascribed
to indifferent harvests. The maximum rate of 2d. per prisoner per day was
exceeded in Bassa and Kabba for a portion of the year. The daily average cost
per prisoner during the year was 1s. 5d.86
Colonial administrators often took proactive measures to deal with or to

alleviate the constraints on the cultivation of all types of crops. For instance,
in one case the Resident of Kabba Province, J. A. Ley Greeves, linked the
failure of soya bean cultivation in 1911 to bad seeds and the fact that they
were planted too late. He then called for the early supply of good seeds in
the subsequent farming season. Evidently, he saw “no reason why the beans
should not do well” in his province (Fig. 10.13).87
83 For references to successful farmlands see, for instance, EAP535/2/5/1/14: Kabba Province
quarterly report, December 1912; and EAP535/3/6/5/4.
84 EAP535/3/7/2/5 and EAP535/2/2/10/26. It is notable that the former also reveals that
convicts were often forced to labour in mosquito breeding swamps.
85 NNAR 1913, p. 12; EAP535/2/2/10/26; EAP535/2/2/11/8; EAP535/2/5/1/81; EAP535/3/6/5/4.
86 NNAR 1913, p. 12.
87 EAP535/2/2/10/32: Kabba Province quarterly report, September 1911.
Fig. 10.13 Document from “Report September quarter 1911-Kabba Province”

concerning constraints on crop cultivation by J. A. Ley Greeves, 1912
Similarly, another colonial administrator recognised that good supervision

by his subordinates was essential to successful harvests and revealed his
strategy for preventing poor supervision thus:
On my return from leave I informed the Makum of Agaei who is in charge of

the prison that the prison farm should be promptly cultivated and that after
the harvest no further payments would be made from the Beit-al-mal, that
the prison should be self supporting, and if it were not, the deficit would be
made up by the Makum personally as an insufficient crop would be due to
his failure to supervise.88
Cost and cost-efficiency

The British did not overlook the concept of “cost-efficiency” in making
decisions of any kind in their administration of Northern Nigeria. They
administered a system of indirect rule which allowed them to control the
vast region with very few European officials, very little reliance on funds
generated in Britain and minimal out-of-pocket costs.89 The British also
made the prisons pay for themselves by using of convicts as labourers and
by manufacturing and farming food within the prisons.90 The evidence
also indicates that colonial administrators sometimes hired out convicts to
Europeans and Africans, at a nominal charge, to do various tasks, including
farming and carrying water. One 1913 report on Muri Province reveals that
hiring out convicts enabled the state to cut the cost of feeding prisoners since
“the employer provides their food and pays 1d. per man per day wages”.91
The same report indicates that this payment was considered small, and that
this matter of inadequate pay “should be brought up for discussion with
the Emir and council”, so that raising payments to 2d in the next farming
season might be considered.92 For comparison, a report on Zaria Province
88 EAP535/3/6/5/4; and EAP535/3/8/2/12: Zaria Province annual report no. 62, 1913 also
indicates that poor supervision resulted in a specific farm failure in Zaria Province in
1913.
89 See Heussler, The British in Northern Nigeria, especially pp. 31 and 53.
90 This idea is expressed in, for instance, EAP535/3/6/5/4.
91 EAP535/2/5/1/39: Quarterly report no. 80, December 1912, by Mr. F. H. Buxton. On
the hiring out of convicts, see also EAP535/2/2/11/13: Yola Province quarterly report,
December 1911; EAP535/2/5/1/46: Muri Province annual report, 1912; and EAP535/3/7/2/7.
92 EAP535/2/5/1/39.
written in the same year (1913) shows that non-convict labourers earned a
daily wage of 4d.93
Several reports by colonial administrators reveal that significant cost
savings were achieved through the use of convict labour. In 1907, for instance,
one administrator reported that “All prison clothing has been made on the
premises. In the Provinces the prisoners have been principally employed on
farm work, conservancy, and making and repairing roads. […] In Zungeru
and Lokoja the prison farms supply sufficient food for the maintenance of
the prisoners”.94 Similarly, in 1910, he reported:
Substantial stone workshops, built entirely by prison labour, have been erected
in Zungeru. The gaol at Lokoja was considerably enlarged during the year
by the addition of a new wing. A considerable saving to the general revenue
on this account has been effected, and it is proposed to further extend the
system of employing convict labour on such work.95
As a cost-saving measure, the British trained convicts in various trades within

prisons. As previously mentioned, prison administrators mainly promoted
the training of convicts whom they considered “more intelligent” in tailoring,
shoe making, brick-making, mat-making and the like. The emphasis on such
training often fostered the production of more goods and therefore helped
to swell the revenue of the Prison Department.96 The sale of items produced
by convicts allowed the prisons to raise funds to hire non-convict instructors
and purchase training/production materials.97
The colonial administrators were not shy about arguing for the use of
convict labour to maintain public facilities in order to keep costs low. For
instance, the governor of Northern Nigeria noted that in 1911 the state made
significant cost savings in part because of the use of convicts in public works.
He added that:
The value (calculated at two-thirds of the market rate) of prisoners’ labour

in connection with public works, &c., which would otherwise have had to
be paid for in cash, was £3,878. If calculated at the ordinary market rates the
value of the prisoners’ useful labour would have exceeded the entire cost of
the Prison Department.98
93 EAP535/2/5/1/81: Zaria Province report-March quarter 1913.

94 NNAR 1907-08, p. 31; and NNAR 1909, p. 15.
95 NNAR 1910-11, p. 21.
96 Inferred from EAP535/2/2/11/17: Nassarawa Province annual report, 1911.
97 EAP535/2/2/11/9.
98 NNAR 1906-07, p. 41.
Conclusion: convict labour and European

hegemony
Several works on labour history have focused intensively on the relationship
between the use of convict labour and the expansion of European hegemony.
Examining the transportation of convicts by European powers to various
parts of the world, Clare Anderson and Hamish Maxwell-Stewart argue that
although the character of convict transportation changed over time, the cost-
efficiency of convict labour in colonies explains why it became a “durable and
flexible” tool that shaped the expansion of European hegemony worldwide
from 1415 to 1954.99 The connection between cheap convict labour and the
economic success of colonies is explored in detail by William H. Worger, in
the contexts of Birmingham, Alabama and Kimberley, South Africa,100 and
by Florence Bernault in a broader African context.101
The documents investigated for the purpose of this chapter corroborate
these conclusions. Britain’s main interest in Northern Nigeria during the
colonial era was to make the region an economic appendage of Britain and
Europe. To secure this interest, the British initiated infrastructure projects
and encouraged agricultural production using cheap convict labour. The
availability of such low-cost labour, and the resulting decrease of the cost
of infrastructure and agricultural projects, made it possible for the colonial
administration to increase the scale of such undertakings. Consequently, the
availability of convict labour strengthened European hegemony.
Some of the documents examined for this article show that a prison system
existed in the Sokoto Caliphate and that inmates within this prison system
were employed in productive activities. Although the Sokoto Caliphate prisons
were places of punishment, my analysis suggests that slave owners in the
caliphal state sometimes employed the rhetoric of reform or rehabilitation to
justify the imprisonment of many individuals. Overall, however, the findings
of this project support the claim of existing scholarship that “permanent
99 Clare Anderson and Hamish Maxwell-Stewart, “Convict Labour and the Western
Empires, 1415-1954”, in The Routledge History of Western Empires, ed. by Robert Aldrich
and Kirsten McKenzie (London: Routledge, 2013), pp. 102-17 (p. 113).
100 William H. Worger, “Convict Labour, Industrialists and the State in the US South and
South Africa, 1870-1930”, Journal of Southern African Studies, 30 (2004), 63-86.
101 Florence Bernault, “The Shadow of Rule: Colonial Power and Modern Punishment in
Africa”, in Cultures of Confinement: A History of the Prison in Africa, Asia and Latin America,
ed. by Frank Diköter and Ian Brown (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2007), pp.
55-95.
places for holding convicted prisoners or suspects before trial” in centralised

states in West Africa, like the Sokoto Caliphate, “did not seek to rehabilitate
criminals”.102 Evidence shows that, during the colonial era, convicts worked
both within and outside the prisons; there was a direct link between their
labour and the specific needs of the colonial state. In this, the colonial prison
system in Africa was significantly different from the prison systems of
western societies.103
102 Ibid., p. 57.

103 For the view that the colonial prison system in Africa was unique see, for instance, ibid.,
pp. 59, 71 and 77-79.
References
Anderson, Clare, and Hamish Maxwell-Stewart, “Convict Labour and the Western
Empires, 1415-1954”, in The Routledge History of Western Empires, ed. by Robert
Aldrich and Kirsten McKenzie (London: Routledge, 2013), pp. 102-17.
Bah, Thierno, “Captivity and Incarceration in Nineteenth-Century West Africa”, in A
History of Prison and Confinement in Africa, ed. by Florence Bernault (Portsmouth,
NH: Heinemann, 2003), pp. 69-77.
Bashir, Tanimu, “Nigeria Convicts and Prison Rehabilitation Ideals”, Journal of
Sustainable Development in Africa, 12/3 (2010), 140-52.
Bernault, Florence, “The Shadow of Rule: Colonial Power and Modern Punishment
in Africa”, in Cultures of Confinement: A History of the Prison in Africa, Asia
and Latin America, ed. by Frank Diköter and Ian Brown (Ithaca, NY: Cornell
Christelow, Alan, “Slavery in Kano, 1913-1914: Evidence from the Judicial Records”,
African Economic History, 14 (1985), 57-74.
Clapperton, Hugh, Journal of Second Expedition into the Interior of Africa from the Bight
of Benin to Socaccatoo (London: Frank Cass, 1829).
Cook, Allen, Akin to Slavery: Prison Labour in South Africa (London: International
Defence and Aid Fund, 1982).
Dirk, Kohnert, “The Transformation of Rural Labour Systems in Colonial and Post-
Colonial Northern Nigeria”, Journal of Peasant Studies, 13/4 (1986), 258-71.
Elias, T. O., ed., The Prisons System in Nigeria: Papers (Lagos: Lagos University Press,
1968).
Falola, Toyin, and Matthew M. Heaton, A History of Nigeria (New York: Cambridge
Frimpong, Kwame, “Botswana and Ghana”, in Prison Labour: Salvation or Slavery?:
International Perspectives, ed. by Dirk van Zyl Smit and Frieder Dünkel (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 1999), pp. 25-36.
Heaton, Matthew M., Black Skin, White Coats: Nigerian Psychiatrists, Decolonization,
and the Globalization of Psychiatry (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 2013).
Heussler, Robert, The British in Northern Nigeria (London: Oxford University Press,
1968).
Hill, Polly, “From Farm Slavery to Freedom: The Case of Farm Slavery in Nigerian
Hausaland”, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 18 (1976), 395-426.
Hogendorn, Jan S., Nigerian Groundnut Exports: Origins and Early Development
(London: Oxford University Press, 1979).
—, and Paul E. Lovejoy, “The Reform of Slavery in Early Colonial Northern
Nigeria”, in The End of Slavery in Africa, ed. by Suzanne Miers and Richard
Roberts (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1988), pp. 391-411.
—, and Paul E. Lovejoy, Slow Death for Slavery: The Course of Abolition in Northern
Nigeria, 1897-1936 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).
Jumare, Ibrahim M., “The Late Treatment of Slavery in Sokoto: Background and
Consequences of the 1936 Proclamation”, International Journal of African Historical
Studies, 27/2 (1994), 303-22.
—, Land Tenure in Sokoto Sultanate of Nigeria (Ph.D. thesis, York University, Toronto,
1995).
Killingray, David, “Punishment to Fit the Crime?: Penal Policy and Practice in
British Colonial Africa”, in A History of Prison and Confinement in Africa, pp. 97-
118.
Lovejoy, Paul E., “Slavery in the Sokoto Caliphate”, in The Ideology of Slavery in
Africa, ed. by Paul E. Lovejoy (Los Angeles, CA: Sage, 1981), pp. 200-43.
Lugard, F. D., The Dual Mandate in British Tropical Africa (Edinburgh: William
Blackwood, 1922).
Mason, Michael, “Working on the Railway: Forced Labor in Northern Nigeria,
1907-1912”, in African Labor History, ed. by Peter C. W. Gutkind, Robin Cohen
and Jean Copans (London: Sage, 1978), pp. 56-79.
Nicolson, I. F., The Administration of Nigeria, 1900-1960: Men, Methods and Myths
(London: Oxford University Press, 1969).
Northern Nigeria Annual Reports 1902-1912, MS, Harriet Tubman Institute, York
University, Toronto, Canada (cited as NNAR) (uncatalogued).
Okediji, F. A., An Economic History of Hausa-Fulani Empire of Northern Nigeria, 1900-
1939 (Ph.D. thesis, Indiana University Bloomington, 1972).
Onimode, Bade, Imperialism and Underdevelopment in Nigeria: The Dialectics of Mass
Poverty (Lagos: Macmillan, 1983).
Orr, Charles William James, The Making of Northern Nigeria, 2nd edn. (London: Cass,
1965).
Perham, Margery, Lugard: The Years of Authority 1898-1945 (London: Collins, 1960).
Salau, Mohammed Bashir, The West African Slave Plantation: A Case Study (New
York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011).
Saleh-Hanna, Viviane, and Chukwuma Ume, “Evolution of the Penal System:
Criminal Justice in Nigeria”, in Colonial Systems of Control: Criminal Justice in
Nigeria, ed. by Viviane Saleh-Hanna (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2008),
pp. 55-68.
—, ed., Colonial Systems of Control: Criminal Justice in Nigeria (Ottawa: University of
Ottawa Press, 2008).
Super, Gail, “Namibia”, in Prison Labour: Salvation or Slavery?: International
Perspectives, ed. by Dirk van Zyl Smit and Frieder Dünkel (Aldershot: Ashgate,
1999), pp. 153-68.
Ubah, Chinedu N., “Suppression of the Slave Trade in the Nigerian Emirates”,
Journal of African History, 32 (1991), 447-70.
Van Zyl Smit, Dirk, “South Africa”, in Prison Labour: Salvation or Slavery?: International
Perspectives, ed. by Dirk van Zyl Smit and Frieder Dünkel (Aldershot: Ashgate,
1999), pp. 211-40.
Worger, William H., “Convict Labour, Industrialists and the State in the US South
and South Africa, 1870-1930”, Journal of Southern African Studies, 30 (2004), 63-86.
Yunusa, Yusuf, Slavery in the 19th Century Kano (Bachelor’s dissertation, Ahmadu
Bello University, Zaria, 1976).
Documents from the National Archives of Nigeria

in Kaduna 104
EAP535/3/7/2/5
Sokoto Province monthly report no. 23, February 1905.
EAP535/3/7/2/7
Sokoto Province monthly report no. 25, May and June 1905.
EAP535/2/2/5/4
Report on prisons for year ending 21 December 1905.
EAP535/2/2/5/16
Bornu Province quarterly report, September 1906.
EAP535/2/2/7/39
Kano Province twelve-year report, 30 June 1908.
EAP535/2/2/8/1
Zaria Province quarterly report, December 1908.
EAP535/2/2/10/26
Nassarawa Province quarterly report, June 1911.
EAP535/2/2/10/32
Kabba Province quarterly report, September 1911.
EAP535/2/2/10/38
Nassarawa Province quarterly report, September 1911.
EAP535/2/2/10/44
Bornu Province quarterly report, December 1911.
EAP535/2/2/11/13
Yola Province quarterly report, December 1911.
EAP535/2/2/11/18
Niger Province annual report, 1911.
EAP535/2/2/11/8
Kabba Province annual report, 1911.
EAP535/2/2/11/9
Bornu Province annual report, 1911.
EAP535/2/2/11/17
Nassarawa Province annual report, 1911.
104 See http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP535

EAP535/2/5/1/39
Quarterly report no. 80, December 1912, by Mr. F. H. Buxton Resident Muri Province.
EAP535/2/5/1/14
Kabba Province quarterly report, December 1912.
EAP535/2/5/1/46
Muri Province annual report, 1912.
EAP535/2/5/1/81
Zaria Province quarterly report, March 1913.
EAP535/3/6/5/4
Niger Province annual report no. 6, 1913.
EAP535/3/8/2/12
Zaria Province annual report no. 62, 1913.
EAP535/3/2/2
Kano Province annual report, 1917.
EAP535/2/2/9/1
Sanitation labourers for Katsina Allah.
EAP535/2/2/4/20
Difficulty of obtaining labourers at Yola.
EAP535/2/3/6/18
Report of unsatisfactory conduct of Maaji of Zaria.
EAP535/2/3/6/9
Flogging in gaols for prison offences: amendment of regulations.
11. Murid Ajami sources of knowledge:
the myth and the reality1
Fallou Ngom
It is because of divine grace that there is ethnolinguistic diversity.

— Moussa Ka (1889-1967), Murid Ajami poet
Ajami, the practice of writing other languages using the modified Arabic
script, is a centuries-old tradition, deeply embedded in the histories and
cultures of Islamised Africa.2 With roots intertwined with those of the
first Quranic schools of Africa, Ajami remains important in rural areas
and religious centres where the Quranic school is the primary educational
institution.3 African Ajami traditions go as far back as the sixteenth century
to the early days of Islam in sub-Saharan Africa.4 They emerged as local
scholars understood that they needed to write in local languages texts
system.
2 See Helmi Sharaway, ed., Heritage of African Languages Manuscripts (Ajami), 1st edn.
(Bamako: Institut Culturel Afro-Arabe, 2005); Meikal Mumin and Kees Versteegh, eds.,
The Arabic Script in Africa: Studies in the Use of a Writing System (Leiden: Brill, 2014); and
Moulaye Hassane, “Ajami in Africa: The Use of Arabic Script in the Transcription of
African Languages”, in The Meaning of Timbuktu, ed. by Shamil Jeppie and Souleymane
Bachir Diagne (Cape Town: Human Sciences Research Council 2008), pp. 115-17.
3 See Frederike Lüpke, “Language Planning in West Africa — Who Writes the Script?”,
in Language Documentation and Description: Volume II, ed. by Peter K. Austin (London:
SOAS, 2004), pp. 90-107; Hassane, pp. 109-17; and Fallou Ngom and Alex Zito, “Sub-
Saharan African Literature: cAjamī”, in Encyclopaedia of Islam III, ed. by Kate Fleet,
Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas and Everett Rowson (Leiden: Brill
Online, 2014), http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaedia-of-islam-3/
sub-saharan-african-literature-ajami-COM_26630
4 David Gutelius, “Newly Discovered 10th/16th c. Ajami Manuscript in Niger Kel Tamagheq
History”, Saharan Studies Newsletter, 8/1-2 (2000), 6.
© Fallou Ngom, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.11

that could be read, recited and chanted in order to convert people. The
materials that emerged represent an essential source of knowledge on the
Islamisation of the Wolof, Mande, Hausa, and Fulani in West Africa and
the Swahili and Amharic in East Africa, as well as a mine of information on
Africa.5 In South Africa, Muslim Malay slaves produced some of the first
written records of Afrikaans in Ajami.6
This contribution focuses on the Ajami tradition of the Muridiyya Sufi
order founded by Cheikh Ahmadou Bamba Mbacké (1853-1927).7 The
bulk of the materials discussed here is taken from those digitised with the
support of the Endangered Archives Programme.8 The article addresses
Ajami literacy in Africa and the factors that contributed to its flourishing
among the followers of Muridiyya. It also explores the religious and secular
functions of Ajami and its role in the emergence of the Murid assertive
African Muslim identity that perpetually thwarts external tutelage and
acculturation. Finally, it outlines the scholarly and practical benefits that
could be gained from studying African Ajami systems.
Ajami literacies of Africa

While illiteracy remains a major problem in sub-Saharan Africa, the official
literacy rates of local governments and UNESCO do not reflect the actual
literacy rates in Muslim areas where the classical Arabic script has been
modified to write local languages for centuries, just like the Latin script
was modified to write numerous European languages. In many Muslim
5 R. S. O’Fahey and John O. Hunwick, Arabic Literature of Africa (Leiden: Brill, 1994); idem,
ed., Arabic Literature of Africa, Vol. III: The Writings of the Muslim Peoples of Northeastern
Africa (Leiden: Brill, 2003); and Lameen Souag, “Ajami in West Africa”, Afrikanistik
Online, 2010, http://www.afrikanistik-aegyptologie-online.de/archiv/2010/2957
6 Muhammed Haron, “The Making, Preservation and Study of South African Ajami
Manuscripts and Texts”, Sudanic Africa, 12 (2001), 1-14.
7 Fallou Ngom, “Murīd Identity and Wolof Ajami Literature in Senegal”, in Development,
Modernism and Modernity in Africa, ed. by Augustine Agwuele (New York: Routledge,
2012), pp. 62-78; Fallou Ngom, “Ahmadu Bamba’s Pedagogy and the Development
of Ajami Literature”, African Studies Review, 52/1 (2009), 99-124; Sana Camara, “Ajami
Literature in Senegal: The Example of Sëriñ Muusaa Ka, Poet and Biographer”, Research
in African Literatures, 28/3 (1997), 163-82; and Alex Zito, Prosperity and Purpose, Today and
Tomorrow: Shaykh Ahmadu Bamba and Discourses of Work and Salvation in the Muridiyya Sufi
Order of Senegal (Ph.D. thesis, Boston University, 2012).
8 Project EAP334: Digital preservation of Wolof Ajami manuscripts of Senegal, http://eap.
bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP334. The digitised manuscripts are
available at http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP334
Murid Ajami sources of knowledge 333
areas of Africa, Ajami literacy is more widespread than Latin script literacy,
including among women in some cases.9
A limited census conducted in the areas of Labé in French-speaking
Guinea reveals that over 70% of the population are literate in the local
form of Ajami (including 20-25% of women);10 in Diourbel (the heartland
of Muridiyya), Matam, and Podor in Senegal, about 70% are literate in
Ajami, and in Hausa-speaking areas of Niger and Nigeria, over 80% of
the population are Ajami literates.11 Though Marie-Ève Humery questions
Cissé’s rates of literacy in Ajami, and while it is true that Ajami literacy is less
developed in Fuuta Tooro,12 it is undeniable that grassroots Ajami literacy
is much higher in West African Muslim communities in general than Latin-
script literacy. One need not look any further than in the business records
of local shopkeepers to establish the significance of Ajami in West African
Muslim communities.13
The misrepresentation of Ajami users in official statistics is due to the fact
that “literacy” is generally construed for sub-Saharan Africans as the ability
to read and write in Arabic or European languages or the ability to read and
write African languages using the Latin script. This narrow and prevailing
understanding of literacy has perpetuated the prevalent myth of sub-
Saharan Africa as a region with no written traditions. This understanding of
literacy espoused by African governments and international organisations
has excluded the millions of people who regularly use Ajami.14 The rich
9 Lüpke, pp. 90-107; Meikal Mumin, “The Arabic Script in Africa: Understudied Literacy”,
in The Arabic Script in Africa: Studies in the Use of a Writing System, ed. by Meikal Mumin
and Kees Versteegh (Leiden: Brill, 2014), pp. 41-62; Andy Warren-Rothlin, “West African
Scripts and Arabic Orthographies”, in The Arabic Script in Africa, ed. by Mumin and
Versteegh, pp. 261-88; and Fiona McLaughlin, “Dakar Wolof and the Configuration of
an Urban Identity”, Journal of African Cultural Studies, 14 (2001), 153-72 (p. 165). For the
use of Hausa Ajami by a contemporary female Hausa teacher in Niger, see Ousseina D.
Alidou, Engaging Modernity: Muslim Women and the Politics of Agency in Postcolonial Niger
(Madison, WI: The University of Wisconsin Press, 2005), pp. 52-56.
10 Mamadou Cissé, “Écrits et écriture en Afrique de l’ouest”, Sudlangue: revue électronique
internationale de sciences du language, 6 (2007), 77-78.
11 Ibid.
12 Marie-Ève Humery, “Fula and the Ajami Writing System in the Haalpulaar Society of
Fuuta Tooro (Senegal and Mauritania): A Specific ‘Restricted Literacy’”, in The Arabic
Script in Africa, ed. by Mumin and Versteegh, pp. 173-98.
13 See “Business Records of a Fuuta Tooro Pulaar Shopkeeper” and “Business Records of
a Wolof Shopkeeper”, contributed by Fallou Ngom, Ablaye Diakité, Birane Gassama
and Ibrahima Ngom to Africa’s Sources of Knowledge Digital Library, http://www.ask-dl.
fas.harvard.edu/content/business-records-pulaar-bookseller and http://www.ask-dl.fas.
harvard.edu/content/shopkeeper-s-financial-records-wolof-ajami-0
14 For a discussion of some of these issues, see Lüpke, pp. 90-107; Coleman Donaldson,
African Ajami materials refute the pervasive myth of the holistic illiteracy
of Africa that is perpetuated by the over-emphasis on African oral traditions
in academia.15 This emphasis has resulted in the omission of Africa’s
unique sources of knowledge in Ajami in various domains of knowledge
production about the continent.
As David Diringer has rightly noted, scripts generally follow religions.16
Just like the Latin script spread throughout the world through Christianity
and was modified to write numerous European languages, so too the Arabic
script spread through Islam and was modified to write numerous African
languages. Many African Ajami traditions initially emerged as part of the
pedagogies to disseminate Islam to the illiterate masses.17 However, their
usage expanded to encompass other areas of knowledge, as for example in
Figs. 11.5-11.8, 11.11, and 11.12, just as the Latin script flourished from the
church environment to encompass other secular domains of knowledge of
different European communities that had modified the script to meet their
written communication needs.
African Ajami materials uncovered to date encompass various areas of
knowledge. These include prayers, talismanic protective devices, religious
and didactic materials in poetry and prose, elegies, translations of works
on Islamic metaphysics, jurisprudence, Sufism, and translations of the
Quran from Arabic into African languages. The existing secular Ajami
writings encompass commercial and administrative record-keeping,
family genealogies, as for example in Fig. 11.5, records of important
local events such as foundations of villages, births, deaths, weddings,
biographies, political and social satires, advertisements, road signs, public
“Jula Ajami in Burkina Faso: A Grassroots Literacy in the Former Kong Empire”, Working
Papers in Educational Linguistics, 28/2 (2013), 19-36; and Fallou Ngom, “Ajami Script in the
Senegalese Speech Community”, Journal of Arabic and Islamic Studies, 10/1 (2010), 1-23.
15 For a discussion on the treatment of Africa as lacking written traditions, see Lüpke, pp. 91-93.
16 David Diringer, The Alphabet: A Key to the History of Mankind (New York: Philosophical
Library, 1948). For a similar discussion, see Ghislaine Lydon, “A Thirst for Knowledge:
Arabic Literacy, Writing Paper and Saharan Bibliophiles in the Southern Sahara”, in
The Trans-Saharan Book Trade: Manuscript Culture, Arabic Literacy and Intellectual History
in Muslim Africa, ed. by Graziano Krätli and Ghislaine Lydon (Leiden: Brill, 2011), pp.
37-38.
17 See Tal Tamari and Dmitry Bondarev, eds., Journal of Qur’anic Studies: Qur’anic Exegesis
in African Languages, 15/3 (London: Centre of Islamic Studies, School of Oriental and
African Studies, 2013); Albert Gérard, African Language Literatures (Washington, DC:
Three Continents Press, 1891), pp. 35-47; Fallou Ngom, “Ahmadu Bamba’s Pedagogy
and the Development of Ajami Literature”, pp. 99-124; David Robinson, “The ‘Islamic
Revolutions’ of West Africa on the Frontiers of the Islamic World”, February 2008, http://
www.yale.edu/macmillan/rps/islam_papers/Robinson-030108.pdf
announcements, speeches, personal correspondences, traditional treatment

of illnesses (including medicinal plants), incantations, history, local customs
and ancestral traditions, texts on diplomatic matters, behavioural codes,
and grammar.18
African Ajami traditions are varied and old. The oldest material in
Wolofal (the local name of Wolof in Ajami script), I found is a bilingual
French-Wolof Ajami diplomatic document dating to the early nineteenth
century. The document is a treaty negotiation between King Louis XVIII of
France and King of Bar of the Gambia of 1817. The negotiation was about a
trading post that the King of France desired in Albreda on the northern bank
of the River Gambia. The scribes of the two kings wrote down the words of
their respective rulers in their separate “diplomatic languages and scripts”.
The resulting French and Ajami texts are juxtaposed in the document.19
The juxtaposition of the French and Ajami texts in the document reflects
the balance of power between the two kings at that time. The document
indicates that European rulers recognised local Ajami literacies and
their significance in their initial encounters with African Muslim rulers.
However, as colonisation unfolded and the balance of power shifted in
favour of European rulers, Ajami began to be suppressed and gradually
replaced in official transactions by the Latin script, and the myth of the
holistic illiteracy of Africans began to be cultivated to legitimise the colonial
“civilising mission”.20
18 Hassane, p. 115; Lüpke, p. 101; Tal Tamari, “Cinq Textes Bambara en Caractères Arabes:
Présentation, Traduction, Analyse du Système Graphémique”, Islam et Société au Sud du
Sahara, 8 (1994), 97-121; Xavier Luffin, “Swahili Documents from Congo (19th Century):
Variations in Orthography”, in The Arabic Script in Africa, ed. by Mumin and Versteegh,
pp. 311-17; and Matt Schaffer, “‘Pakao Book’: Expansion and Social Structure by
Virtue of an Indigenous Manuscript”, African Languages, 1 (1975), 96-115. During my
fieldwork in the city of Ziguinchor, Senegal, in 2010, I found a Mandinka Ajami text
cursing Adolph Hitler written around 1942 by Mamadou Cissé, who was angered by
the negative effects of World War II on his community. An image and audio transcript
are available at https://patrickcox.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/mandinka-156-768x1024.
jpg; and http://www.pri.org/node/12846/popout. For more Mandinka Ajami texts, see
“Mandinka documents”, contributed by Fallou Ngom, Ablaye Diakité, Birane Gassama,
and Ibrahima Ngom to Africa’s Sources of Knowledge Digital Library, http://ask-dl.fas.
harvard.edu/collection/Mandinka. Also, Fallou Ngom, “Ajami in the Senegambia”,
http://aodl.org/islamictolerance/ajami/language.php?l=3
19 “Palabre de Traité entre le Roi de France et le Roi de Bar [Treaty Palaver between the King of
France and the King of Bar]”, 13 May 1817, in Archives Nationales d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-
Provence, France, Sen/IV/1.
20 For a discussion on the French “civilising mission”, see Alice L. Conklin, The French
Republican Idea of Empire in France and West Africa, 1895-1930, 1st edn. (Stanford, CA:
Many of the first official transactions signed between Europeans and

African Muslim rulers in their initial encounters (when they treated each
other as peers) contain traces of Ajami. The King Bomba Mina Lahai of
Malagea of Sierra Leone “signed in Ajami” two treaties with the French in
May and August of 1854 to allow them to travel and trade in the Melacori
River.21 Additionally, in the collections of Abbé Boilat, a letter dated 1843 of
the local Wolof Imam to the mayor of Saint-Louis, Senegal was written in
Ajami and translated into French.22 In 1882, over 1,200 inhabitants of the four
towns of Gorée, Dakar, Rufisque, and Saint-Louis in Senegal, traditionally
called les quatres communes (whose inhabitants acquired French citizenship)
petitioned the French government against the mandatory military service.
The names of the signatories were written in Wolof Ajami.23 Additionally,
the names in the collective letter written by over 25 cantonal chiefs and
Wolof notables of Senegal to renew their loyalty to the French colonial
government and to express their concerns in 1888 were “signed in Ajami”
though the message of the letter was written in Arabic.24
Until the 1920s, the information on banknotes in Senegal included
Wolof Ajami text explaining their worth. Mamadou Cissé ties the removal
of Wolof Ajami writings on Senegalese banknotes to the general neglect
of West African Arabic-based writings, which he attributes to the bias
against Islam of colonial authorities that post-colonial leaders perpetuated.
He argues that both colonial and post-colonial authorities treat Arabic-
based writings as a threat to the construction of a secular and multi-ethnic
state.25 Banknotes with Ajami writings also existed in Nigeria. Hausa
Ajami appeared alongside English on the Nigerian currency called Naira
21 By “signing in Ajami”, I mean that the signatures contain modified Arabic letters such
as the “reversed ḍammah” (or “inverted ḍammah”) attested in San Bambara and Pulaar
Ajami writings. See Valentin Vydrin, “Ajami Script for Mande Languages”, in The Arabic
Script in Africa, ed. by Mumin and Versteegh, pp. 119-224 (p. 222); and “Convention
between the Emperor of France and the King of Maligia”, 5 May 1854 and 5 August 1854,
in Archives Nationales d’Outre Mer, Aix-en-Provence, France, Senegal, IV, 28a.
22 For other secular usages of Ajami in the colonial era, see Abbé David Boilat, “Notes du
Fouta Toro”, Société de Géographie, Ms 8, pp. 48-49; also see the use of Ajami in ornithology
in the late 1890s in Ludovic Besson, “Les Collectes ornithologiques sénégalais de Victor
Planchat dans la collection Albert Maës”, Symbioses nouvelle série, 30/2 (2013), 2-16; and
in Nadia Bougrine and Ludovic Besson, “Décryptage des termes en wolof et soninké
utilisés pour les collectes ornithologiques de Victor Planchat”, Symbioses nouvelle série,
31/1 (2013), 1-8.
23 Archives Nationales d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-Provence, France, FN, SG, SN, XVI, 1.
24 See “Lettre de Diaorine Boul Madeguène Samba, Chef des notables et des hommes
libres”, Archives d’Outre Mer, Aix-en-Provence, France, SG, SN, IV, 98b.
25 Cissé, “Écrits et écriture en Afrique de l’ouest”, p. 72.
(₦) until the new ₦ 1,000 banknote introduced in 2006, but the new ₦ 20
and ₦ 50 banknotes introduced in March 2007 bear English, Yoruba, Igbo
and Hausa, all in Roman script.26 Although the change represents a shift
to a national language policy known as wazobia, which is construed as a
symbol of national unity, Muslims took it as anti-Islamic, while a number
of prominent Christians favoured it on the basis that Arabic (for which they
had mistaken the Arabic script Hausa) was a foreign language.27 The existing
evidence demonstrates that Ajami was and is not exclusively used for
religious purposes. When studied, African Ajami materials will illuminate
various aspects of Africa’s pre-colonial, colonial and post-colonial history.
The flourishing of Ajami in Murid communities

Although many African Ajami traditions began as part of the pedagogies
of teaching religious subjects in Quranic schools and learning centres,
little is known about the idiosyncratic local factors that account for the
flourishing or lack of flourishing of Ajami in specific Muslim communities.
It is widely accepted that Ajami thrived in the Hausaland of northern
Nigeria particularly because Usman ɗan Fodio (1754-1817) and his family
used Ajami poetry in order to convert people to Islam and to gain their
support for their Jihad effort.28 In Fuuta Jalon in Guinea, Thierno Mombeya
used Ajami to spread Islam to the farmers and herders and to express his
desire for cultural autonomy.29 The exceptionally close links of the Fuuta
Tooro (the origin of Oumar Tall) with Arabic-speaking centres of learning
in North Africa likely prevented the flourishing of Ajami tradition in Fuuta
Tooro.30 But nothing significant is known about why Ajami flourished
among the Murids the way it did to become the primary means of written
communication and the badge of their collective identity. The factors that
contributed to the flourishing of Ajami among Murids are numerous.
26 Warren-Rothlin, pp. 266-67.

27 Ibid.
28 Gérard, p. 47; David Robinson, Muslim Societies in African History (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2014), pp. 145-46; Jean Boyd and Beverly Mack, Collected Works of Nana
Asma’u: Daughter of Usman ɗan Fodiyo, 1793-1864 (East Lansing, MI: Michigan State
University Press, 1997); and Anneke Breedveld, “Influence of Arabic Poetry on the
Composition and Dating of Fulfulde Jihad Poetry in Yola (Nigeria)”, in The Arabic Script
in Africa, ed. by Mumin and Versteegh, pp. 143-57.
29 Alfâ Ibrâhîma Sow, La Femme, la Vache, la Foi (Paris: Julliard Classiques Africains, 1966), p. 15.
30 Gérard, p. 57. This factor could help to explain the “restricted literacy” in Pulaar Ajami
in Fuuta Tooro that Marie-Ève Humery reports (pp. 173-98).
Muslims represent over 90% of the Senegalese population.31 They are

distributed among three major Sufi orders: Qadiriyya (whose members are
predominantly Moors and Mandinka and their Wolofised descendants);
Tijaniyya (which includes four offshoots: the Malick Sy, the Niassène, the
Layène branch whose members are predominantly Lebu (a subgroup of
the Wolof), and the branch of Oumar Tall whose followers are mostly
members of the Fulani subgroup called Tukulóor); and Muridiyya (whose
membership was predominantly Wolof but is now increasingly mixed).
Both Qadiriyya and Tijaniyya orders originated from the Maghrib and
the Middle East.32 In contrast, Muridiyya is the youngest Sufi movement
and the only Sufi order founded by a black man who was born and raised
in sub-Saharan Africa. It is with the advent of Muridiyya that a black
man (Ahmadou Bamba) had parted with Middle Eastern Sufi orders to
claim the status of a founder for the first time in the history of Islam in
sub-Saharan Africa.33
The Murid Ajami master poets’ lack of direct contact with the Arab
world and their focus on conveying Bamba’s views and teachings to the
masses in their local tongue are two significant factors that partly account
for the flourishing of Ajami in Muridiyya. Though other Senegalese
orders have produced Ajami materials, their production remains limited
compared to that of the Murids. Most of the didactic and devotional
literature of Tijaniyya and Qadiriyya orders of Senegal are written in
Arabic. In contrast, besides Bamba’s classical Arabic odes, the bulk of the
readily available Ajami materials in marketplaces and bookstores across
Senegambia are produced by the Murids. Despite being the youngest Sufi
movements of Senegambia, its Ajami production dwarfs the combined
output of the other orders. This significant difference in Ajami materials
among the Murids is due to the origin, history, didactic, and ideological
orientation of Muridiyya as conveyed in the works of Murid Ajami
scholars. 34
As shown in the previous section, grassroots Wolof Ajami literacy
existed before the emergence of Ahmadou Bamba. Like their Hausa
31 Oxford Business Group, The Report: Senegal 2009 (Oxford: OBG, 2009), p. 10.
32 For insights on Senegalese Sufi orders, see Khadim Mbacké, Sufism and Religious
Brotherhoods in Senegal, trans. by Eric Ross, ed. by John Hunwick (Princeton, NJ: Markus
Wiener, 2005).
33 Cheikh Anta Babou, Fighting the Greater Jihad: Amadu Bamba and the Founding of the
Muridiyya of Senegal, 1853-1913 (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 2007), p. 97.
34 Ngom, “Murīd Identity and Wolof Ajami Literature”, pp. 62-54.
and Fulani colleagues in Hausaland and Fuuta Jalon,35 Wolof Muslim

scholars were bilingual. Many produced didactic and devotional
materials in Arabic and Wolof, their native tongue and the lingua franca
in Senegambia.36 One of the most prominent Wolof scholars who wrote
both in Arabic and Ajami is the jurist and poet Khaly Madiakhaté Kala
(1835-1902) who initiated Bamba in the arts of poetry.
Khaly was a colleague of Bamba’s father, Momar Anta Saly (d. 1883).
Momar and Khaly served both as Muslim judges and advisors to the
last Wolof king, Lat Dior Ngoné Latyr Diop (1842-1886). As part of his
pedagogy, Khaly co-authored poems with his advanced students. He
often began Arabic, Ajami, or bilingual poems (Arabic and Ajami) and
tasked his advanced students to complete them in order to teach them
new poetic techniques and to gauge their knowledge of Islamic sciences.
One such work is the popular Arabic poem “Huqqal Bukā’u? [Should they
be Mourned?]” that Bamba wrote in his teenage years. Khaly had begun
the poem with the following theological question: since the Quran teaches
that heaven and earth did not mourn the death of the unrighteous such as
the pharaoh and his followers, should the deceased saints be mourned?
He asked Bamba to complete the poem in order to assess both his poetic
skills and mastery of the Islamic literature on the issue. Bamba completed
the poem and highlighted the reasons why deceased saints ought to be
mourned.37
Similarly, in one bilingual Arabic and Ajami poem entitled in Arabic
“Qāla qāḍi Madiakhaté Kala [Judge Madiakhaté Kala said]” jointly composed
with Bamba before 1883, Khaly wrote the first 22 verses engaging Bamba,
his then student, who responded with the sixteen remaining verses of the
poem. All the verses of the poem rhyme with a Wolof structure written in
35 Mervyn Hiskett, A History of Hausa Islamic Verse (London: University of London School of
Oriental and African Studies, 1975); Beverly B. Mack and Jean Boyd, One Woman’s Jihad:
Nana Asma’u-Scholar and Scribe (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2000); and
Sow. For more insights on Fuuta Jalon Ajami scholars, see http://www.webfuuta.net/
bibliotheque/alfa-ibrahim-sow/index.html
36 For more on Moussa Ka’s bilingual competence, see Camara, pp. 164-68. Also see
bilingual poems by Samba Diarra Mbaye, written around 1903, in “Ay Qasiday Wolof ak
Arab [Poems in Wolof and Arabic]” (EAP334/13/2).
37 For a French translation of the poem, see Ahmadou Bamba, “Huqqal Bukā’u? [Should
they be Mourned?]”, http://khassidaenpdf.free.fr/khassida_pdf/Huqqal.pdf. For an
Arabic copy of the poem time-aligned with its chanted version, see http://www.youtube.
com/watch?v=8KNzA917AmI
Ajami, including “woppuma” [I am not ill], “ba na ma” [left me], “të na
ma” [it is beyond my control], and “meruma” [I am not angry]. 38
With this educational background, Bamba recognised the importance
of Ajami before he began his Sufi movement in 1883. The founding of
Muridiyya accelerated Ajami literary production in Wolof society, an
acceleration that continues today.39 The establishment of Muridiyya, the
life story of Bamba, and his own Arabic writings are fairly well known.40
His life story as told in hagiographic Ajami sources such as Jasaawu Sakóor:
Yoonu Géej gi [Reward of the Grateful: The Odyssey by Sea] written between
1927 and 1930 and Jasaawu Sakóor: Yoonu Jéeri ji [Reward of the Grateful: The
Odyssey by Land] written between 1930 and 1935 by Moussa Ka, and Jaar-
jaari Boroom Tuubaa [Itineraries of the Master of Tuubaa] published in 1997
by Mahmoud Niang is poignant and inspirational for Murids.41
Bamba was born and raised in Senegambia in the troubled nineteenth
century, a period characterised by French colonisation and the destruction
of the local traditional political and social structures. He emerged in
the national scene in 1883 after the death of his father. Murid scholars
regard 1883 as the birthdate of Muridiyya.42 From 1883 to his death in
1927, Bamba’s life was marked by suffering. He was wrongly accused
of preparing a holy war against the French colonial administration and
subsequently was exiled to Gabon for seven years (1895-1902).
38 Interview with Sam Niang (archivist at the Bibliothèque Cheikhoul Khadim), Touba,
Senegal, 12 July 2014. All interviews were conducted by the author unless otherwise
stated. Thanks to Sam Niang for giving me a copy of the poem.
39 Ngom, “Ahmadu Bamba’s Pedagogy”, pp. 99-124; Gérard, pp. 44-45; and Lüpke, p. 102.
40 See Babou; David Robinson, Paths of Accommodation: Muslim Societies and the French
Colonial Authorities in Senegal and Mauritania, 1880-1920 (Athens, OH: Ohio University
Press, 2000); John Glover, Sufism and Jihad in Modern Senegal: The Murid Order (Rochester,
NY: University of Rochester Press, 2007); Allen F. Roberts and Mary Nooter Roberts,
A Saint in the City: Sufi Arts of Urban Senegal (Los Angeles, CA: UCLA Fowler Museum
of Cultural History, 2003); and Fernand Dumont, La Pensée Religieuse d’Amadou Bamba
(Dakar: Nouvelles Éditions Africaines, 1975).
41 See Mahmoud Niang, Jaar-jaari Boroom Tuubaa [Itineraries of the Master of Tuubaa] (Dakar:
Librairie Cheikh Ahmadou Bamba, 1997); Moussa Ka, Jasaawu Sakóor: Yoonu Géej gi
[Reward of the Grateful: The Odyssey by Sea] (Dakar: Librairie Touba Darou Khoudoss,
1997); and Ka, Jasaawu Sakóor: Yoonu Jéeri ji [Reward of the Grateful: The Odyssey by Land]
(Rufisque: Afrique Impression, 2006). For a Latin-script transcription and French
translation of Ka’s two poems, see Bassirou Dieng and Diaô Faye, L’Épopée de Cheikh
Ahmadou Bamba de Serigne Moussa Ka: Jasaa-u Sakóor-u Géej gi–Jasaa-u Sakóor Jéeri ji (Dakar:
Presses Universitaires de Dakar, 2006).
42 Interviews with Masokhna Lo (Imam of the Mosque of Diourbel), Diourbel, Senegal, 11
June 2011; Mbaye Nguirane, Diourbel, Senegal, 11 June 2011; and Sam Niang.
Fig. 11.1 Picture of Ahmadou Bamba taken during the 2012 Màggal, the yearly
celebration of his arrest in 1895. The Arabic verses read as follows: “My intention on
this day is to thank You, God; O You, the only one I implore, The Lord of the Throne”.
Upon his return from his seven-year exile to Gabon, new unfounded
accusations were again made against him, which led to his second exile
to Mauritania (1903-1907). When he returned from Mauritania, the French
administration kept him under house arrests in Thieyène (1907-1912) and
in Diourbel (1912-1927) where he died. He is buried in Touba, the holy
city of Muridiyya. At the end of his life, however, the French colonial
administrators realised that they were mistaken and they attempted
to rehabilitate him by awarding him the Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur
(Knight of the Legion of Honour), the highest distinction of the French
Republic.43 Though colonial sources note that Bamba received the award,
Murid Ajami sources contend that he did not accept it.44
But for Bamba and his followers, the long unjust sufferings he
courageously endured and the nonviolent approach he championed have
profound religious meaning. They see his ordeals as analogous to the
sufferings of the prophets and saints of the Abrahamic religions, so too
the price he had to pay to attain supreme sainthood in order to become the
saviour and the intercessor of mankind. These narratives pervade Murid
Ajami and oral sources.45
Bamba stressed in his teachings the equality between all people, work
ethic, Sufi education, self-reliance, and self-sufficiency. He also sought
to reform the traditional Islamic book-based education to make it more
practical, ethics-centred, and to accommodate the varying ethical and
spiritual needs of the uneducated crowds who first joined his movement.
Because he understood that Ajami is pivotal to communicate his teachings
to the masses, he encouraged it and implemented a division of tasks within
his movement. He gave orders to some of his senior disciples to separate
from him and found their own communities as independent leaders.46
He encouraged Mor Kairé (1869-1951), Samba Diarra Mbaye (1870-1917),
Mbaye Diakhaté (1875-1954), and Moussa Ka (1889-1967), the four initial
Murid Ajami poets, to write in Ajami in order to spread his message to the
majority of the Wolof people who could not read Arabic.47
As the language of the Quran, Arabic letters (including Arabic numerals)
have a holy status in African Muslim areas. They are believed to have
spiritual potency and are thus regularly used in prayers, Islamic medicine,
numerology, and in the making of amulets such as good luck charms and
protective devices as documented in Fig. 11.3, discussed below. Arabic has
43 See Archives du Sénégal, 13 G12, versement 1; and Archives du Sénégal 13 G/12-1,

copied in Oumar Ba, Ahmadou Bamba face aux Autorités Coloniales, 1889-1927 (Abbeville:
Imprimerie F. Paillart, 1982), pp. 159-60.
44 Niang, Jaar-jaari Boroom Tuubaa, p. 37.
45 See Ka, Jasaawu Sakóor: Yoonu Géej gi, verses 169-70; verses 178-82, and verses 189-91;
Jasaawu Sakóor: Yoonu Jéeri ji, verses 5-24 and verse 358; Niang, Jaar-jaari Boroom Tuubaa,
p. 38; and Abdoul Ahad Mbacké, Khalife Général des Mourides (1968-1989), Waxtaanu
Màggal 1979 (Discussion of the 1979 Màggal), audio recording, Touba, 1979.
46 Babou, p. 70.
47 Interviews with Cheikh Fall Kairé (grandson of the Ajami poet Mor Kairé), Touba,
Senegal, 24 July 2011; and Moustapha Diakhaté (son and representative of the Ajami
poet Mbaye Diakhaté’s family), Khourou Mbacké, Senegal, 25 July 2011.
also been used as the lingua franca of the elite in Muslim communities.
For the illiterate masses (who cannot differentiate Ajami texts from Arabic
texts) everything that looks like Arabic is regarded as potent, regardless
of whether the material is religious or not. Among educated and semi-
educated African Muslims, however, Ajami does not have the potency of
Arabic nor its holy status.48
Ajami is used primarily for educational and communicational purposes
among the Murids. Because of the “de-sacralised” status of Ajami scripts,
Murid Ajami materials routinely include western numerals.49 These
numerals are used for different purposes, including in the paginations of
Arabic and Ajami educational materials in Murid communities. The use of
western numerals in paginations in Murid communities is a post-colonial
phenomenon because manuscripts written before Senegal’s independence
(1960) do not use numerals for pagination. They utilise “pointers” called
joxoñ in Wolof. These “pointers” consist of writing the first word of the next
page at the bottom of the preceding page. They have largely been replaced
by paginations with western numerals in contemporary Murid educational
materials.50
In contrast, materials used in Islamic medicine, numerology, or potent
prayers do not include western numerals. While the instructions to use the
medicine, the numerological figure, or the prayer formulae are typically
in Ajami and can include western numerals, the formulae themselves are
exclusively in Arabic with Arabic numerals due to their perceived potency
derived from the sacredness of the Quran.51
Related to this issue is the centrality of numeracy among Ajami
users, an issue largely overlooked in the literature. Many successful
business people, shopkeepers, farmers, fishermen, and merchants in
African Muslim communities are Ajami users with good numeracy
48 See the use of unaltered Arabic letters in talismanic figures in Moukhtar Ndong, Manāfi’ul
Muslim [Mystical Healing and Protection Manual] (EAP334/12/2).
49 For an insightful history of western numerals, see Stephen Chrisomalis, Numerical
Notation: A Comparative History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010).
50 For examples of “pointers”, see “Alxuraan bu ñu Tekki ci Wolof [The Quran Translated in
Wolof]” (EAP334/6/5).
51 For more insights on the potency of Arabic letters and numerals, see Constant Hamès,
ed., Coran et Talismans: Textes et Pratiques Magiques en Milieu Musulman (Paris: Éditions
Karthala, 2007).
skills.52 Ironically, most of them know western numerals but they do not
necessarily know the Arabic numerals. This is partly because the western
numerals are readily available to them through the local currencies used
in their communities.
According to Sam Niang, archivist at the Bibliothèque Cheikhoul
Khadim in Touba, who was born and raised in the Murid community,
though the traditional Quranic schools do not teach numeracy as a subject
matter, students generally acquire numeracy in western numerals through
a process that could be termed “currency-derived numeracy”, i.e. through
their sustained exposure to the currency used in their communities. His
experience taught him that Murid Ajami users learn western numerals
primarily from the money that circulates in their communities and schools.
These include the coins of 5 francs (dërëm), 10 francs (ñaari dërëm), 15 francs
(ñetti dërëm), 25 francs (juróomi dërëm), 50 francs (fukki dërëm), and 100 francs
(ñaar fukk) and banknotes such as 500 francs (téeméer), 1000 francs (ñaari
téemeer), 5000 francs (junni), and 10000 francs (ñaari junni).
When students leave their communities and schools later, they
enhance their numeracy skills in western numerals by learning from their
supervisors. Thus, an Ajami literate apprentice tailor will learn from his
boss how to take measurements and write them correctly and a novice
shopkeeper, itinerant merchant, or businessman will improve his numeracy
skills in western numerals by learning from his supervisor more arithmetic,
how to use modern calculators, keep financial records, and write invoices
for local customers who request them.53
The learned people who are literate in Arabic and in the local Ajami
form are generally those who can use Arabic numerals. Thus, while in
general one develops literacy and numeracy in the same language, the case
of Ajami users demonstrates that these two skills can be acquired from two
different languages, as the Fuuta Tooro Pulaar and Wolof Ajami business
records demonstrate.54
Because they lack the potency associated with Arabic, Ajami materials
are used to communicate both religious and non-religious information in
African Muslim societies. The bulk of African Ajami materials consist of
poems, which continue to be recited and chanted to the illiterate masses
52 See the Pulaar and Wolof business records in Ajami in footnote 12.
53 Interview with Sam Niang. This fascinating “currency-derived numeracy” among Murid
Ajami users begs for further scholarly inquiry.
54 See footnote 12.
to convey the teachings of Islam to this day. Among the Murids, texts
by Bamba or Ajami poems of his disciples often offer the occasion for a
public performance where the singers and their vocalists sing the lines to
a tune that they have adopted.55 The recitations of Ajami poems followed
the tradition of the recitations of the Quran and Sufi poems. But African
Ajami poems were also enriched by the local African musical traditions.
While the skills needed for Wolof Ajami poets are, among others, mastery
of the Ajami script and an understanding of Arabic and Wolof poetic
devices, the skills required for singers of Ajami poems include literacy
in Ajami, a good voice, and an understanding of appropriate singing
styles for each poetic genre (referred to as “daaj” in Wolof). Murid Ajami
poets and singers draw from the rich Wolof praise-singing tradition in
content and form. Their poetry in its musicality and rhythm reflects the
localisation of Islam.56
In order to execute his pedagogical and religious vision, Bamba
focused on writing in Arabic for devotional purposes and to communicate
with his peers, while at the same time he specifically tasked some of his
senior disciples to communicate his ethos to the masses in their tongue
(Wolof) through read, recited, and chanted Ajami poetry. The first
four senior scholars he tasked to communicate his ethos to the masses
were Mor Kairé, Samba Diarra Mbaye, Mbaye Diakhaté and Moussa
Ka, the most famous Murid Ajami poet. All four were learned Muslim
scholars who used to produce Arabic poems before Bamba tasked them
to convey his teachings using Wolof in the form of Ajami poetry. They
are responsible for the expansion of Ajami as a mass communication
tool in Murid communities and its use as a badge of identity of their
movement. A good example of their poetic work is a poem by Diakhaté
illustrated in Fig. 11.4.
The division of tasks that Bamba implemented between him and
his senior followers engendered four major categories of Ajamists
(Ajami scholars): social scientists; esoteric scholars; poets and singers;
and scribes and copyists.57 The first group consists of professional
55 Camara, pp. 164-67. One of the most recited and chanted Murid hagiographic Ajami
poems is: Ka, Jasaawu Sakóor: Yoonu Géej gi. See a recited version of this poem by Ibra
Diop-Karamane at http://www.jazbu.com/Serigne_Moussa_ka
56 See Ngom, “Ahmadou Bamba’s Pedagogy”, p. 109; Gérard, p. 73; and Cheikh Anta Diop,
Nations nègres et culture, 4th edn. (Dakar: Présence Africaine, 1979), pp. 528-32.
57 Ngom, “Ahmadou Bamba’s Pedagogy), pp. 108-09.
historians, genealogists and biographers such as Habibou Rassoulou

Sy (1920-2001).58 The second consists of scholars whose primary work
focuses on esoteric knowledge (such as prayers, protective devices and
interpretations that unlock secrets hidden in Bamba’s writings and in
other religious materials).59 The works of scholars in these two groups
are primarily based upon fieldwork data, i.e. they travel from place to
place to study with specialists and collect various types of information,
including family histories and genealogies, prayers, and techniques of
magical formulae to address particular problems in their communities.
They also collect recipes for medical treatment of various illnesses. The
third group consists of poets whose job is to compose religious and non-
religious poetry to be sung by specialised singers.60 The last group consists
of professional scribes and copyists. Their work ranges from translating
Bamba’s Arabic poems into Wolof and making copies of important
manuscripts, to writing correspondences in Ajami for illiterate customers
who want to communicate with their Ajami literate friends or relatives.
They also prepare public announcements, road signs and advertisements
in Murid areas.61
The categorisation of the specialisations of Murid Ajami scholars,
however, is not rigid. It is simply meant to reflect the major trends of
Ajami scholars and their methods of production and dissemination of
knowledge.62 This is because Ajami scholars are generally eclectic in their
approach, and often combine activities and functions of several of the
four categories. The following picture, Fig. 11.2, shows one eclectic Ajami
scholar, who combines activities of social scientists and religious scholars.
58 Habibou Rassoulou Sy, Lawtanug barke [The Flourishing of Baraka], http://eap.bl.uk/

database/overview_item.a4d?catId=132928;r=153
59 For a good example of this category of Murid scholars, see Moukhtar Ndong, Manāfi’ul
Muslim [Mystical Healing and Protection Manual], http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_
item.a4d?catId=132929;r=292
60 For the works of key Ajami poets regularly chanted in Murid communities, see EAP334.
There are numerous popular individuals in Murid communities whose profession is
chanting and reciting the Arabic poems of Bamba and those of his Ajami poets. These
include Ibra Diop Karaman, Abdoul Ahad Touré, Akassa Samb, Khadim Guèye,
Mama Ndiaye, Moussa Guèye-Ndar, Djim Cissé, Khaly Sèye, Cheikh Diop-Baye Fall,
Moustapha Gningue, Mountapha Guèye, and Samba Wade, to name only a few.
61 Some of these Murid scribes and copyists can be found at a place called Keur Serigne bi in
the Sandaga market in Dakar, Senegal.
62 Ngom, “Ahmadou Bamba’s Pedagogy”, pp. 108-09.
Fig. 11.2 Mbaye Nguirane reading an Ajami excerpt of one of Moussa Ka’s poems
during an interview with Fallou Ngom on 11 June 2011. Born in 1940 in Diourbel,
Senegal, Nguirane is a leading specialist in Sufism, a historian and a public speaker.
Just as Ahmadou Bamba modelled his life on the Prophet Muhammad,

his Ajamists also modelled their works on those of the poets who used
to praise the prophet. The scholars who followed him also wrote his
hagiography and genealogy — as illustrated in Fig. 11.5 — and compiled
his teachings in Ajami as the poets and scholars of the prophet once did.
To emphasise that he performs the same tasks for Bamba (in this life and
the afterlife) as those of the poets of Prophet Muhammad, Ka declares:
“on judgment day when Arab poets (who praise Prophet Muhammad)
boast about the beauty of their language, I will praise Bamba in Wolof in
ways that would dazzle them”.63
Additionally, the contemporary prolific Murid social scientist, El Hadji
Mbacké, models the ranking of the sources he used to compile his Ajami
anthologies of Bamba’s sayings and teachings entitled Waxtaani Sëriñ
Tuubaa [Discussions of the Master of Tuubaa] on that of the Muhaddithun,
Muslim scholars who compiled the hadith (sayings and accounts of the
63 Moussa Ka, Taxmiis bub Wolof [The Wolof Takhmīs] (Dakar: Imprimerie Librairie Cheikh
Ahmadou Bamba, [n.d.]), verse 8.
conduct of the Prophet).64 The Murid Ajami social scientists performed

peripatetic travels in local communities and in Gabon and Mauritania
where Bamba was exiled to document his experiences and compile his
sayings and teachings.65
Another important factor that boosted the flourishing of Ajami among
Murids is the fact that Bamba was proud of his black African identity. As
Ousmane Kane reports, he was proud of being black and African and did
not use the customary “principle of genealogical sophistication” to claim
to be of Arab and/or Sharifian descent, which was an integral part of the
system of legitimisation of Muslim leaders of West Africa and beyond.66
He denounced the racism of the Moor/Arabs who were “notorious for
their disapproving attitude toward black Africans”.67 He noted in his
book Masālik al-Jinān [Itineraries of Paradise] written between 1883 and
1887 the following: “The best person before God is the one who fears Him
the most, without any sort of discrimination, and skin color cannot be the
cause of idiocy or lack of knowledge of a person”.68
In the hagiographic poems of Murid Ajami scholars, Bamba’s call
for racial equality constitutes one of the first major benchmarks of his
emergence as a prominent Muslim leader concerned with racial justice
within the Muslim community. Murid Ajami scholars interpreted his
proud African identity and his views on the claims of Sharifian descent
and on racial equality before God within the Muslim community as a
call to utilise their read, recited, and chanted Ajami materials in order
to cultivate an assertive black African Muslim identity within their
communities. They used Ajami as a means of resistance against what
64 For information on how El Hadji Mbacké’s ranks his sources and accounts of Bamba’s
sayings and teachings, which echoes the methodology of hadith scholars, see El Hadji
Mbacké, Waxtaani Sëriñ Tuubaa [Discussions of The Master of Tuubaa], 1 (Dakar: Imprimerie
Cheikh Ahmadal Khadim, 2005), p. 87. For the methodology of hadith scholars, see
Hamza Yuyuf Hanson, “The Sunna: The Way of The Prophet Muhammad”, in Voices of
Islam, ed. by Vincent J. Cornell, 5 (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2007), pp. 125-47.
65 See Niang, Jaar-jaari Boroom Tuubaa.
66 Ousmane Kane, The Homeland Is the Arena: Religion, Transnationalism, and the Integration of
Senegalese Immigrants in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), p. 37.
67 Rüdiger Seesemann, “‘The Shurafâ’ and the ‘Blacksmith’: The Role of the Idaw cAli
of Mauritania in the Career of the Senegalese Ibrâhîm Niasse (1900-1975)”, in The
Transmission of Learning in Islamic Africa, ed. by Scott S. Reese (Leiden: Brill, 2004), pp.
72-98 (p. 93). For further insights on the perceptions and treatments of black people
by Arab/Berbers in West Africa, see Robinson, Paths of Accommodation, pp. 11-13; and
Bruce S. Hall, A History of Race in Muslim West Africa, 1600-1960 (New York: Cambridge
68 Abdoul Aziz Mbacké, Ways Unto Heaven (Dakar: Majalis Research Project, 2009), p. 39.
This book is a good English translation of Masālik al-Jinān.
they perceived as the Arabisation ideology that accompanied Islam in

sub-Saharan Africa.69
Murid Ajami scholars disseminate these views to the masses and
defended the legitimacy of Ajami in Islamic discourse. They separated
Islamisation from Arabisation by untangling the inferred link between
the holy status of Arabic (the language of the Quran) and the presumed
superiority of the Arab ethnolinguistic group. A good example of a poem
illustrating this effort is Ka’s Taxmiis bub Wolof. In this work, modelled
on the classical Arabic poetic form called Takhmīs, structured around
five-line verses, Ka challenges the hegemony of Arabic and asserts that
the holy prestige of Arabic is derived from its proselytising function,
and not from some inherent superiority of Arabic or Arabs over any
ethnolinguistic group. He emphasises that just like Arabic, Aramaic
(the language of Jesus) and Hebrew (the language of Moses and David)
are equally sacred because they were the tongues through which God’s
message was conveyed. He notes that all languages are equal and that
any tongue that is used to convey God’s message acquires holy prestige.70
Murid Ajami poets strove to demonstrate that Islam does not require
acculturation, forsaking one’s cultural and linguistic heritage. Instead, they
contend that Islam requires exemplary ethical and spiritual excellence.71
The flourishing of Ajami and the assertive African identity of the Murids
are entwined with these narratives in the works of Murid Ajami scholars.
But these perspectives are unknown in the external academic literature
because they are embedded in the Ajami sources that have been omitted
in most studies of Muridiyya.72
69 See Ka, Taxmiis bub Wolof. In this poem, Ka praises Bamba, asserts his own proud
African Muslim identity, and defends the legitimacy of Ajami in religious discourse.
He also rejects the belief in the superiority of Arabs and Arabic over black people and
African languages held by some of his peers. He claims that ethnolinguistic diversity is
a blessing, a divine grace. For a chanted version of Taxmiis bub Wolof, see http://www.
youtube.com/watch?v=pvxI_iQOyiU. For further insights on the Arabisation ideology
and the response of the Berber population in Algeria, see Lameen Souag, “Writing
‘Shelha’ in New Media: Emergent Non-Arabic Literacy in Southwestern Algeria”, in
The Arabic Script in Africa, ed. by Mumin and Versteegh, pp. 91-94; and Judith Scheele,
“Coming to Terms with Tradition: Manuscript Conservation in Contemporary Algeria”,
in The Trans-Saharan Book Trade, ed. by Krätli and Lydon, pp. 292-318.
70 Ka,Taxmiis bub Wolof, stanzas 1-4.
71 See the mission statement of Muridiyya, “Lan mooy Yoonu Murid? [What is the Murid
Way?]”, in Niang, Jaar-jaari Boroom Tuubaa, pp. 7-8.
72 The work that has lasting impact on the scholarship on Murdiyya, which has omitted
Ajami sources and relies primarily on colonial archives, is Donald B. O’Brien, Mourides of
Senegal: The Political and Economic Organization of an Islamic Brotherhood (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1971). There is a plethora of works on Muridiyya that has followed his
tradition.
The blossoming of Ajami in Murid communities followed the three

phases of Bamba’s spiritual odyssey: the first decade of his movement
(1883-1895); his exile to Gabon (1895-1902); and his exile to Mauritania
and house arrests (1903-1927). In the first phase he diverged from the
traditional Islamic education system and created three types of schools in
rural areas. He created Daaray Alxuraan (Quranic schools), Daaray Xam-
Xam (Knowledge Schools), and Daaray Tarbiyya (Ethical and Spiritual
Vocational Schools). In the first schools, traditional Quranic instruction
was offered. In the second, Islamic sciences were taught. His disciples in
these two schools mostly came from learned families. In the third schools
new adult disciples who were largely illiterate were given ethical and
vocational training (including physical work) combined with gradual
study of the Quran and his Arabic poems. These were the largest schools
in the initial years of the movement. It is in these early Murid schools
that Ajami literacy first began to spread widely and to become later the
primary means of written communication among the Murids.73 The trend
continued during the second phase of Bamba’s life. But the use was not
drastically different from other communities.
But it is during the third phase (1903-1927) that the use of Ajami
flourished as the dominant mass communication tool in Murid
communities thanks to the works of the Ajami scholars who followed
Bamba. The period encompassed Bamba’s exile to Mauritania (1903-1907)
and his house arrests in Thieyène (1907-1912) and Diourbel (1912-1927).
The three Murid Ajami master poets — Kairé, Mbaye and Diakhaté —
visited Bamba in Mauritania where they became his disciples. They
shifted from writing in Arabic as they did previously to devote the rest of
their lives to Ajami. During the period of the house arrest in Diourbel, Ka,
the youngest of the Murid Ajami master poets, contributed greatly to the
expansion and popularisation of Ajami in Murid communities.74
Besides the traditional proselytising function of Ajami, Murid Ajami
poets present Bamba as a local African hero and a blessing to humanity
just as other saints and prophets were heroes of their people and God’s
blessings to humanity.75 They routinely celebrate their proud African
73 Ngom, “Ahmadu Bamba’s Pedagogy”, pp. 107-08.

74 Interviews with Masokhna Lo and Mbaye Nguirane; Cheikh Fall Kairé; Moustapha
Diakhaté; Amdy Moustapha Seck (specialist of Ka’s work and professional Ajami
singer), Dakar, Senegal, 12 June 2013; and Sam Niang.
75 See Moussa Ka, Waa ji Muusaa Bul Fàtte Waa ja fa Tuubaa [Dear Moussa, Do not Forget the
Man in Touba] (Dakar: Imprimerie Islamique al-Wafaa, 1995). Ka presents Bamba in this
poem as the embodiment of many saints and the saviour of both black and white people.
In his worldview, all humanity consists of these two races.
identity and treat their Ajami skills as assets, as the following verse
by Kairé illustrates: “[Bamba] you made us erudite till we rival Arabs
and compose poems both in Arabic and Ajami”.76 They produced a rich
corpus of read, recited and chanted poems, which conveyed the teachings
of Islam and Muridiyya, and reflected an enduring resistance against
acculturation into the Arab and western cultures. The contents of their
poems continue to resonate with people today, and are still read, recited,
chanted and listened to in Murid communities.77
During Bamba’s house arrest in Diourbel, Ajami writing, reading and
chanting became part of the major activities in Murid communities and
schools along with copying, reading, reciting and chanting the Quran
and Bamba’s poems. During Bamba’s time in Diourbel, his compound
gradually became a centre of Islamic learning and scholarship, and
Moorish and Wolof disciples and teachers flocked to the quarter to work
as readers of the Quran and scribes, copying Quranic and other religious
books destined for students in the new schools that were opened in the
area.78 Translations of Bamba’s poems and other Islamic didactic and
devotional materials into Ajami were also part of the regular activities
during this period.79 The activities of copying, translating and chanting
didactic and devotional materials continued. They have become important
employment-generating activities in Murid communities as illustrated in
Figs. 11.9 and 11.10.
Ajami poets such as Ka and Diakhaté used to meet in Diourbel to
discuss Ajami poetry and techniques (metric, rhythms and versification)
during Bamba’s house arrest there. The joint Ajami poem “Ma Tàgg
Bàmba [Let me Praise Bamba]” was written during this period by
Ka and Diakhaté.80 An important corpus of Ajami poems written by
Bamba’s daughters also exists, but it remains unknown outside Murid
76 Mor Kairé, “Ku Dawal Sunu Shaykh ba Daloo Ngërëmam [If you Serve Our Leader till you
Obtain his Endorsement]”, verse 9 (EAP334/14/9).
77 Audio recordings of recitations and songs of Ajami poems can be found online. For
chanted poems by Ka, Diakhaté, Mbaye and Kairé, see http://www.jazbu.com/Serigne_
Moussa_ka; http://www.jazbu.com/wolofal; http://www.jazbu.com/sambadiarra; and
http://www.jazbu.com/mor_kayre
78 Babou, p. 166.
79 Interview with Bassirou Kane (specialist of Mbaye Diakhaté’s poems and professional
Ajami singer), Khourou Mbacké, Senegal, 25 July 2011. See Kane and the research team
with trunks containing Ajami materials of his father who served as assistant to Diakhaté
at http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP334#project_gallery
80 For the chanted version of the poem, see Duo: Mbaye Diakhaté and Moussa Ka, chanted by
Djim Cissé, audiocassette, Touba, recorded by Kabou Fall, 1999. For a digital copy of the
recited version of the poem, see http://www.jazbu.com/Serigne_Moussa_ka
communities. Ka and Sokhna Amy Cheikh, a daughter of Bamba, wrote

together the popular Wolof Ajami poem entitled “Qasidak Wolofalu Maam
Jaara [A Wolof Ajami Tribute to Maam Jaara]” to celebrate the virtues
of Bamba’s mother, Maam Jaara Buso (or Mame Diarra Bousso in the
French-based spelling).81 According to Sam Niang, Bamba’s daughter
Sokhna Amy Cheikh contributed 21 verses to the poem. Niang indicates
that Ka routinely assisted Bamba’s daughters in the writing of their Ajami
poems.82 I have collected seven Ajami poems, 72 pages of manuscripts in
total, written by Murid women. These include poems by two of Bamba’s
other daughters: Sokhna Mai Sakhir (1925-1999) and Sokhna Mai Kabir
(1908-1964), and one poem by Sokkna Aminatou Cissé, a contemporary
Murid female Ajamist who does not belong to Bamba’s family.83
The Murid Ajami poets generally worked with assistants who helped
to decorate their poems with colours and designs (Fig. 11.6) and to vocalise
them, just as some of Bamba’s senior disciples decorated his Arabic
odes and vocalised them.84 The tradition is derived from the colourful
calligraphic copying of the Quran.85
Murid Ajami poems are grounded in the local culture. They contain
maxims and metaphors drawn from it, as illustrated by the following
metaphor in one of Diakhaté’s poems: “If you cannot resist worldly
pleasures and your baser instinct for a day, you are no wrestler or if
you are, you are (nothing but) a sand-eating wrestler”.86 Wrestling is the
most popular traditional sport in Senegambia. The image of a wrestler
81 See Moussa Ka and Sokhna Amy Cheikh Mbacké, Qasidak Wolofalu Maam Jaara [A Wolof
Ajami Tribute to Maam Jaara] (Touba: Ibrahima Diokhané, [n.d.]).
82 Interview with Sam Niang.
83 Sokhna Mai Sakhir wrote a moving Ajami poem between 1974 and 1975 in which she
presents her condolences to her husband and family for her daughter, Mame Faty
Mbacké-Balla, who died at a young age. See Al Hamdu li’llāhi Ma Sant Yàlla [Thanks be
to God, Let Me Grateful to God] (Dakar: Imprimerie Serigne Saliou Mbacké, 2007), pp.
1-26. Soxna Mai Kabir wrote Maymunatu, Bintul Xadiim [Maymunatu, Daughter of The
Servant] (Dakar: Imprimerie Serigne Saliou Mbacké, 2007), pp. 27-32. This poem is quite
popular in Murid communities. For its chanted version, see Wolofalu Soxna Maymunatu
Mbàkke, audiocassette, chanted by Abdoul Ahad Touré, recorded by Studio Talla Diagne,
Touba, 2005. Sokhna Aminatou Cissé is the author of “Maa’u Rahma [Water of Grace]”
in Jaayante ci Ndoxum Tuubaa, Vol. 1. [Commitment to the Water of Touba, Vol. I] (Touba:
SA-Edition Magal 2012), pp. 17-21. There are likely other female Murid Ajami writers to
be discovered.
84 Interview with Bassirou Kane. Bassirou Kane’s father, Abdou Kane (1915-2000), was a
student and assistant to Diakhaté.
85 For the calligraphic copying of the Quran, see Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Islamic Art and
Spirituality (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1987).
86 Souhaibou Diakhaté, Xasiday Wolofalu Sëriñ Mbay Jaxate: Li War ab Sëriñ ak ab Taalube
[Ajami Poems of Mbay Jaxate: Duties of Leaders and Disciples] (Dakar: Imprimerie Issa
Niang, [n.d.]), verse 3.
is used to underscore the spiritual potency of religious leaders in the

Wolof society. Mbër muy mëq suuf (a sand-eating wrestler) is the defeated
wrestler thrown down so hard that his face and mouth are filled with
sand. Diakhaté uses this local metaphor to refer to religious leaders who
lack the appropriate ethical and spiritual credentials.
The recitation and chanting of such materials facilitated the spread
of the teachings of Muridiyya and Ajami literacy. Many illiterate people
memorised the lyrics of the Ajami poems they heard repeatedly before
later learning the Ajami script. Among them are second language
speakers of Wolof such as members of the Seereer ethnolinguistic group
of the Baol area of Senegal, the birthplace of Muridiyya.87 Many Seereer
of Baol joined Muridiyya in its early days because of the beautiful and
inspirational hagiographic songs of Ajami poets they heard. They learned
the Ajami script when they joined the movement and became exposed to
greater Murid influence.88
This was the case of Cheikh Ngom (1941-1996), a Seereer who was
born and raised in the Baol area, spoke Wolof as a second language, and
acquired Wolof Ajami literacy as a result of his membership to Muridiyya.
When he died in 1996, he left over 900 pages of materials in Arabic and
Ajami. The Arabic materials consist of Islamic litanies, formulae, and
figures used in prayers, medicinal treatment and protective devices.
The Wolof Ajami materials, the bulk of his written legacy, encompass
his personal records — records of important events in his life, his family
and community, and his financial dealings. However, his entire written
legacy includes no Ajami text in Seereer, his mother tongue.89
The Wolof Ajami songs that attracted many Seereer people of the Baol
area to Muridiyya include the two popular masterpieces by Ka, which
describe the poignant lived and spiritual odyssey of Ahmadou Bamba.90
These works recount Bamba’s suffering, his confrontations with local
87 For insights on the Seereer and other Senegalese ethnic groups, see Ethnologue’s section
on Senegal at http://www.ethnologue.com/country/SN
88 Interview with Amdy Moustapha Seck.
89 For samples of Cheikh Ngom’s written legacy, see “Wolofal Rare Documents”,
contributed by Fallou Ngom to Africa’s Sources of Knowledge Digital Library, http://
ask-dl.fas.harvard.edu/search/node/Cheikh%20Ngom?page=1. Although Cheikh Ngom
wrote exclusively in Wolof Ajami because of the Murid influence on him, other Muslim
members of the Seereer ethnic group who live in areas beyond the sphere of influence
of Muridiyya have developed grassroots literacy in Seereer Ajami. The script in the few
ephemeral Seereer Ajami texts I have seen in the regions of Thiès and Fatick shares
features with Wolof Ajami. For example, p is written with bāʾ with three dots above or
below just like in Wolof.
90 See Ka, Jasaawu Sakóor: Yoonu Géej gi; and idem, Jasaawu Sakoor: Yoonu Jéeri ji.
immoral Muslim leaders, traditional rulers, and the French colonial

administration, as well as his exemplary virtues, spiritual achievements,
and his mission on earth from his emergence as a prominent religious
leader in 1883 to his death in 1927.
The fact that some scholars taught Ajami literacy or used Ajami as
a vehicle to teach other subjects, including Arabic literacy and Quranic
lessons, also boosted Ajami among Murids. The Ajami book Fonk
sa Bopp di Wax li Nga Nàmp [Respect Yourself by Speaking your Mother
Tongue] written by the Murid scholar Habibou Rassoulou Sy (1920-2001)
specifically teaches Ajami literacy and proposes an indigenous standard
for Wolof Ajami users.91 In contrast, the contemporary Murid Ajami
scholar Mouhammadou Moustapha Mbacké Falilou uses French and
Ajami to teach Arabic literacy and key concepts of the Quran to Ajami
literates who do not know the unmodified Arabic script.92 Mbacké’s
audience consists of individuals who have acquired Ajami skills
through “music-derived literacy”, but are unfamiliar with the original
Arabic script. This phenomenon of acquiring Ajami skills without prior
literacy in the Arabic script, while unusual, is easy to understand since
recitation and chanting pervade Murid communities. Murid disciples
were routinely arrested and put in prison for disturbing the peace in
Diourbel with their noisy chanting.93
The phenomenon of music-derived literacy reveals that there are
multiple channels through which Ajami literacy is developed in African
Muslim communities. Music-derived literacy in Murid communities
is sustained by the largely unknown but remarkable investments that
Murids have made in the audio recordings and publishing presses. Today
Murids own the largest network of homegrown, private printing presses
and media outlets in Senegambia. They produced and disseminated
devotional and didactic materials ever since Bamba’s house arrest in
Diourbel. To make this possible, since the 1950s the Murids have invested
in printing presses and recording studios. Their written and verbalised
materials pervade the Islamic bookstores in marketplaces in Murid areas
and urban centres in Senegal. Many of their textual and audiovisual
materials are also available online.94
91 Habibou Rassoulou Sy, Fonk sa Bopp di Wax li Nga Nàmp [Respect Yourself by Speaking your
Mother Tongue] (Kaolack: [n. pub.], 1983).
92 Mouhammadou Moustapha Mbacké-Falilou, Afdhalul Hiraf-Taclīmu Haraf Ngir Fer ijji
[The Best Letters-Teaching Letters for Literacy] (Touba: [n. pub.], 1995).
93 Babou, p. 164.
94 Following is an incomplete list of known Murid television and radio stations, audio
recording studios, private presses, and bookstores: Al Mouridiyah TV, Lamp Fall TV,
Conclusion: the significance of Ajami

Through the discussion of African Ajami traditions in general and the
Murid Wolof Ajami materials and their historical context, I have attempted
to demonstrate that the prevailing treatment of Africa as lacking written
traditions is misleading.95 It disregards the important written traditions
of the continent, which are not taken into account in official literacy
statistics and in the works of many historians, anthropologists and
political scientists, to name only a few disciplines. Yet, just like written
Arabic and European languages hold the Arab and European knowledge
systems, so too Ajami sources are reservoirs of the knowledge systems of
many African societies.
The omission, dismissal and downplaying of the significance of African
Ajami traditions among many scholars — including language planners, and
governmental and non-governmental professionals — have perpetuated
the stereotypes which have devalued sub-Saharan Africa’s people and
their languages for centuries. Ka and Frederike Lüpke deplore and trace
these stereotypes to the Arab-centric and Euro-centric traditions. While the
tendency is to treat stereotypical representations and racial prejudice against
the black population of sub-Saharan Africa as an exclusive Euro-Christian
problem, the enduring historical facts tell a different story.
The devaluing of sub-Saharan Africans, their languages and cultures
are well established in the works of Arab Muslim scholars, including the
celebrated Ibn Battuta and Ibn Khaldun. Both were excessively preoccupied
with skin colour and believed that sub-Saharan Africa’s black people were
naturally inferior.96 Their works and those of like-minded scholars have
bequeathed many people with the enduring fallacy that insightful knowledge
Al Bichri TV, Touba TV, Lamp Fall FM, Sokhna Faty Mbacké FM, Diant Bi FM, Disso
FM, Studio Talla Diagne, Studio Kabou Fall, Studio Moustapha Fall-Mouride Sadikhe,
Studio Hizbut-Tarqiyyah, Darou Mouhty Éditions, Impression Cheikh Ahmadal
Khadim, Impression Keur Serigne Kébé, Imprimerie Librairie Cheikh Abdoul Ahad
Mbacké, Imprimerie Librairie Cheikh Ahmadou Bamba, Imprimerie Moustapha Guèye,
Imprimerie Serigne Issa Niang, Imprimerie Serigne Saliou Mbacké, Imprimerie Touba
Darou Salam, Librairie Imprimerie Cheikh Ahmadou Bamba, Imprimerie Touba Photo,
Librairie Imprimerie Touba Darou Khoudoss, Imprimerie Serigne Fallou Mbacké, and
Imprimerie Serigne Massamba Mbacké. The investments that the Murids have made in
telecommunication, publishing presses, bookstores, and audiovisual recording of their
written and verbalised Arabic and Ajami materials are unmatched among Sufi orders of
Senegambia. These investments have contributed to the expansion of the movement in
the region.
95 For a criticism of the prevailing treatment of Africa as a continent devoid of writing
traditions, see also Lüpke, pp. 91-93.
96 Chouki El Hamel, Black Morocco: A History of Slavery, Race, and Islam (New York:
Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 75.
about Africa is either oral or written in non-African languages, especially in

European languages.97
Because of these misconceptions, many students of Africa continue to
disregard the unfiltered voices of millions of people captured in Ajami
materials as unworthy of scholarly attention. As Lüpke laments, even the
few accounts in the educational literature that mention pre-colonial and
ongoing Ajami writing traditions at all tend to stress their marginality.98
But the voices omitted due to the neglect of Ajami traditions contain
illuminating insights that force revisions of various aspects of our
understanding of Africa’s history, cultures, the blending of the African
and Islamic knowledge systems, and the varying African responses to both
colonisation and Islamisation (along with its accompanying Arabisation
that the Murid Ajami sources challenge relentlessly).
It is encouraging to note a growing interest in Africa’s Ajami traditions
as the sources cited throughout this chapter demonstrate. The current
scholarly efforts on African Ajami orthographies and the new digital
repositories of Ajami materials are important steps toward the crucial
phase of translating the insights in African Ajami materials into major
European languages and Arabic. It would be fascinating to see, for example,
what intellectual response Ka’s Taxmiis bub Wolof would receive in the
Arab world, if it were translated into Arabic. This is the work in which
he celebrates his Islamic faith but rejects the Arabisation ideology that he
believed came along with Islam in sub-Saharan Africa. This is a unique
perspective that is only documented in Ajami sources. The translation of
Ajami materials into major languages would open new doors for students
of Africa across disciplines, giving access into hitherto unknown insights
on the thinking, knowledge systems, moral philosophies, and religious and
secular preoccupations of many African communities.
In addition to the scholarly potential that African Ajami sources
hold, there are practical implications of Ajami in Africa. The Senegalese
government in collaboration with UNESCO and ISESCO developed standard
orthographies for Wolof and Pulaar in 1987. ISESCO subsequently produced
the first Afro-Arabic keyboard and typewriter.99 The efforts resulted in what
97 Ousmane Kane, Les intellectuels Africains non-Europhones (Dakar: Codesria, 2002), p. 8.

98 Lüpke, p. 95
99 Mohamed Chtatou, Using Arabic Script in Writing the Languages of the People of Muslim
Africa (Rabat: Institute of African Studies, 1992). For recent materials written with the
standardised Wolof Ajami orthography, see Syllabaire ajami pour lire et écrire le wolof en
caractères arabes-Révisé le 6 janvier 2013, http://paul-timothy.net/pages/ajamisenegal/
je_sais_le_wolofal_06-jan-2013_a4.pdf
is commonly known as the caractères arabes harmonisés (harmonised Arabic

letters) conceived as a top-down model of standardisation, proposing
foreign standardised diacritics to write the idiosyncratic African consonants
and vowels that Arabic lacks. This necessitated the introduction of new
diacritics proposed to write the Wolof vowels o, e, é, and ë. The vowel o is
represented with a reversed ḍammah above the consonant; é with a ḍammah
below the consonant; e with a reversed ḍammah below the consonant, and
ë with a crossed sukūn above the consonant. In the proposed standardised
system, p is also written as ‫پ‬.100
With the exception of the reversed ḍammah above consonants attested
in Bambara Ajami manuscripts,101 none of the proposed modified Arabic
letters is traditionally used in West African Ajami systems. It has been
argued that the local Wolof Ajami letters (so-called les lettres vieillies) are
found in ancient texts. This suggests that Wolof Ajami letters are rarely or
not found in current Ajami materials.102 This is incorrect. The so-called les
lettres vieillies remain the most widely used letters in Wolof communities as
illustrated by Figs. 11.5, 11.7, 11.8 and 11.12, and by the plethora of Wolof
Ajami materials in the digital repositories cited throughout this article.
While p is written in Persian, Urdu, Kurdish, Uyghur, Pashto, Sindhi
and Osmanli (Ottoman Turkish) as ‫پ‬,103 it is never written in this way in
West African Ajami traditions. In Wolof and the other local African Ajami
traditions, p is typically written with a single bāʾ (‫ )ب‬or a bāʾ with an
additional three dots below or above. Similarly, the letter proposed for the
voiced velar consonant g (‫ )گ‬is the same as the one used in Persian, Uyghur,
Kurdish, Urdu and Sindhi.104 But this letter is also not used in West African
Ajami writing systems. While the proposed approach was reasonable
because some of the new characters were already encoded in Unicode,
most were unknown in the region prior to the project. Symptomatically,
the local Ajami systems that had devised their own diacritics to represent
their peculiar vowels and their consonants that do not exist in Arabic, were
excluded in the standardisation effort.
100 Ibid.
101 The vowels o/ò are written with a reversed ḍammah in Bambara. See Tamari, “Cinq Textes
Bambara en Caractères Arabes”, p. 99; and Vydrin, p. 222.
102 See the footnote on page 25 of the document located at http://paul-timothy.net/pages/
ajamisenegal/je_sais_le_wolofal_06-jan-2013_a4.pdf
103 Peter T. Daniels, “The Type and Spread of Arabic Script”, in The Arabic Script in Africa,
ed. by Mumin and Versteegh, pp. 34-39.
104 Ibid.
This approach was also utilised for Senegambian Mandinka. The result
is that although books, a keyboard and a typewriter were produced for the
standardised Ajami orthographies, there is no single functioning school or
community in Senegambia that uses the caractères arabes harmonisés. Ajami
users continue to utilise their centuries-old Ajami orthographies to which
they are loyal for cultural, historical and practical reasons as illustrated
in Figs. 11.4-11.8, and 11.12.105 Most of the documents produced with the
caractères arabes harmonisés are thus dormant in the offices where they
were produced and in the homes of the people who participated in the
harmonisation project.
The experience with caractères arabes harmonisés shows that great
initiatives can fail because of a wrong approach. It demonstrates that
standardisation of Ajami scripts must be carried out bottom up, and must
be grounded in local realities, if it is to be successful. Rather than teaching
Ajami users who have been using their local Ajami orthographies for
centuries to learn new diacritics and letters they have never seen, the
diacritics and letters to be used as standards must be drawn from the
pool of those already in use in local communities.
The standardisation of Ajami orthographies, if done well, has great
potential for Africa. Given the scope of usage of Ajami in the continent,
standardised Ajami orthographies grounded in a bottom-up approach
have transformative potentials. They could help to modernise Quranic
schools across Islamised Africa and develop curricula for the teaching of
such subjects as science, mathematics, geography and history, thereby
exposing students to the world outside their communities.106 Well-
harmonised African Ajami systems could also open up new means of
communication never possible before, and they could unite Ajami users
from the same ethnolinguistic group from different countries segmented by
European official languages. They equally have the potential of enhancing
access to and communication with millions of Ajami users and improve
the work of educators, journalists, public health workers, and local and
international NGOs in areas where Ajami is the prevailing medium of
written communication.107
105 Also see Sy, Fonk sa Bopp di Wax li Nga Nàmp; Ka, Taxmiis bub Wolof and the secular and
religious materials in the digital repositories cited in the paper.
106 Ngom, “Ajami Script in the Senegalese Speech Community”, p. 20.
107 I am indebted to Sam Niang and to all those I interviewed for sharing insights and
documents that helped with this article. Thanks also to my colleague Babacar Dieng
for reading the initial draft of the article and offering helpful comments, and to the
anonymous reviewers and Maja Kominko for their insightful suggestions.
Appendix: sample of Murid materials
A protective device
Fig. 11.3 This image is the last page of Moukhtar Ndong’s Ajami healing and
protection manual, Manāficul Muslim (EAP334/12/2, image 19), CC BY.
The use of the Arabic numerals inside the design (made with the word
Allāh) requires skills in Islamic numerology and mathematics.108 The image
illustrates the different roles assigned to Arabic and Ajami in African
108 For insights into this knowledge system, see Hamès.

Muslim societies. Only Arabic letters and numerals are used in the image
because of their purported potencies. Ndong omitted the instructions
on how to use the formula. The omission is not accidental, but devised
to protect the potent knowledge of the formula. Protection of such potent
knowledge is typically done by partial or full omission of information.
Though some ingredients or instructions may be provided in Ajami, a
crucial piece of information or the entire instruction may be omitted. This
is because the authors generally acquired the knowledge through arduous
peripatetic learning and they only provide it to deserving individuals.
Poem: “In the Name of Your Quills and Ink”
Fig. 11.4 “In the Name of Your Quills and Ink” by the master poet and social critic,
Mbaye Diakhaté, written between 1902 and 1954 (EAP334/4/2, image 46), CC BY.
A Wolof transcription of the poem reads:109
Ak darajay say xalima aki say daa, may ma ngëneeli julli yépp ak wirda
Ak darajay sa loxo lii ngay binde, def ma bu wér sa loxo lii ngay binde
Ak darajay sa cër yii may ma ab cër, bu rëy ci yaw bu gëna sàkkan bépp cër
Ak darajay sa bopp bii ngay dox di muur, def ma sa bopp def ma it ku am muur
Ak darajay sa jàkka jii jëgal ma, tey ak ëllëg te lu ma sib fegal ma
Ak darajay xam-xam bi ngay defe lu ne, xamal ma ab xam-xam bu may defe lu ne
Samaw nit ak sama barab barkeelal, saa jëmm ak sama yëf it barkeelal
Samab xarit ak barabam barkeelal, yëfam akug njabootam it barkeelal
Bépp jullit ak barabam barkeelal, njabootam ak yëfam it barkeelal
Ku may siyaara ka gërëm barkeelal, ku may fexe lor aka wor daaneelal
Képp ku jóg ngir Yàlla ak yonent ba ak yaw ba ñów fi man, begal ko Bàmba
Képp ku may sant aka may teral ko, képp ku may diiju aka moy alak ko
Na nga ma wër kàpp te def sa ab ñag, ba ku ma bëgga jéema lor daanu ca ñag
Wàttu ma man sàmm ma it doylul ma, wàllis ñu may sàmm aka wër musal ma
Ku ma bëggul bu mu faseeti aki naqar, ku ma bëgg it bu mu faseeti aki busar
Képp ku may fexeeli mbeg dee ko begal, képp ku may fexeeli ay dee ko bugal
Ku jàpp nak ag jaamburam ci man bu wér, jàppal ma sag jaambur ci moom itam bu wér
Ku yëngu jëm ci man yëngul te jëm ci moom, te lu mu yéene yan ko far loolale moom
Képp ku am yéene ci man dëgg, fabal la mu ma yéene lépp far jox ko mu jël
Ku xàcci lëf jam ma loola na ko dal tey ak ëlëg, te bu mu dal ku xàcciwul
Jox nga sa mbir Yàlla mu saytu ko bu wér, jox naa la sama mbir dëgg saytu ko bu wér
Ku la begal Yàlla begal ko mbeg mu rëy, ku ma begal yaw it begal ko mbeg mu rëy
Yàlla daa la def sëriñ bu barkeel, na nga ma def man it murid bu barkeel
Subhāna rabika rabi’l-cizzati camā yasifūna wa salāmu calā’l-mursalīna

wa’l-hamdu li’llāhi rabi’l-cālamīna
109 I performed the transcriptions and translations in the contribution. Because the
graphemic properties of the Ajami texts are not my focus in this article, I offer a
Latin-based transcription of the materials based on the standard Wolof orthography.
I comment on the graphemic features when I deem it necessary. For a more detailed
discussion on the graphemic traits of Wolofal, see Ngom, “Ajami Script in the Senegalese
Speech Community”, pp. 1-23.
An English translation of the poem reads:
In the name of your quills and ink, offer me blessings of all prayers and invocations.
In the name of your hand you write with, make me your hand you write with.
In the name of your distinctions, offer me a distinction greater than any distinction.
In the name of your head you always cover,110 make me yourself and a fortunate person.
In the name of your mosque, forgive me now and ever, and save me from things I dislike.
In the name of your multifaceted knowledge, offer me multifaceted knowledge.
Bless my people and my home and bless my body and my property.

Bless my friends and their homes and bless their properties and families.
Bless all Muslims and their homes and bless their families and properties.
Bless whoever visits and thanks me and subdue whoever seeks to harm and to betray
me.
Bamba, make happy whoever comes to me for the sake of God, the Prophet, and you.
Honor whoever praises and offers me gifts; and curse whoever demeans and offends me.
Surround and fence me so that whoever seeks to harm me falls on the fence.
Sustain me, protect me, fulfil me, and bring me people who will shield and save me.
Make ever unhappy whoever dislikes me, and make ever happy whoever likes me.
Make ever happy whoever seeks to please me, and punish whoever wishes me ill.
Whoever leaves me alone leave him alone too.
Whoever threatens me, threaten him, and make his ill-wishes fall back onto him.
Whoever wishes me well, take all his good wishes and give them all back to him.
Whoever hits me, punished him now and ever and leave alone whoever did not hit me.
You left your affairs to God Who addressed them, I leave you with mine, address them.
May God bring joy to anyone who makes you joyful and to anyone who brings me joy.
God has made you a blessed spiritual leader; make me a blessed Murid disciple.
Your Lord is Sacred and unblemished of all that is alleged against Him; and He is The
Most Exalted. May God’s blessing be upon all His Messengers. All praise belongs to
God, The Sustainer of all the worlds.
110 This verse refers to Bamba, as shown in Fig. 11.1.

Genealogy
Fig. 11.5 A page from Habibou Rassoulou Sy’s Lawtanuk Barka [Flourishing of Baraka],
a genealogy book of the family of Boroom Tuubaa (Ahmadou Bamba). Bamba is located
in the circle in bold (EAP334/12/1, image 6), CC BY.
The book from which this page is taken describes in great detail the
maternal and paternal ancestry of Ahmadou Bamba from its Fulani roots
to its full Wolofisation. The page above focuses on Bamba’s great maternal
grandfather and his descendants. The Ajami note at the bottom of the page
reads as follows: “The Grandfather Ahmadou Sokhna Bousso Mbacké and
his five sons and five daughters. May God be pleased with them”.111
111 For another fascinating African genealogical tradition, see a discussion on the gargam
genre in Dmitry Bondarev, “Old Kanembu and Kanuri in Arabic Script: Phonology
Through the Graphic System”, in The Arabic Script in Africa, ed. by Mumin and
Versteegh, pp. 107-42 (p. 111).
Using chronograms based on Maghrib Arabic numerals, Sy also

provides in the book the birth and death dates of Bamba’s paternal ancestor
(Maharame Mbacké). Sy reveals that he was born in the year Ayqashi
(y+q+sh = 10+100+1000 = AH 1110/1698 CE) and died in the year Yurushi
(y+r+sh = 10+200+1000 = AH 1210/ 1795 CE).112 This dating system, which is
commonly used in Murid Ajami sources, remains unknown in the existing
historical studies on Muridiyya.
Ajami art
Fig. 11.6 A work of Ajami art displaying a key Murid maxim: “Loo yootu jàpp ko (Seize
whatever you reach)” in Mbaye Diakhaté’s “Yow miy Murid, Seetal Ayib yi La Wër [You,
the Murid, Beware of the Challenges Surrounding You]” (EAP334/8/1, image 29).
112 For more insights on the use of similar chronograms among Hausa scholars, see Murray
Last, “The Book and the Nature of Knowledge in Muslim Northern Nigeria, 1457-2007”,
in The Trans-Saharan Book Trade, ed. by Krätli and Lydon, pp. 208-11.
The maxim Loo yootu jàpp ko (Seize whatever you reach) echoes the pivotal
teaching of optimism of Muridiyya. Muridiyya teaches that genuine Murids
will achieve their wishes in life as a prelude for their paradise in the afterlife.
A shopkeeper’s advertisement
Fig. 11.7 Photo of a shopkeeper’s Ajami advertisement in Diourbel, the heartland of

Muridiyya, taken in June 2009. The Ajami text reads as follows: “Fii dañu fiy wecciku ay
Qasā’id aki band(u) ak kayiti kaamil aki daa” [Poems, audiocassettes, Quran-copying quality
paper and ink are sold here]”. The word TIGO refers to a local mobile phone company.
The image illustrates the digraphia situation in Diourbel where Ajami

dominates French literacy. The entire message of the advertisement is in
Ajami because it targets Ajami users who represent the majority of the
population of the region of Diourbel.
A mill owner’s advertisement

Similar to the preceding image, this one also reflects the digraphia situation
in Diourbel and the significance of Ajami literacy in the region. The Eastern
(Mashriqī) fāʾ (‫ )ف‬and qāf (‫ )ق‬are used for the Wolof f and q in the Ajami
advertisement rather than the usual Western (Maghribī) fāʾ (‫ )ڢ‬and qāf (‫)ڧ‬
commonly found in West African Ajami materials.113
113 See Ngom, “Ajami Script in the Senegalese Speech Community”, pp. 13-14; Vydrin, p.
209; and Warren-Rothlin, p. 275.
Fig. 11.8 A mill owner’s advertisement for grinding grains, including peanuts. The
Ajami text reads as follows: “Ku bëgg wàllu wàlla soqlu wàlla tigadege wàlla nooflaay;
kaay fii la. Waa Kër Xaadimu Rasuul [If you want (your grains) pounded or grinded
or peanut butter effortlessly; come here. The People of The Servant of the Prophet
(Ahmadou Bamba)]”. Photo taken in Diourbel in June 2009.
The word tigadege (peanut butter) is written as tikidigi. While these

variations constitute challenges for outsiders to read Ajami materials, they
do not pose problems for local Ajami users. This is because local Ajami
users know the dialectal, sociolectal, idiolectal, and stylistic variations
in Ajami materials of their communities. Just like most native speakers
and educated people can predict Arabic vowels in a work, so too Ajami
users can generally predict the consonant or vowel the author intended
based on their knowledge of the contextual and stylistic cues in Ajami
materials of their communities. The text also reflects the use of Ajami as
the badge of identity among Murids. The owner of this small business
asserts his Murid identity with the last phrase of his advertisement: “Waa
Kër Xaadimu Rasuul [The People of the Servant of the Prophet]”. “Xaadimu
Rasuul [The Servant of the Prophet]” is one of the most popular names of
Bamba, the founder of Muridiyya.
Shopping for Ajami texts
Fig. 11.9 Shopping for Ajami materials in Touba, Senegal during the 2012 Màggal.
Besides the Ajami materials, the image captures the centrality of work ethic
in Muridiyya. The patchwork clothing is a symbol of the group of Murids
who emulate Ibra Fall (called “Baye Fall”), the most loyal disciple of Bamba
popularly known as the apostle of work ethic. The belt around the man’s
waist symbolises “the belt of work ethic”.
Shopping for Ajami materials and Murid paraphernalia
Fig. 11.10 Shopping for Ajami materials and Murid paraphernalia

in Touba, Senegal, 12 July 2014.
An advertisement for the mobile phone company Orange
Fig. 11.11 An advertisement in Ajami for the mobile phone company Orange in a
suburb of the Murid holy city of Touba, 12 July 2014.
Similar to image 7 and 8, this image also reflects the digraphia situation in
Touba, which is located in the region of Diourbel. It is worth noting that the
advertisement is not written with the caractères arabes harmonisés, which most
people do not know. The Ajami text is written with Eastern Arabic script
(Mashriqī) which many people now know rather than the Maghribī script more
commonly used in West Africa. It reads as follows in standard Wolof: “Jokko
leen ci ni mu leen neexee ak Illimix #250#. Woote (below a telephone icon), mesaas
(below the message icon), and enterneet (below the icon @) [Communicate
freely with Illimix by dialling #250# to call, send a text message, or access the
Internet]”. The Wolof vowel e is systematically written with a kasrah, which is
one way to write the vowel in Wolof Ajami.114 The phone company understood
that Ajami is key for the effective marketing of its product in the Murid areas.
In the region of Diourbel, all important announcements destined to the
public — be they public health announcements, calls to action, speeches or
official letters of the highest authority of the Murid order (the Khalife Général
des Mourides) — are first written in Ajami before their subsequent reading on
television and radio stations and translated into French for wider national
dissemination. Murids nationwide often receive copies of the original
announcements in Ajami scripts through their regional leaders. Such a use
114 See Ngom, “Ajami Script in the Senegalese Speech Community”, pp. 1-23.
of Ajami as a mass communication tool is a uniquely Murid phenomenon

in Senegal.115 The Murid have revalorised Ajami and made it their preferred
written communication tool and their badge of identity.
The Orange company is thus ahead of the Senegalese government
(which continues to treat Ajami users as illiterate) in acknowledging the
large constituent of Ajami users and the economic benefits of engaging with
them. With similar efforts of private individuals, NGOs and companies, we
hope that African governments will realise the benefits of including Ajami
texts in the educational, economic and developmental priorities of their
post-colonial states.
A public announcement to turn off mobile phones
Fig. 11.12 A public announcement in Ajami and six foreign languages asking pilgrims
who attended the 2011 Màggal to turn off their mobile phones when entering the
Great Mosque of Touba where Ahmadou Bamba is buried, 11 January 2011.
115 See an official letter of the late Khalife Général des Mourides Cheikh Mouhammad
Lamine Bara Mbacké (2007-2010) recognising the foundation of the Murid youth
organisation in the city of Ziguinchor in southern Senegal: “Formal approval of the
birth of a youth Murid organization”, contributed by Fallou Ngom to Africa’s Sources
of Knowledge Digital Library, http://www.ask-dl.fas.harvard.edu/content/formal-
approval-birth-youth-murid-organization-wolofal-wolof-ajami. Despite being far
from the traditional sphere of influence of Muridiyya, the order has expanded in the
southern part of Senegal thanks to its mass communication system based on written
and verbalised Ajami materials.
Because Wolofal (Wolof Ajami) is the primary medium of written

communication among the Murids, the announcement naturally begins
in Ajami. It starts with the following words: “Mbokk mi, nga baal ma te fay
sa telefonu jiba. Jërëjëf [Fellow disciple, please turn off your mobile phone.
Thank you]”. The prenasal mb is written with bāʾ with three dots above,
which is also used to write p in Wolofal. The prenasal ng is written with
a kāf with three dots above, which is also used for g in Wolofal. The dot
below the letter is used for the vowel e. The vowel o is rendered with
a ḍammah, rather than a ḍammah with a dot inside, which is common
in Wolofal texts. The centralised vowel ë is rendered with the fatḥa as
commonly attested in Wolofal texts. f is written with the Maghrib fāʾ, with
one dot below the letter at word medial position and without a dot at
word final position, as commonly attested in Wolofal.116
The second line of the announcement communicates the message of
the Ajami text in Arabic. Subsequently, the message is communicated
in five European languages: English, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and
French.117 The use of the seven languages in the announcement echoes
the global dimension of the Màggal. The goal of the announcement is to
communicate with the international body of pilgrims who come from
around the world to attend the Màggal. International pilgrims include
a substantial number of Murids from the diaspora, comprising North
America, Europe, and across Africa. The 2011 Màggal brought more
than three million people of all races, ages and genders to Touba from
around the world for 48 hours, and attracted an estimated five billion
Francs CFA (about U.S. $10,400,000) exclusively used for the food and
expenses of the event.118
116 See Ngom, “Ajami Script in the Senegalese Speech Community”, pp. 1-23.
117 There are likely texts in English, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, French, and other
languages written in the Wolof Ajami script by people in the Murid diaspora around
the world who know Wolofal and speak these languages but cannot write them.
This is because, wherever they are, Murids whose primary socialisation took place
in Murid areas would likely use Wolofal to document their lives. I know a Murid in
America who writes his numerous passwords in a notebook with Ajami to protect
himself from identity theft. The international dimension of Ajami in the Murid
diaspora begs further inquiry.
118 See Monographie sur l’impact socio-économique du grand magal de Touba au Sénégal, Rapport
sous la direction de Moubarack Lo, Emergence Consulting, November 2011, http://
www.majalis.org/news/pdf/549.pdf, pp. 7, 23-25, 30-36 and 63-72.
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Interviews by the author

Amdy Moustapha Seck, Dakar, Senegal, 12 June 2013.
Bassirou Kane, Khourou Mbacké, Senegal, 25 July 2011.
Cheikh Fall Kairé, Touba, Senegal, 24 July 2011.
Masokhna Lo, Diourbel, Senegal, 11 June 2011.
Mbaye Nguirane, Diourbel, Senegal, 11 June 2011.
Moustapha Diakhaté, Khourou Mbacké, Senegal, 25 July 2011.
Sam Niang, Touba, Senegal, 12 July 2014.
Archives
Africa’s Sources of Knowledge Digital Library, http://www.ask-dl.fas.harvard.edu/
African Online Digital Library, http://aodl.org/islamictolerance/ajami/scholars.php
Archives Nationales d’Outre Mer, Aix-en-Provence, France, Senegal, IV, 28a.
Archives Nationales d’Outre Mer, Aix-en-Provence, France, SG, SN, IV, 98b.
Archives Nationales d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-Provence, France, FN, SG, SN, XVI, 1.
Archives Nationales d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-Provence, France, Sen/IV/1.
EAP334: Digital Preservation of Wolof Ajami Manuscripts of Senegal, http://eap.
bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP334
Recited Ajami poems of Mbaye Diakhaté, http://www.jazbu.com/wolofal/
Recited Ajami poems of Mor Kairé, http://www.jazbu.com/mor_kayre/
Recited Ajami poems of Moussa Ka, http://www.jazbu.com/Serigne_Moussa_ka
Recited Ajami poems of Samba Diarra Mbaye, http://www.jazbu.com/
sambadiarra/
WebFuuta, http://www.webfuuta.net/bibliotheque/alfa-ibrahim-sow/index.html
12. Digitisation of Islamic manuscripts
and periodicals in Jerusalem and Acre1
Q asem Abu Harb
This chapter provides an overview of three digitisation projects supported

by the Endangered Archives Programme (EAP). The first, EAP119, digitised
the collection of historical periodicals in al-Aqṣá Mosque Library in Jerusalem
(Al-Quds) in 2007.2 Two subsequent projects recorded manuscripts in al-Jazzār
Mosque Library in Acre (ʿAkkā) (EAP399 in 2010) and al-Aqṣá Mosque
Library in Jerusalem (EAP521 in 2012).3 After tracing a short history of the
two libraries and outlining the development of the early Arabic press in
Palestine, this contribution makes the case for the urgency of digitisation and
provides a brief account of the digitisation process along with the challenges
that the projects had to overcome.
The Mosque Libraries of al-Aqṣá in Jerusalem

and al-Jazzār in Acre
In Islam, books and book collections have always been seen as a mark of
faith, learning and wisdom that lent prestige to their owners. Islamic rulers
system.
2 EAP119: Preservation of historical periodical collections (1900-1950) at the al-Aqṣá
Mosque Library in East Jerusalem, http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?
projID=EAP119
3 EAP399: Historical collections of manuscripts located at al-Jazzār mosque library in
Acre, http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP399 and EAP521:
Digitisation of manuscripts at the al-Aqṣá Mosque Library, East Jerusalem, http://eap.
© Qasem Abu Harb, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.12

sought to outdo their predecessors by founding libraries with vast collections

of magnificent quality, whilst mosques and madrasahs created impressive
book collections in order to enhance their reputation as centres of learning,
and scholars achieved fame for their private libraries.4 The late Ottoman
Palestine was no different: the mosques and Muslim courthouses contained
collections of religious literature and many large private collections were
held in the city homes of distinguished families.5
The older of the two libraries where the digitisation projects supported by
the EAP took place is located in the northern city of Acre. Al-Jazzār Mosque
Library (al-Aḥmadīyah) is a part of a waqf, a pious foundation of Ahmad
al-Jazzār, the eighteenth-century Ottoman governor (pasha) of the provinces
of Acre. Al-Jazzār’s waqf was the largest such endowment in the history of
Acre. It was the only waqf in this city which was publicly administered under
the Ottoman Ministry of Waqf and later, during the British Mandate rule,
under the Supreme Muslim Council.
The waqf was created in May 1786 and the endowment included: a
mosque, Jami al-Anwar, “the Mosque of Lights”, an Islamic college with
fifty rooms for the lodgings for students from the four schools of Islamic
law, a large library, a public fountain, an underground water reservoir,
a ritual bath, a sundial, a garden and 29 stores surrounding the mosque
courtyard.6 The mosque and adjacent buildings, which were heavily damaged
by Napoleon’s bombardment in 1799, underwent renovations in the early
nineteenth century.7 Throughout the rest of the century the library attracted
many visitors, not only from the Muslim community since — unlike in the
4 Houari Touati, L’armoire à sagesse: bibliothèques et collections en Islam (Paris: Aubier, 2003;
Ami Ayalon, Reading Palestine: Printing and Literacy, 1900-1948 (Austin, TX: University
of Texas Press, 2004), pp. 43-44; Youssef Eche, Les bibliothèques arabes publiques et semi-
publiques en Mesopotamie, en Syrie et en Egypte au Moyen-Age (Damascus: Institute Francais
de Damas, 1967); and Abdul Latif Ibn Dohaish, “Growth And Development of Islamic
Libraries”, Islamic Quarterly, 31 (1987), 217-29.
5 Dov Schidorsky, “Libraries in Late Ottoman Palestine between the Orient and Occident”,
Libraries and Culture, 33.3 (1998), 261-76 (p. 263), https://www.ischool.utexas.edu/~lcr/
archive/fulltext/LandC_33_3_Schidorsky.pdf; and Ayalon, Reading Palestine, pp. 45-47
and 93-103.
6 Bernhard Dichter, Akko: Sites from the Turkish Period (Haifa: University of Haifa, 2000), p.
108. Yitzhak Reiter, “The Waqf in Israel Since 1965: The Case of Acre Reconsidered”, in
Holy Places in the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict: Confrontation and Co-existence, ed. by Marshall
J. Breger, Yitzhak Reiter and Leonard Hammer (London: Routledge, 2009), pp. 104-27
(pp. 112-14).
7 Dichter, Akko, p. 109; and Nathan Schur, A History of Acre (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1990), pp.
173-76.
Digitisation of Islamic manuscript and periodicals 379
case of other mosques — Christians were allowed to enter al-Jazzār Mosque

and adjacent buildings.8
Al-Jazzār Mosque was one of the many buildings damaged by the
Egyptian bombardment of Acre in 1831-1832. The mosque’s library was
looted and the Egyptian army used the yard as a camp.9 After the defeat of
the Egyptians and the liberation of the city, the library was re-opened and
remains open to this day.
The newer of the libraries, al-Aqṣá, is located at the heart of the Old City
of Jerusalem, in the southwestern corner of the al-Haram al-Sharif (Noble
Sanctuary) complex. Founded in 1922 by the Supreme Muslim Council in
Palestine under the leadership of the mufti of Palestine, Hajj Amin al-Husseini,
the library brought together the books that had been kept in al-Aqṣá and
the Dome of the Rock buildings, and gradually also acquired books from
private libraries in Jerusalem, in Palestine and even from abroad.10 In 1923,
Adel Jabre became the first director of al-Aqṣá Library and, at the same
time, the director of the Islamic Museum. The al-Aqṣá archive preserves
his correspondence with the intellectuals in the Middle East and Europe he
approached for book donations.11 The uniquely revered status of al-Aqṣá had
brought it endowments of private book collections and book gifts, including
publications on modern science and literature and donations of local journals.12
8 Ulrich Jasper Seetzen, Reisen durch Syrien, Palästina, Phönicien, die Transjordan-länder,
Arabia Petraea und Unter-Aegypten (Berlin: Reimer, 1854), pp. 82-83, https://archive.
org/details/ulrichjaspersee03seetgoog; and Ali Bey al-Abassi [Domingo Badia Y
Leblich], Travels of Ali Bey in Morocco, Tripoli, Cyprus, Egypt, Arabia, Syria, and Turkey,
Between the Years 1803 and 1807 (London: Longman, 1816), https://archive.org/details/
travelsalibeyps01beygoog, pp. 249-50.
9 Thomas Skinner, Adventures During a Journey Overland to India, 1 (London: Richard
Bentley, 1837), p. 145, https://archive.org/details/adventuresduring01skin; Edward
Hogg, Visit to Alexandria, Damascus, and Jerusalem, During the Successful Campaign
of Ibrahim Pasha, 2 vols. (London: Saunders and Otley, 1835), 1, pp. 162-63. https://play.
google.com/store/books/details/Edward_Hogg_Visit_to_Alexandria_Damascus_and_
Jerus?id=g9G3dRviOv0C&hl=en,
10 Joseph Asad Dagher dates the library’s foundation to 1927 and attributes it to the
Superior Islamic Council (Majlis al-ʾAwqāf al-ʾIslāmī). See Joseph Asad Dagher,
Repertoire des bibliotheques du proche et du Moyen Orient (Paris: UNESO, 1951), p. 68. See
also Geoffrey Roper, World Survey of Islamic Manuscripts (London: al-Furqan Islamic
Heritage Foundation, 1991), pp. 574-76; and Tia Goldenberg and Areej Hazboun, “Old
Manuscripts Get Face-Lift at Jerusalem Mosque”, The Big Story, 31 January 2014, http://
bigstory.ap.org/article/old-manuscripts-get-face-lift-jerusalem-mosque
11 Mona Hajjar Halaby, “Out of the Public Eye: Adel Jabre’s Long Journey from Ottomanism
to Binationalism”, Jerusalem Quarterly, 52 (2013), 6-24, http://www.palestine-studies.org/
sites/default/files/jq-articles/JQ-52-Hajjar_Halaby_Out_of_the_Public_Eye_4.pdf
12 Ayalon, Reading Palestine, p. 94; Rashid Khalidi, Palestinian Identity: The Construction of
Modern National Consciousness (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), p. 54.
Al-Aqṣá Library was first housed in Qubbat al-Nahwiyyah, a building

that lies in the southwestern corner of the Haram al-Sharif compound
and was once home to a thirteen-century school of literature. The library
was subsequently moved to the sacred compound, and the manuscripts
were stored in a building nearby.13 The development of the library was
also stifled by the events of 1948 and their aftermath, when Palestinian
libraries were closed, suspended or had their holdings divided among
other institutions. Between May 1948 and the end of February 1949, the staff
of the National Library of Israel and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem
Library collected some 30,000 books and manuscripts that had been left
behind by the Palestinian residents of western Jerusalem.14 Of these, about
24,000 were disposed of because they were considered irrelevant or hostile
material.15 The remaining 6000 books have not been returned, despite a clear
statement by the 1954 Hague Convention for the Preservation of Cultural
Property, and despite the fact that the National Library of Israel — an
internationally leading cultural institution and the recipient of many books
stolen in the Holocaust — is well-placed to recognise the importance of
acts of restorative justice.16
After a long period of inactivity from 1948 to 1976, the Waqf Administration
decided to revive the library in early 1977. The library’s collection was
moved from the Islamic Museum to the ground floor of the monumental
fifteenth-century Ashrafiyya madrasa.17 In 2000, the library was relocated
13 Yusof Natsheh, “Al-Aqṣa Mosque Library of al-Haram as-Sharif”, Jerusalem Quarterly,

13 (2001), 44-46, http://www.jerusalemquarterly.org/images/Articlespdf/13_Review.pdf
and Ayalon, Reading Palestine, pp. 94 and 128.
14 Gish Amit, “Ownerless Objects? The Story of the Books Palestinians Left Behind in 1948”,
Palestine Studies, 33 (2008), p. 7, http://www.palestine-studies.org/ar/jq/fulltext/77868
15 Larry Stillman, “Books: A Palestinian Tale”, Arena, 120 (2012), 35-39; and Amit Gish,
“Salvage or Plunder?: Israel’s ‘Collection’ of Private Palestinian Libraries in West
Jerusalem”, Journal of Palestine Studies, 40/4 (2011), 6-23. See The Great Book Robbery
project (http://www.thegreatbookrobbery.org) to identify books which had been
collected by the prestigious Jewish National and University Library (National Library)
in 1948 and stamped as “Alien Property”. See also PLO Negotiations Affairs Department,
Nakba: The Untold Story of a Cultural Catastrophe, http://www.nad-plo.org/userfiles/file/
New%20Publications/NAKBA%20BOOK%202013.pdf
16 Hannah Mermelstein, “Overdue Books: Returning Palestine’s ‘Abandoned Property’
of 1948”, Jerusalem Quarterly (Autumn 2011), http://thegreatbookrobbery.org/overdue-
books-returning-palestine’s-“abandoned-property”-1948-hannah-mermelstein. See
also Ofer Aderet, “Preserving or Looting Palestinian Books in Jerusalem”, Haaretz, 7
December 2012, http://www.haaretz.com/weekend/week-s-end/preserving-or-looting-
palestinian-books-in-jerusalem.premium-1.483352
17 Salameh Al-balawi, “Libraries of Al-Quds: from the Ayyubi Conquest to the Zionist
Violation”, paper presented at the Twelve AFLI Conference, Al-Sharqa University, 5-8
again to its current position, the building of “Jami‘ al-Nisa”, or “Women’s

Mosque”, between al-Aqṣá Mosque on the east side and the Islamic Museum
on the west.18 The most valuable part of the library’s collection consists of
approximately 2,000 manuscripts and 74 historical Arabic newspapers and
magazines titles from the region.19
The urgency of digitisation

The digitisation of the holdings of al-Aqṣá Mosque Library and al-Jazzār
Mosque Library was urgently needed in order to document the collection
and preserve its content. The manuscripts and the newspapers have
been deteriorating rapidly due to the poor environmental conditions in
libraries which lack proper humidity and temperature control. The lack of a
preservation programme, and the shortage of staff trained in conservation
and preservation methods were also a serious threats.20 This issue has now
been addressed by the joint project of UNESCO and the Waqf, Jordan’s
Islamic authority, initiated in 2014 to restore al-Aqṣá Library’s manuscripts,
old maps, Ottoman population and trade registers and hand-written
documents from the Mamluk period.21
The fragile condition of the documents has been aggravated by scholars
and students handling the materials.22 Moreover, because of the unstable
political situation in Jerusalem, the location of al-Aqṣá Library in the Old
City presents not only a significant threat to the collection, but also makes
access difficult. Palestinians from the West Bank or the Gaza Strip have to
obtain permits from Israel to enter Jerusalem. Students and scholars are
November 2001.
18 Natsheh, “Al-Aqṣa Mosque Library of al-Haram as-Sharif”, p. 45.
19 For the partial catalogues of the collection see Khader Salameh, Fihris makhṭūṭāt Maktabat
al-Masjid al-Aqṣá, 1 (Al-Quds: Idārat al-Awqāf al-ʿĀmmah, 1980); idem, 2 (Ammān:
al-Majmaʿ al-Malakī li-Buḥūth al-Ḥaḍārah al-Islāmīyah, 1983); and idem, 3 (London:
Al-Furqān Islamic Heritage Foundation, 1996).
20 Majed Khader, “Challenges and Obstacles in Palestinian Libraries”, in Libraries in the
Early 21st Century: An Interntional Perspective, ed. by Ravindra N. Sharma, 2 (Berlin: De
Gruyter, 2012), pp. 425-44 (pp. 432-33).
21 Goldenberg and Hazboun.
22 For a broader discussion of the situation of Palestinian libraries in the early twenty-
first century, see Kader, “Challenges and Obstacles in Palestinian Libraries”; Françoise
Lefebvre-Danset, “Libraries in Palestine”, IFLA Journal, 35/4 (2009), 322-34; and Erling
Bergan, “Libraries in the West Bank and Gaza: Obstacles and Possibilities”, paper
presented at the 66th IFLA Council and General Conference, Jerusalem, 13-18 August 2000.
frequently unable to access the library because of the curfews imposed due
to political unrest in the Old City.
Consequently, all three digitisation projects supported by the EAP had
a dual aim: to help the preservation of the materials by creating digital
surrogates, and to facilitate access to the materials and make them available
to scholars and students in Palestine and worldwide. Each of the three
projects created digital photographs in TIFF format. One set remains in
al-Aqṣá Library and al-Jazzār Mosque Library, while another has been
transferred to the British Library and made accessible via the Internet to
scholars worldwide.23
Digitising the collection of historical

periodicals in al-Aqṣá Mosque Library
Al-Aqṣá Library contains more than seventy Arabic language newspaper
and journal titles, published in Palestine and other Arab countries as well as
a selection of periodicals published by the Arab communities in Europe and
North and South America. Copies of the historical Palestinian periodicals
and newspapers are extremely rare and for many of the titles, the library
holds the only copy available in the region.24
The region’s first privately published journals appeared in Beirut in
the third quarter of the nineteenth century. By 1880 new presses opened
in Cairo, Alexandria and other Egyptian towns, reaching a total of 627
different newspapers with a circulation of perhaps 100,000 copies by
1908.25 In Palestine, printing was first undertaken by Christian religious
institutions, starting with a Franciscan press established in Jerusalem in
1846. The Armenian and Greek churches followed suit, but in all these cases
printing was limited to evangelising materials.26 The Arabic periodicals
first appeared in Palestine only after the Young Turks rebellion in 1908,
23 See http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP119, http://eap.bl.uk/database/

results.a4d?projID=EAP399 and http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP521.
24 For a discussion of the digitisation project, see Krystyna K. Matusiak and Qasem Abu
Harb, “Digitizing the Historical Periodical Collection at the al-Aqṣa Mosque Library
in East Jerusalem”, in Newspapers: Legal Deposit and Research in the Digital Era, ed. by
Hartmut Walravens (The Hague: DeGruyter, 2011), pp. 271-91.
25 Ayalon, Reading Palestine, p. 48; Khalidi, Palestinian Identity, pp. 54-55 and 227 (note 63);
and Ami Ayalon, “Modern Texts and Their Readers in Late Ottoman Palestine”, Middle
Eastern Studies, 38/4 (2002), 17-40.
26 Ayalon, Reading Palestine, p. 57.
when political changes in the Ottoman Empire brought about the abolition
of censorship.27 As many as fifteen periodicals appeared in 1908, another
twenty were published before the outbreak of World War I, and nearly 180
more before the end of the British Mandate.28
Launching a newspaper was easier than sustaining its publication for
long, and the majority of papers started in Palestine and elsewhere in the
region turned out to be ephemeral.29 Moreover, the presence of Egyptian
and Lebanese publications throughout the region resulted in a weakening
of local presses, which found it hard to compete with the quality of the
products flowing from Cairo and Beirut.30 In 1936 Zionists attempting to set
up an Arabic newspaper to counter anti-Zionist propaganda, acknowledged
that it was difficult to compete with the quality of imported Egyptian
publications like al-Ahrām [The Pyramids] and al-Jihād [The Struggle].31
The Zionist settlement represented an additional incentive for the
emergence of Arabic publications, many of them opposed to the new
Jewish presence in Palestine.32 The three leading papers of the pre-war
period voiced Palestinian Arab emotions and they all were published by
the Palestinian Christians. Jurji Habib Hananya’s al-Quds [The Holy, epithet
for Jerusalem] was first published in that city from 1908, was moderate.33
Najib Nassar’s al-Karmil [Carmel, after Mount Carmel] which appeared in
Haifa in the same year, and the Jaffa paper Filasṭīn [Palestine], established
by the cousins Yūsuf al-ʿĪsá and ʿĪsá al-ʿĪsá in 1911, were outspokenly
anti-Zionist.34
With the outbreak of World War I publishing activities in Palestine
were suppressed, but re-emerged in 1919 with the establishment of British
control over Palestine, and two of the leading pre-war papers, al-Karmil and
27 Adnan A. Musallam, “Arab Press, Society and Politics at the End of the Ottoman Era”,
http://www.bethlehem-holyland.net/Adnan/publications/EndofTheOttomanEra.htm
28 Ami Ayalon, The Press in the Arab Middle East: A History (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1995), p. 66; and idem, Reading Palestine, p. 60.
29 Ayalon, Reading Palestine, p. 61
30 Ibid., p. 60.
31 Ibid., p. 52.
32 For a discussion of the role of Zionism in the development of Palestinian identity under
the British Mandate, see Ibrahim Abu-Lughod, “The Pitfalls of Palestinology”, Arab
Studies Quarterly, 3/4 (1981), 404-05.
33 Mary Hanania, “Jurji Habib Hanania History of the Earliest Press in Palestine, 1908-
1914”, Jerusalem Quarterly, 32 (2007), 51-69.
34 Ayalon, Press in the Middle East, p. 66; Rashid Khalidi, The Iron Cage: The Story of the
Palestinian Struggle for Statehood (Boston: Beacon Press, 2007), pp. 91-95; and Qustandi
Shomali, The Arabic Press in Palestine: Bibliography of Literary and Cultural Texts, “Filastin”
Newspaper (1911-1967), 2 (Jerusalem: Arab Studies Society, 1990).
Filasṭīn, re-opened. Overall, the publication landscape in Palestine during

the British Mandate (1917-1948) was more diverse than in the pre-war
period. The press increasingly reflected rising national consciousness and
different political factions.35 By the mid 1930s, according to one survey,
over 250 papers in Arabic and 65 in other languages were in circulation
throughout the country.36
Most of the newspapers appeared weekly and their print run increased
gradually. Rather than the few hundred copies of the pre-war era, individual
papers in Palestine of the 1920s typically circulated at 1,000-1,500 copies.
Filasṭīn, the most popular publication, reportedly sold circa 3,000 copies
per issue towards the end of the decade.37 In the 1920s, some twenty papers
were established in Jerusalem, most importantly Mirʾat al-Sharq [Mirror of
the East] which Būlus Shihādah, a Christian, founded in September 1919,
and al-Jāmiʿ al-ʿArabīyah [Arab Union], the voice of the Supreme Muslim
Council, which appeared in December 1927, and was edited by Munif
al-Husayni. Around five or six papers were founded in Jaffa in the 1920s
in addition to Filasṭīn, and approximately twelve in Haifa, with some in
Gaza, Tulkarm and Bethlehem.38
Although the British adopted the Ottoman Press Law, which required
licensing and submitting translations of press extracts to the government
authorities, they rarely interfered until 1929.39 The Buraq Uprising of that year,
which was followed by violent confrontations between Arabs and Zionists,
brought a radicalisation of the Arabic language press. The most outspoken
papers established in the 1930s in Jaffa, were al-Difāʿ [Defense], a voice of
the Istiqlal Party, and al-Jāmiʿah al-Islāmīyah [Islamic Union] (Fig. 12.1) which
appeared from 1932 to 1937. Al-Liwāʾ [The Flag] (Fig. 12.2), representing the
dominant Arab Party, was established in Jerusalem in 1933.40
35 Ayalon, Press in the Middle East, p. 97. See also Adnan Musallam, “Turbulent Times in the
Life of the Palestinian Arab Press: The British Era, 1917-1948”, http://www.bethlehem-
holyland.net/Adnan/publications/Turbulent_Times.htm
36 Ayalon, Reading Palestine, p. 51.
37 Ibid., p. 62.
38 Ayalon, Press in the Middle East, pp. 96-97; and Zachary F. Foster, “Arabness, Turkey and
the Palestinian National Imagination in the Eyes of Mirʾat al Sarq 1919-1926”, Jerusalem
Quarterly, 42 (2011), 61-79.
39 Musallam, “Arab Press, Society and Politics”; Ayalon, Press in the Middle East, p. 98;
and Qustandi Shomali, Mirʾat al-Sharq: A Critical Study and Chronological Bibliography
(Jerusalem: Arab Studies Society, 1992).
40 Adnan Abu-Ghazaleh, “Arab Cultural Nationalism in Palestine during the British
Mandate”, Journal of Palestinian Studies, 1/3 (1972), 37-63; and Ann Mosely Lesch,
Arab Politics in Palestine: The Frustration of a Nationalist Movement (Ithaca, NY: Cornell
Fig. 12.1 Front page of al-Jāmiʿah al-Islāmīyah [Islamic Union] newspaper, 27 July 1937
(EAP119/1/12/480, image 1), CC BY.
Fig. 12.2 Front page of al-Liwāʾ [The Flag] newspaper, 16 December 1935
(EAP119/1/17/2, image 1), CC BY.
The attitude of the British authorities to the vociferous Palestinian press was
initially benign, as they assessed the public impact of newspapers to be minimal.
Nevertheless, as the press’s radicalisation and impact grew, the British authorities
responded with increasingly harsh measures. The new Publication Law, issued
in January 1933, gave the authorities powers to deny or withdraw publication
permits, suspend or close down papers, and punish journalists, was amended
and new regulations were introduced which restricted the freedom of the press
even further.41 Many major newspapers, Filasṭīn, al-Difāʿ, al-Liwāʾ and al-Ṣirāṭ
al-Mustaqīm among others, were suspended from circulation for extended
41 See Ayalon, Press in the Middle East, pp. 98-100; and Musallam, “Arab Press, Society and
Politics”.
periods of time in 1937 and 1938.42 With the outbreak of World War II and the
introduction of new emergency laws, the British ordered the closure of almost
all newspapers. Only Filasṭīn and al-Difāʿ were able to survive by adopting a
moderate nationalist tone and publishing closely censored news.43
The periodical collection at al-Aqṣá Mosque Library consists of historical
newspapers, journals and magazines in multiple formats. We selected 24 of
these (thirteen magazines and eleven journals) for digitisation, on the grounds
of their rarity and importance of the events they covered.44 In addition to
Filasṭīn, we have digitised such papers as al-Jāmiʿah al-Islāmīyah, published by
Shaykh Sulayman al-Taji al-Faruqi in Jaffa.45 The newspaper was deemed to
be in opposition to the Supreme Islamic Council led by Muhammad Amin
al-Husayni. The first issue of the newspaper was published on 16 July 1932,
and by the begining of its second year, the newspaper, which had started on 5
July 1933, had reached issue number 297. Al-Jāmiʿah al-Islāmīyah continued to
publish its eight-pages for a period of two years. At the end of the same year
the newspaper closed with the issue 588, at the order of the British Mandate
authorities. We have also digitised al-Jāmiʿah al-ʿArabīyah published in
Jerusalem from 20 January 1927.46 The publisher and chief editor was Munif
al-Husayni, who worked as a spokesman for the Supreme Islamic Council,
which indicates that the Islamic Council was the funder for the newspaper.
The slogan of the newspaper, which was written below the title, was a
prophetic saying: “If the Arabs are humiliated, then Islam is humiliated (‫اذا‬
‫”)ذلت العرب ذل ااسام‬. Amil al-Ghuri joined the editorial staff of the newspaper
responsible for the foreign affairs section, and Muhammad Tahir al-Fityani
for domestic news. The last issue of the newspaper appeared on 22 July 1934.
The collection of historical newspapers in al-Aqṣá is an important source
of information about Palestine, its history, and its people in the first half of
the twentieth century. The newspapers constitute important sources on the
42 Aida al-Najjar, The Arabic Press and Nationalism in Palestine, 1920-1948 (Ph.D. thesis,
Syracuse University, 1975), ch. 2; and Ayalon, Press in the Middle East, p. 100. See also
“Suppression of the Arabic Press During the British Mandate”, Endangered Archives
Blog, 18 January 2010, http://britishlibrary.typepad.co.uk/endangeredarchives/2010/01/
suppression-of-the-arabic-press-during-the-british-mandate.html#sthash.fUYyVklB.
dpuf
43 Ayalon, Press in the Middle East, p. 102.
44 For a list of the circulation of Arabic Newspapers in the region, see Ayalon, Press in the
Middle East, pp. 148-51.
45 Weldon Matthews, Confronting an Empire, Constructing a Nation: Arab Nationalists and
Popular Politics in Mandate Palestine (New York: I. B. Tauris, 2007), pp. 52 and 143; and
Ayalon, Press in the Middle East, p. 99.
46 Matthews, p. 82.
Arab nationalist movement, Palestinian reactions to Jewish immigration

and the establishment of a Jewish national homeland in Palestine. They
cover many important historical events, such as the Balfour Declaration of
1917 (Fig. 12.3), the 1929 Buraq Uprising (Fig. 12.4), the al-Qassam unrest
of 1931 (Fig. 12.5). They discuss Palestinians political parties (Fig. 12.6), the
Palestinians armed forces, the 1936 strike, the 1936-1939 revolution (Fig.
12.7), British policy against Arab leaders, The British Mandate policy toward
Palestinians journalism (Fig. 12.8) and the region’s social, economic and
cultural development.
Fig. 12.3 Front page of Miraʾat al-Sharq [The Mirror of the East] newspaper, on the
Balfour Declaration, 2 November 1917 (EAP119/1/24/1, image 1), CC BY.
Fig. 12.4 Front page of al-Jāmiʿah al-ʿArabīyah [The Arab League] newspaper, on the
Buraq uprising, 16 October 1929 (EAP119/1/13/260, image 1), CC BY.
Fig. 12.5 Page three of al-Jāmiʿah al-ʿArabīyah [The Arab League] newspaper, on
al-Qassam unrest, 22 November 1935 (EAP119/1/13/1504, image 3), CC BY.
Fig. 12.6 Front page of al-Iqdām [The Courage] newspaper, on political parties,
30 March 1935 (EAP119/1/23/34, image 1), CC BY.
Fig. 12.7 Front page of al-Difāʿ [The Defence] newspaper, on the great strike of 1936,
17 June 1936 (EAP119/1/21/169, image 1), CC BY.
Fig. 12.8 Page three of al-Jāmiʿah al-ʿArabīyah [The Arab League] newspaper,
on the Palestinian press under the Mandate, 3 April 1930
(EAP119/1/13/338, image 3), CC BY.
Table 12.1 Selected titles and their publication dates
NO Transliterated Title Title in Arabic Periodical Coverage

Type
1 Majallat Rawḍat ‫مجلة روضة المعارف‬ Magazine 1922-1923;
al-Maʿārif 1932; 1934
2 al-Kullīya al-ʿArabīyah ‫الكلية العربية‬ Magazine 1927-1938
3 al-Ḥuqūq ‫الحقوق‬ Magazine 1923-1928
4 al-Muqtabas ‫المقتبس‬ Magazine 1907-1912
5 al-ʿArab ‫العرب‬ Magazine 1933-1934
6 al-Jinān ‫الجنان‬ Magazine 1874
7 al-Maḥabbah ‫المحبة‬ Magazine 1901
8 al-Ḥasnāʾ ‫الحسناء‬ Magazine 1909-1912
9 al-Zahrah ‫الزهرة‬ Magazine 1922-1926
10 Rawḍat al-Maʿārif ‫روضة المعارف‬ Magazine 1326-1327

AH
11 al-Fajr ‫الفجر‬ Magazine 1935
12 al-Jāmiʿah al-Islāmīyah ‫الجامعة ااسامية‬ Newspaper 1932-1938
13 al-Jāmiʿah al-ʿArabīyah ‫الجامعة العربية‬ Newspaper 1932-1938
14 al-Ṣirāṭ al-Mustaqīm ‫الصراط المستقيم‬ Newspaper 1928-1936
15 Ṣawt al-shaʿb ‫صوت الشعب‬ Newspaper 1928-1930;

1934
16 al-Awqāt al-ʿArabīyah ‫ااوقات العربية‬ Newspaper 1935
17 al-Liwāʾ ‫اللواء‬ Newspaper 1935-1937
18 Taṣwīr Afkār ‫تصوير افكار‬ Newspaper 1909
19 al-Muqtabas ‫المقتبس‬ Newspaper 1908-1912;

1915-1916
20 al-Qabas ‫القبس‬ Newspaper 1913-1914
21 al-Difāʿ ‫الدفاع‬ Newspaper 1934-1951
22 Filasṭīn ‫فلسطين‬ Newspaper 1923-1937;

1947-1951
23 al-Iqdām ‫ااقدام‬ Newspaper 1935-1936
24 Mirʾat al-Sharq ‫مرأة الشرق‬ Newspaper 1922-1936

Fig. 12.9 Damaged page of Filasṭīn [Palestine] newspaper, 30 December 1947

(EAP119/1/22/1802, image 1), CC BY.
Digitisation of newspapers is especially challenging because of the large

format, complex page layout, and poor quality of print (Fig. 12.9). This
often causes the libraries to outsource the scanning process.47
The historical nature of the collection and the location of al-Aqṣá Mosque
Library meant outsourcing was not an option and the digitisation had
to be performed in-house. It is worth noting that due to this location the
project had to overcome problems with environmental conditions as well as
restrictions from the police at the al-Aqṣá gates. For the scanning process we
have followed the guidelines of the National Digital Newspaper Program.48
Digitisation of manuscripts
In 2010, with the support of the EAP, we initiated the project to digitise
the historical manuscript collection in the holdings of al-Jazzār Mosque
Library (al-Aḥmadīyah), in Acre. The materials selected for digitisation
included a collection of 53 Arabic language manuscripts dating from
the fourteenth to the twentieth century. The manuscripts cover aspects
of the Islamic religion, but also Arabic literature, the Arabic language,
logic, mathematics and Sufism (Figs. 12.10-14). They provide a unique
insight into centuries of Arabic culture in Palestine. A catalogue of the
manuscripts, published in 1983, documents circa ninety manuscripts in
the library.49 The manuscripts are tightly bound and have been damaged
through constant use. Due to preservation challenges — and because of
their uniqueness and high value — digitisation had to be conducted on
the premises of al-Jazzār Mosque Library. The project resulted in the
creation of high-quality digital archival copies of 53 rare manuscripts,
consisting of 17,965 pages.
47 See, for example, the State of Michigan’s “Guidelines for Digitizing a Newspaper”, http://
www.michigan.gov/documents/hal/GuidelinesForDigitizingANewspaper_181557_7.
pdf
48 See the EAP’s “Guidelines for Photographing and Scanning Archive Material”, June
2014, http://www.bl.uk/about/policies/endangeredarch/pdf/09guidelines_copying.pdf
(accessed 22 October 2014); and the National Digital Newspaper Program’s “Technical
Guidelines for Applicants”, 26 September 2014, http://www.loc.gov/ndnp/guidelines/
NDNP_201517TechNotes.pdf
49 Mahmoud Attalah, Fihris Makhṭūṭāt Maktabat al-Aḥmadīyah fi ʿAkkā (Amman: Mujmaʿat
al-Lughah al-ʿArabīyah al-Urdunnī, 1983).
Fig. 12.10 Damaged paper of Bāb sharḥ al-shamsīyah, work on logic, 1389 CE
Fig. 12.11 Ashraf al-Wasāʾil, biography of the Prophet, 1566 CE

Fig. 12.12 Khāliṣ al-talkhīṣ, on the Arabic language, seventeenth century CE

Fig. 12.13 al-Wasīlah fī al-Ḥisāb, on mathematics, 1412 CE

(EAP399/1/14, image 18), CC BY.
Fig. 12.14 Taṣrīf al-Šāfiyah, on the Arabic language, 1345 CE

(EAP399/1/34, image 85), CC BY.
Table 12.2 List of selected titles (EAP399)
NO Transliterated Title in Arabic Dates of Scope and Physical

Title original Content condition
material
1 Sharḥ al-Muḥallī ‫شرح المحلي على متن‬ 1369 Fiqh Good
Matn Jamʿ ‫جمع الجوامع‬ (Jurisprudence)
al-Jawāmiʿ
2 Muʿrib fī al-Naḥw ‫معرب في النحو‬ 1706 Grammar Bad
3 al-Jazāʾīyāt ‫الجزائيات‬ 1429 Fiqh Acceptable

(Jurisprudence)
4 Mughannīy al-Labīb ‫مغني اللبيب عن كتب‬ 1359 Grammar Fair
ʿan Kutub al-Aʿārīb ‫ااعاريب‬
5 Sharḥ al-Quṭr li-Ibn ‫شرح القطر ابن هشام‬ 1359 Grammar Acceptable
Hishām
6 Ḥāshiyat al-Bājūrī ‫حاشية الباجوري على‬ 1836 Grammar Good
ʿalá al-Samarqandī ‫السمرقندي‬
7 al-Taṣrīḥ fī Sharḥ ‫التصريح في شرح‬ 1419 Grammar Good

al-Tawḍīḥ ‫التوضيح –جزء ثاني‬
8 Sharḥ ʿAwāmil ‫شرح عوامل الجرجاني‬ 1081 Grammar Good
al-Jirjānī
9 Sharḥ al-Alfīyah ‫شرح االفية ابن مالك‬ 1367 Grammar Acceptable
li-Ibn Mālik lil- ‫للعامة بن عقيل‬
ʿUlāmah Ibn ʿAqīl
10 Kitāb al-Taḥrīr ‫كتاب التحرير‬ unknown Fiqh Acceptable
(Jurisprudence)
11 Ḥāshiyat al-Bājūrī ‫حاشية الباجوري على‬ 1860 Grammar Good
ʿalá Mawlid ‫مولد العامة بن حجر‬
al-ʿUlāmah Ibn
Ḥajar
12 Ashraf al-Wasāʾil ilá ‫اشرف الوسائل الى فهم‬ 1566 Prophet’s Fair
Fahm al-Shamāʾil ‫شمائل‬ biography
13 Naẓm al-Khalāfīyāt ‫نظم الخافيات‬ 1142 Fiqh Good
(Jurisprudence)
14 al-Wasīlah fī ‫الوسيلة في الحساب‬ 1412 Mathematics Bad
al-Ḥisāb
15 Anwār al-ʿĀšiqīn ‫انوار العاشقين‬ 1451 Hadith Good
(Prophetic
traditions)
16 Ḥāshiyat al-Malawī ‫حاشية الملوي‬ 1768 Arabic language Fair
wa-al-Bājūrī ʿalá ‫والباجوري على‬
al-Samarqandīyah ‫السمرقندية‬
17 Sharḥ al-Waraqāt: ‫شرح الورقات –فصول‬ 1085 Fiqh Fair
Fuṣūl min Uṣūl ‫من اصول الفقه‬ (Jurisprudence)
al-Fiqh
18 Ḥāshiyat al-Ṣabbān ‫حاشية الصبان على‬ 1791 Arabic language Fair
ʿalá al-Sharḥ ‫جزء‬-‫شرح ااشموني‬
al-Ashmūnī ‫ثاني‬
19 Tuḥfat al-Murīd ʿalá ‫تحفة المريد على‬ 1860 Arabic language Acceptable
Jawharat al-Tawḥīd ‫جوهرة التوحيد‬
20 al-Jāmiʿ al-Ṣaghīr ‫الجامع الصغير‬ n.d. Hadith Acceptable
(Prophetic
traditions)
21 Qurʾān Karīm: ‫ مصحف‬-‫قران كريم‬ 1245 Holy Quran Fair
Muṣḥaf Sharīf ‫شريف عثماني‬
ʿUthmānī
22 al-Futūḥāt ‫الفتوحات المكية –جزء‬ 1240 Sufism Fair

al-Makkīyah ‫ثاني‬
23 Bāb sharḥ ‫باب شرح الشمسية‬ 1389 Mantiq (Logic) Bad
al-shamsīyah
24 al-Fawāʾid ‫الفوائد المسعدية في حل‬ n.d. Tafsir (Quranic Acceptable
al-Musʿidīyah fī ‫المقدمة الجزرية‬ exegesis)
Ḥall al-Muqaddimah
al-Jazarīyah
25 al-Durrah ‫الدرة السنية على شرح‬ n.d. Arabic language Fair
al-Sanīyah ʿalá ‫االفية‬
Sharḥ al-Alfīyah
26 Ḥāshiyat al-Amīr ‫حاشية اامير على‬ 1761 Arabic language Fair
ʿalá al-Shudhūr ‫الشذور‬
27 al-Jāmiʿ al-Kabīr 2‫الجامع الكبير ج‬ n.d. Fiqh Fair
(Jurisprudence)
28 Fatḥ al-Bārī ‫فتح الباري بشرح‬ n.d. Tafsir (Quranic Fair
bi-Sharḥ al-Bukhārī ‫ الجزء الثاني‬-‫البخاري‬ exegesis)
29 Ḥāshiyat al-Amīr ʿalá ‫حاشية اامير على متن‬ 1359 Arabic language Good
Matn al-Shudhūr ‫الشذور‬
30 Ḥāshiyat ʿalá Sharḥ ‫حاشية على شرح‬ 17th Arabic language Acceptable
al-Alfīyah ‫االفية‬ century
31 Kitāb Adhkār ‫كتاب اذكار‬ 1278 Hadith Bad
(Prophetic
traditions)
32 Ḥāshiyat Fatḥ ‫حاشية فتح المجيب‬ n.d. Hadith Acceptable
al-Mujīb wa-al- ‫والقول المختار‬ (Prophetic
Qawl al-Mukhtār traditions)
33 al-Fawāʾid ‫الفوائد الشنشورية في‬ 1591 Hadith Acceptable
al-Shanshūrīyah fī ‫شرح المنظومة الرحبية‬ (Prophetic
Sharḥ al-Manẓūmah traditions)
al-Raḥbīyah
34 Taṣrīf al-Šāfiyah ‫تصريف الشافية‬ 1345 Arabic language Good
35 Ḥāshiyat ‫حاشية محمد اامير‬ n.d. Arabic language Good

Muḥammad ‫على السمرقندية‬
al-Amīr ʿalá
al-Samarqandīyah
36 Risālah fī ‫رسالة في المغارسة‬ n.d. Fiqh Acceptable
al-Mughārasah (Jurisprudence)
37 Ḥāshiyat al-Baqrī ‫حاشية البقري على‬ 1733 Arabic literature Acceptable

ʿalá al-Sabṭ ‫السبط‬
38 Matn al-Manāsik fī ‫متن المناسك في الحج‬ 1278 Fiqh Good
al-Ḥajj al-Nawawī ‫–مناسك النووي‬ (Jurisprudence)
39 Ḥāshiyat al-Baqrī ‫حاشية البقري على‬ n.d. Arabic literature Fair
ʿalá al-Sabṭ ‫شرح‬- ‫سبط المارديني‬
al-Mārdīnī: Sharḥ ‫المنظومة الرحبية‬
al-Manẓūmah
al-Raḥbīyah
40 Ḥāshiyat al-Zayyāt ‫حاشية الزيات على‬ n.d. Fiqh Fair
ʿalá al-Shanshūrīyah ‫الشنشوري‬ (Jurisprudence)
41 Ḥāshiyat ‫حاشية الشرقاوي على‬ 1194 Fiqh Acceptable
al-Sharqāwī ʿalá ‫الهدهدي ام البراهين‬ (Jurisprudence)
al-Hudhudī am
al-Barahīn
42 Khāliṣ al-Talkhīš ‫خالص التلخيص‬ 17th Arabic language Good
century
43 Thamarat al-Ifhām: - ‫ثمرات اافهام‬ n.d. Fiqh Good
Manẓūmat Kifāyat ‫منظومة كفاية الغام‬ (Jurisprudence)
al-Ghulām
44 Fatḥ al-Mubīn: ‫فتح المبين –شرح‬ 1623 Fiqh Acceptable
Sharḥ Manẓūmat ‫منظومة بن العماد في‬ (Jurisprudence)
Ibn al-ʿImād fī ‫النجاسات‬
al-Najāsāt
45 Tanbīh al-Anām: ‫ تنبيه اانام –شفا ااسقام‬1553 Prophet’s Good

Shifāʾ al-Asqām ‫ومحو ااثام‬ biography
wa-Maḥw al-Āthām
46 Iʿrāb al-Qurʾān - ‫اعراب القران الكريم‬ 949 Arabic language Acceptable
al-Karīm ‫جزء ثاني‬
47 Ḥāshiyat al-Ṣabbān ‫حاشية الصبان على‬ 1791 Arabic literature Acceptable
ʿalá Sharḥ ‫شرح ااشموني على‬
al-Ashmūnī ʿalá ‫االفية ابن مالك –جزء‬
al-Alfīyah l-Ibn 1
Mālik
48 al-Mulakhkhaṣ min ‫الملخص من الوافي‬ 818 Fiqh Acceptable
al-Wāfī bi-Kanz ‫بكنز الدقايق‬ (Jurisprudence)
al-Daqāʾiq
49 Sharḥ Mukhtaṣar ‫شرح مختصر الوقاية‬ 949 Fiqh Acceptable
al-Wiqāyah (Jurisprudence)
50 Kitāb al-Itqān fī ‫كتاب ااتقان في علوم‬ 1505 Tafsir (Quranic Acceptable

ʿUlūm al-Qurʾān ‫القران‬ exegesis)
51 Qiṣṣat al-Miʿrāj ‫قصة المعراج‬ 1576 Prophet’s Acceptable
biography
52 Jamʿ al-Jawāmiʿ ‫جمع الجوامع‬ 1370 Fiqh Bad
(Jurisprudence)
53 al-Tuḥaf al-Kayrīyah ‫التحف الخيرية على‬ 1236 Fiqh Acceptable
ʿalá al-Fawāʾid ‫الفوايد الشنشورية‬ (Jurisprudence)
al-Shanshūrīyah
In 2012 the 2012 EAP project digitised a collection of 119 manuscripts in

al-Aqṣá Mosque Library, dating from the twelfth to the nineteenth century. The
selection includes manuscripts from the collections of well-known Palestinian
scholars, such as Fayd Allah al-‘Alami, the Shaykh Khalil al-Khalidi and from
the private collection of Shaykh Muhammad al-Khalili. The digitisation of
manuscripts was carried out using the ATIZ BOOK Drive system, with two
digital cameras to capture images of manuscripts. The initial output of the
ATIZ BookDrive system is in RAW format, which required conversion to TIFF
format for archiving purposes.50 The digitisation guidelines for the project
assumed a use-neutral approach and are based on digital library standards,
best practices, and general principles for building digital collections. The goal
of the project was to build a repository of digital master files in TIFF format for
archiving purposes and to provide derivative files in PDF format for current
use. Digital, high-resolution (minimum 300 dpi) master files were created as a
direct result of the scanning process. A consistent file naming convention was
established in order to manage the project effectively.51 Derivative files in PDF
format were created for access and are available for browsing and reading.
The project resulted in the creation of high-quality digital archival copies
of 119 rare manuscripts ranging in date from the thirteenth to the twentieth
century consisting of 33,000 pages (Figs. 12.15-18).
50 The EAP specifications consisted of the following devices and software: Device: Atiz
BookDrive Pro; Cameras: Canon EOS 600D + Lens EF-S18-55mm f/3.5-5.6 IS II; Capturing
Software: BookDrive Capture; Colour Checker: x-ritecolorchecker Passport; Converting
Program: Adobe Photoshop CS6 for converting images from RAW to TIFF; CheckSum:
Checksum Tool version 0.7; Storage: External Hard Disk WD My Passport 1TB.
51 File names for digital masters and PDF derivatives were established prior to the scanning
process. Each title was assigned a four letter Scan ID. For this digitisation project the
following file naming convention has been established: project code_ three letter Scan ID
+ _page numbers (two or three digit page number starting with zero); EAP521_four letter
Scan ID + three digit page number starting with zero, for example: EAP521_bada_01 for
the first page of the Badae’ al-burhan manuscript.
Fig. 12.15 al-Rawḍah, on jurisprudence and matters of doctrine, 1329 CE

Fig. 12.16 Maʿālim al-Tanzīl, exegesis, 1437 CE (EAP521/1/6, image 3), CC BY.
Fig. 12.17 Ṭabaqāt al-Shāfiʿīyah, on history, 1542 CE

(EAP521/1/26, image 33), CC BY.
Fig. 12.18 al-Nawādir al-Sulṭānīyah, on the history and biography of Salaḥ al-Dīn
al-Ayyūbī, 1228 CE (EAP521/1/24, image 29), CC BY.
The physical condition of the manuscripts varies from volume to volume,

but a significant number of selected titles are in poor condition.
Both projects faced a number of challenges due to external factors, such
as political upheavals, as well as those related to digitisation. Among the
latter were issues such as quality of the original paper, irregular fonts, text
density, torn or smudged pages, and a variation in layout. Although they
posed many challenges to the digitisation process, we have been successful
in overcoming them. We are proud that this important heritage has been
preserved and made accessible to scholars.
Table 12.3 Description of the physical conditions of the manuscripts in EAP521
NO Transliterated Title in Arabic Dates Subject Physical

Title of condition
original
material
1 Badāʾiʿ al-Burhān ‫بدائع البرهان‬ 18th Qirāʾah Good
century (Reciting the Quran)
2 Tartīb Zībā ‫ترتيب زيبا‬ 1713 Quranic Sciences Acceptable
3 Jāmiʿ al-Kalām ‫جامع الكام في رسم‬ 1650 Quranic Sciences Bad
fī Rasm Muṣḥaf ‫مصحف اامام‬
al-Imām
4 Aqd al-Durrah ‫عقد الدرة المضيئة‬ 1682 Quranic Sciences Good
al-Muḍīʾah
5 al-Asrār ‫ااسرار المرفوعة في‬ 1665 Hadith (Prophetic Good
al-Marfūʿah fī ‫ااحاديث‬ tradititions)
al-Aḥādīth
6 Maʿālim al-Tanzīl ‫معالم التنزيل‬ 1437 Tafsir (Quranic Good
exegesis)
7 Silsilat al-Khājkān ‫سلسلة الخاجكان‬ 1769 Sufism Acceptable
8 al-Tuḥfah ‫التحفة المرضية‬ 18th Fiqh Good
al-Marḍīyah bi-al- ‫بااراضي المصرية‬ century (Jurisprudence)
Arāḍī al-Miṣrīyah
9 Ghayth al-Mawāhib ‫غيث المواهب‬ 1617 Sufism Acceptable
10 Jāmiʿ al-Fuṣūlīn fī ‫جامع الفصولين في‬ 1456 Fiqh Good
al-Furūʿ ‫الفروع‬ (Jurisprudence)
11 Sharḥ Mukhtaṣar ‫ شرح مختصر المنتهى‬16th Fiqh Good
al-Muntahá century (Jurisprudence)
12 Īdāḥ Kashf ‫ ايضاح كشف الدسائس‬1466 Fiqh Good

al-Dasāʾis (Jurisprudence)
13 Kashf al-Dasāʾis fī ‫كشف الدسائس في‬ 1466 Fiqh Good
Tarmīm al-Kanāʾis ‫ترميم الكنائس‬ (Jurisprudence)
14 Raḥmat al-Ummah ‫رحمة اامة في‬ 1697 Fiqh Fair
fī Ikhtilāf ‫اختاف اائمة‬ (Jurisprudence)
al-Aʾimmah
15 Ghunyat ‫غنية المتملي‬ 18th Fiqh Acceptable
al-Mutamallī century (Jurisprudence)
16 al-Shifāʾ ‫الشفا‬ 1788 Prophet’s Biography Good
17 Sharḥ Miftāḥ ‫شرح مفتاح العلوم‬ 1454 Arabic Language Acceptable
al-ʿUlūm
18 Ḍawʾ al-Misbāḥ ‫الضوء على المصباح‬ 17th Arabic Language Fair
century
19 Ḥāshiyat ‫حاشية القليوبي‬ 1712 Fiqh Good
al-Qalyūbī (Jurisprudence)
20 Adab al-Kitāb ‫ادب الكاتب‬ 1693 Arabic Literature Acceptable
21 al-Iftitāḥ fī Sharḥ ‫اافتتاح في شرح‬ 1443 Arabic Language Bad
al-Miṣbāḥ ‫المصباح‬
22 al-Shaqāʾiq ‫الشقائق النعمانية‬ 17th History & Biography Acceptable
al-Nuʿmānīyah century
23 Nashq al-Azhār ‫نشق اازهار‬ 17th History & Biography Fair
century
24 al-Nawādir ‫النوادر السلطانية‬ 1228 History & Biography Acceptable
al-Sulṭānīyah
25 al-Muṭṭalaʿ ‫المطلع‬ 1874 Mantiq (Logic) Fair
26 Ṭabaqāt ‫طبقات الشافعية‬ 1542 History & Biography good
al-Shāfiʿīyah
27 ʿInāyat Ūlī al-Majd ‫عناية اولي المجد‬ 1902 History & Biography good
28 Taḥbīr al-Taysīr ‫تحبير التيسير‬ 16th Quranic Sciences Fair
century
29 Ddah Jonki ‫دده جونكي‬ 1769 Arabic Language Good
30 Jamīlat Arbāb ‫ جميلة ارباب المراصد‬1566 Quranic Sciences Fair
al-Marāṣid
31 Sharḥ al-Maṣābīḥ ‫شرح المصابيح‬ 1350 Hadith (Prophetic Acceptable
traditions)
32 al-Adab al-Mufrad ‫اادب المفرد‬ 19th Hadith (Prophetic Good
century traditions)
33 Tafrīd al-Iʿtimād fī ‫تفريد ااعتماد في‬ 15th Tawhid (On Good

Sharḥ al-Tajrīd ‫شرح التجريد‬ century Monotheism)
34 Sharḥ al-ʿAqāʾid ‫شرح العقائد العضدية‬ 15th Tawhid (On Acceptable
al-ʿAḍdīyah century Monotheism)
35 Sharḥ Qawāʿid ‫شرح قواعد العقائد‬ 1608 Tawhid (On Bad
al-ʿAqāʾid Monotheism) condition
36 al-Musāmarah fī ‫المسامرة في شرح‬ 1501 Tawhid (On Good
Sharḥ al-Musāyarah ‫المسايرة‬ Monotheism)
37 Taḥqīq al-Zawrāʾ ‫تحقيق الزوراء‬ 1716 Tawhid (On Acceptable
Monotheism)
38 al-Madad al-Fāʾid ‫ المدد الفائض والكشف‬1704 Sufism Good
wa-al-Kashf ‫العارض‬
al-ʿĀriḍ
39 Qūt al-Qulūb ‫قوت القلوب‬ 1655 Sufism Good
40 Ḥāshiyah ʿalá ‫حاشية على التلويح‬ 1672 Fiqh (Jurisprudence) Good
al-Talwīḥ
41 al-Nubdhah ‫النبذة االفية في‬ 1463 Tawhid (On Good
al-Alfīyah fī al-Uṣūl 1‫ااصول ج‬ Monotheism)
42 al-Nubdhah 2‫النبذة االفية ج‬ 1463 Tawhid (On Good
al-Alfīyah Monotheism)
43 Sirāj al-Uqūl fī ‫سراج العقول في‬ 1397 Tawhid (On Fair
Minhāj al-Uṣūl ‫منهاج ااصول‬ Monotheism)
44 Mukhtaṣar ‫مختصر غنية المتملي‬ 1705 Jurisprudence Fair
Ghunyat (Fiqh)
al-Mutamallī
45 Khulāṣat ‫خاصة المختصر‬ 14th Jurisprudence Good
al-Mukhtaṣar century (Fiqh)
46 al-Sharḥ al-Kabīr ‫الشرح الكبير على‬ 1746 Jurisprudence Fair
ʿalá al-Jāmiʿ ‫الجامع الصغير‬ (Fiqh)
al-Ṣaghīr
47 al-Mubtaghá fī ‫المبتغى في فروع‬ 1464 Jurisprudence Fair
Furūʿ al-Fiqh ‫الفقه‬ (Fiqh)
48 al-Furūq fī ‫الفروق في الفروع‬ 1447 Jurisprudence Acceptable
al-Furūʿ (Fiqh)
49 Fatāwá al-Sabkī ‫فتاوى السبكي‬ 1347 Fiqh (Jurisprudence) Good
50 Irshād al-Ghāwī ilá ‫ارشاد الغاوي الى‬ 1758 Jurisprudence Good
Masālik al-Ḥāwī ‫مسالك الحاوي‬ (Fiqh)
51 Taʾsīs ʿalá al-Bināʾ ‫تأسيس على البناء‬ 18th Arabic Language Good
century
52 Sharḥ al-Tuḥfah ‫شرح التحفة الحموية‬ 1640 Arabic Language Acceptable
al-Ḥamawīyah
53 Taj al-lugha wa ‫تاج اللغة وصحاح‬ 1407 Arabic language Good
sihah al-Arabi’a ‫العربية‬
54 Sharḥ Mukhtaṣar ‫شرح مختصر ابن‬ 18th Falak (Astronomy) Good
Ibn al-Khaṭṭāb ‫الحطاب‬ century
55 ʿUjālat al-Bayān fī ‫عجالة البيان في شرح‬ 1653 Arabic Language Acceptable
Sharḥ al-Mīzān ‫الميزان‬
56 al-Ṣāfiyah fī Sharḥ ‫الصافية في شرح‬ 18th Arabic Language Good
al-Shāfiyah ‫الشافية‬ century
57 Sharḥ al-Shāfiyah ‫شرح الشافية‬ 1580 Arabic Language Acceptable
58 Risālah fī al-Khayl ‫رسالة في الخيل‬ 1902 Arabic Literature Good
59 Ḥāshiyat Mīrzā ‫حاشية ميرزا خان‬ 1715 Mantiq Fair
Khān (Logic)
60 Miftāḥ al-ʿUlūm ‫مفتاح العلوم‬ 1347 Arabic Language Fair
61 al-Dībāj ‫الديباج المذهب‬ 16th History Acceptable
al-Mudhahhab century
62 al-Ghunyah ‫الغنية لطالبي طريق‬ 1500 Sufism Good
li-Ṭālibī Ṭarīq ‫الحق‬
al-Ḥaqq
63 Ḍiyāʾ al-Anwār ‫ضياء اانوار‬ 1888 History & Biography Good
64 al-ʿUshāriyāt ‫العشاريات‬ 1461 Hadith (Prophetic Fair
traditions)
65 Tārīkh Nāẓir ‫تاريخ ناظر‬ 1738 Tawhid (On Good
Monotheism)
66 Risālah fī Khalq ‫رسالة في خلق القران‬ 1617 Tawhid (On Fair
al-Qurʾān Monotheism)
67 Sharḥ Qaṣīdat Badʾ ‫شرح قصيدة بدء‬ 19th Tawhid (On Good
al-Amalī ‫اامالي‬ century Monotheism)
68 Maljāʾ al-Quḍḍāh ‫ملجأ القضاة‬ 1864 Fiqh (Jurisprudence) Good
69 al-Mawlid al-Sharīf ‫المولد الشريف‬ 1847 History & Biography Good
70 al-Fawāʾid ‫الفوائد الجليلة‬ 1731 Hadith (Prophetic Acceptable
al-Jalīlah traditions)
71 Mafātīḥ al-Ghayb ‫مفاتيح الغيب‬ 16th Sufism Good
century
72 al-Fukūk ‫الفكوك‬ 16th Sufism Good

century
73 Ijāzāt li-ʿUlāmāʾ ‫اجازات لعلماء من‬ 1600 Ijāzāt (certificates of Fair
min ʿĀʾilat al-ʿIlmī ‫عائلة العلمي‬ learning)
74 al-Arīb fī Maʿná ‫ااريب في معنى‬ 1174 Tafsir (Quranic Fair
al-Gharīb ‫الغريب‬ exegesis)
75 Fatḥ al-Raḥmān ‫فتح الرحمن بكشف ما‬ 1612 Tafsir (Quranic Acceptable
bi-Kashf mā ‫يلتبس في القران‬ exegesis)
Yaltabisu fī
al-Qurʾān
76 al-Intiṣār li-Samāʿ ‫اانتصار لسماع‬ 14th Hadith (Prophetic Fair
al-Ḥajjār ‫الحجار‬ century traditions)
77 al-Thulāthīyāt ‫الثاثيات الواقعة في‬ 1728 Hadith (Prophetic Good
al-Wāqiʿah fī ‫مسند ابن حنبل‬ traditions)
Musnad Ibn
Ḥanbal
78 Fatḥ al-ʿAllām ‫فتح العام بشرح‬ 1893 Hadith (Prophetic Fair
bi-Sharḥ al-Iʿlām ‫ااعام‬ traditions)
79 al-Tanqīḥ li-Alfāẓ ‫التنقيح الفاظ الجامع‬ 1411 Hadith (Prophetic Fair
al-Jāmiʿ al-Ṣaḥīḥ ‫الصحيح‬ traditions)
80 al-Majālis ‫المجالس اليمانية‬ 1350 Hadith (Prophetic Fair
al-Yamānīyah traditions)
81 al-Musnad al-Ṣaḥīḥ ‫المسند الصحيح‬ 1239 Hadith (Prophetic Fair
traditions)
82 Lisān al-Ḥukkām fī ‫لسان الحكام في‬ 1681 Tawhid (On Acceptable
Maʿrifat al-Aḥkām ‫معرفة ااحكام‬ Monotheism)
83 al-Yawāqīt ‫اليواقيت والجواهر‬ 1548 Tawhid (On Fair
wa-al-Jawāhir Monotheism)
84 al-Muwaṭṭaʾ ‫الموطأ‬ 1721 Hadith (Prophetic Acceptable
traditions)
85 Ḥādī al-Asrār ilá ‫حادي ااسرار الى‬ 1465 Sufism Acceptable
Dār al-Qarār ‫دار القرار‬
86 Dhakhāʾir al-Aʿlāq ‫ذخائر ااعاق‬ 1644 Sufism Acceptable
87 Qamʿ al-Nufūs ‫قمع النفوس ورقية‬ 1465 Sufism Fair
wa-al-Raqiyat ‫المأيوس‬
al-Maʾyūs
88 Ikhtilāf al-Aʾimmah ‫اختاف اائمة‬ 1650 Fiqh (Jurisprudence) Fair
89 al-Tamhīd fī Tanzīl ‫التمهيد في تنزيل‬ 1450 Jurisprudence & Fair

al-Furūʿ ‫الفروع‬ Matters of Doctrine
(Fiqh & Tawḥīd)
90 al-Rawḍah ‫الروضة‬ 1329 Fiqh & Tawḥīd Acceptable
(Jurisprudence &
Matters of Doctrine)
91 Sharḥ al-Mughnī ‫شرح المغني‬ 1437 Fiqh & Tawḥīd Bad
(Jurisprudence &
92 Fatāwá al-Khalīlī ‫فتاوى الخليلي‬ 1740 Fiqh & Tawḥīd Acceptable
(Jurisprudence &
93 Fatāwá al-Shaykh ‫فتاوى الشيخ الخليلي‬ 1740 Fiqh & Tawḥīd Acceptable
al-Khalīlī (Jurisprudence &
94 Fatāwá al-Khalīlī ‫فتاوى الخليلي‬ 1740 Fiqh & Tawḥīd Fair
(part two) (Jurisprudence &
95 Maṭāliʿ ‫مطالع المذاهب‬ 1346 Fiqh & Tawḥīd Acceptable
al-Madhāhib ‫وجوامع المواهب‬ (Jurisprudence &
wa-Jawāmiʿ Matters of Doctrine)
al-Mawāhib
96 Muʿīn al-Muftī ‫معين المفتي‬ 1678 Fiqh & Tawḥīd Acceptable
(Jurisprudence &
97 Nukat al-Nabīh ‫نكت النبيه على احكام‬ 1388 Fiqh & Tawḥīd Acceptable
ʿalá Aḥkām ‫التنبيه‬ (Jurisprudence &
al-Tanbīh Matters of Doctrine)
98 Sharḥ Maqāmāt ‫شرح مقامات‬ 1558 Arabic literature Fair
al-Ḥarīrī ‫الحريري‬
99 Asmāʾ Ruwāt ‫اسماء رواة الكتب‬ 1738 History & Biography Acceptable
al-Kutub al-Sittah ‫الستة‬
100 Nuzūl al-Ghayth ‫نزول الغيث‬ 1607 Arabic literature Good
101 Ḥāshiyah ʿalá ‫حاشية على المواهب‬ 18th History & Biography Good
al-Mawāhib ‫اللدنية‬ century
al-Ladunīyah
102 Qiṣṣat Ibn Sīnā ‫قصة ابن سينا‬ 1870 History & Biography Good
103 al-Kawākib ‫الكواكب الدرية في‬ 18th History & Biography Bad
al-Durrīyah fī ‫تراجم الصوفية‬ century
Tarājim al-Ṣūfīyah
104 Murshid ‫مرشد الزوار الى‬ 1605 History & Biography Fair
al-Zuwwār ilá ‫قبور اابرار‬
Qubūr al-Abrār
105 Manāqib al-Imām ‫مناقب اامام علي‬ 1578 History & Biography Acceptable
ʿAlī wa-Baqīyat ‫وبقية العشرة‬
al-ʿAsharah
106 Nahj al-Taqdīs ʿan ‫نهج التقديس عن‬ 1552 History & Biography Fair
Maʿānī Ibn Idrīs ‫معاني ابن ادريس‬
107 al-Asbāb ‫ااسباب والعامات‬ 17th Medicine Acceptable
wa-al-ʿAlāmāt century
108 Kitāb al-Aghdhiyah ‫كتاب ااغذية‬ 1346 Medicine Acceptable
wa-al-Ashribah ‫وااشربة‬
109 al-Wajīz lil-Ghazālī ‫الوجيز للغزالي‬ 15th Fiqh (Jurisprudence) Fair
century
110 al-Ṣafwah ‫الصفوة الطبية‬ 1679 Medicine Fair
al-Ṭibbīyah wa-al- ‫والسياسة الصحية‬
Siyāsah al-Ṣiḥḥīyah
111 Fī ʿIlāj al-Amrāḍ ‫في عاج اامراض‬ 17th Medicine Acceptable
century
112 al-Wajīz lil-Ghazālī 2‫الوجيز للغزالي ج‬ 15th Fiqh Fair
(part two) century (Jurisprudence)
113 Tuḥfat al-Aḥbāb fī ‫تحفة ااحباب في علم‬ 1686 Arithmetic Fair
ʿIlm al-Ḥisāb ‫الحساب‬
114 al-Tadhhīb fī Sharḥ ‫التذهيب في شرح‬ 17th Mantiq Fair
al-Tahdhīb ‫التهذيب‬ century (Logic)
115 Sharḥ ʿalá Matn ‫شرح على متن السلم‬ 1866 Mantiq Good
al-Silm (Logic)
116 al-Ilbās fī Funūn ‫االباس في فنون‬ 16th Clothes Good
al-Libās ‫اللباس‬ century
117 Aḥkām al-Awānī ‫احكام ااواني‬ 18th Fiqh Good
century (Jurisprudence)
118 al-Jāmiʿ fī ʿUlūm ‫الجامع في علوم‬ 15th Tafsir (Quranic Acceptable
al-Qurʾān ‫القران‬ century exegesis)
119 Mabāriq al-Azhār ‫مبارق اازهار‬ 1718 Hadith (Prophetic Acceptable
traditions)
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13. A charlatan’s album: cartes-de-
visite from Bolivia, Argentina and
Paraguay (1860-1880)
Irina Podgorny
In 1998, when we began to reorganise the historic archive of the Museum

of La Plata in Argentina, manuscripts, letters and photographs all started
to resurface from different departments of the institution. Missed, lost,
misplaced, forgotten, discharged or withdrawn from everyday use, they had
been rescued from the dustbin by diligent staff members. When the historic
archive opened to the public, many of them realised that the memorabilia they
had kept on the shelves and desk drawers of their offices could finally have
a permanent home. They donated these remnants of past scientific practices
to the archive, knowing they would now be kept for future generations.
Among the pieces donated was a relatively small collection of cartes-
de-visite portraying Andean indigenous peoples and different individuals
from Argentina, Bolivia and Paraguay.1 Héctor Díaz, a staff member from
the museum’s Department of Physical Anthropology, had stored these
cartes-de-visite for many years.2 He had saved them from being plundered
or discarded, but he had not been able to collect any further information
1 EAP207/6: “Museo de La Plata, Archivo Histórico y Fotográfico, Colección Cartes de

visite [c. 1860-1880]”— 42 documents (a small album of photographic prints mounted
on cards 2.5 by 4 inches), comprising full length and torso studio photographic portraits
of Andean indigenous peoples and persons of European origin from Argentina, Bolivia
and Paraguay, http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_item.a4d?catId=157500;r=9040
2 As we discuss below, the Department of Physical Anthropology was the final destination
of Guido Bennati’s anthropological collections. If the cartes-de-visite were part of an
album collected by this Italian charlatan, it is not surprising that they were kept together,
or at least held in the same department.
© Irina Podgorny, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.13

regarding their origins. In the words of the Egyptologist William Flinders

Petrie, the cartes-de-visite arrived in the archive as mere “murdered evidence”,
stripped of all the facts of grouping, locality and dating which would give
them historical life and value.3
The photographs portray people from several cities and countries — such
as Mendoza and Córdoba in Argentina and La Paz in Bolivia — but there
is still no certainty as to when these images were taken or collected. When
we first came across them, we did not know the name of the collector, nor
even if there was a collector in the first place — we thought it possible that
they had come together little by little, the result of a chain of contingencies.
Some of the cards, however, carry inscriptions, such as the mark of Natalio
Bernal, a Bolivian photographer who had established himself in La Paz by the
1860s.4 Other cards came from the studio of Clemente E. Corrège, a French
photographer settled since the 1860s in Córdoba.5
Although we still cannot ascertain the identity of the collection’s creator,
the cartes-de-visite offered us an additional and crucial clue to their origin,
namely an inscription on the back of one of them that reads as follows: “Al
Sr. Comendador Dr. Guido Bennati. Prueba de eterna Amistad — Vuestro amigo
S. S. Bernabé Mendizábal [To Mr. Comendador Dr. Guido Bennati. As a sign
of eternal friendship — Your friend, Bernabé Mendizábal]” (Fig. 13.1).6 The
hint was not in the name of the Bolivian General Mendizábal, but in the
addressee of the dedication. “Knight Commander” Guido Bennati (1827-1898)
was an Italian charlatan and president of the so-called “Medical-Chirurgical
Scientific Italian Commission”, a spurious commission of his own invention.
From the late 1860s onwards, he travelled through South America with his
3 William Flinders Petrie, Methods and Aims in Archaeology (London: Macmillan, 1904), p.
48; see also Irina Podgorny, “La prueba asesinada: El trabajo de campo y los métodos
de registro en la arqueología de los inicios del siglo XX”, in Saberes locales, ensayos sobre
historia de la ciencia en América Latina, ed. by Frida Gorbach and Carlos López Beltrán
(Zamora: El Colegio de Michoacán, 2008), pp. 169-205.
4 Daniel Buck, “Pioneer Photography in Bolivia: Directory of Daguerreotypists and
Photographers, 1840s-1930s”, Bolivian Studies, 5/1 (1994-1995), p. 10; see also Anonymous,
Cartes de Visite (Tarjetas de Visita) Retratos y fotografías en el Siglo XIX, Guía de Exposición
(Cochabamba: Instituto de Investigaciones Antropológicas y Museo Arqueológico,
UMSS, 2013), pp. 6 and 16.
5 Efraín Bischoff, “Fotógrafos de Córdoba”, in Memorias del Primer Congreso de Historia de la
Fotografía (Vicente López, Provincia de Buenos Aires) (Buenos Aires: Mundo Técnico, 1992),
pp. 111-15 (p. 112); Juan Gómez, La Fotografía en la Argentina, su historia y evolución en el
siglo XIX 1840-1899 (Buenos Aires: Abadía, 1986), p. 86; and María Cristina Boixadós,
Córdoba fotografiada entre 1870 y 1930: Imágenes Urbanas (Córdoba: Universidad Nacional
de Córdoba, 2008), pp. 26-27. I am indebted to Roberto Ferrari for this information.
6 EAP207/6/1.
A charlatan's album 419
different successive families, secretaries and associates, offering remedies

and displaying his collections of natural history.7
Fig. 13.1 Carte-de-visite from Bernabé Mendizábal to Mr. Comendador Dr. Guido
Bennati (EAP207/6/1, images 27 and 28), Public Domain.
Almost simultaneously, as part of another project,8 we discovered in the

Biblioteca Nacional de la República Argentina (National Library of Argentina)
7 On the identification and listing of the collection, see http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_

item.a4d?catId=157500;r=9040, authored by Máximo Farro, Susana García and Alejandro
Martínez (accessed 16 October 2014). The latter identified Bennati as the “creator” of
this collection. On Bennati, see Irina Podgorny, “Momias que hablan: Ciencia, colección
y experiencias con la vida y la muerte en la década de 1880”, Prismas: Revista de Historia
Intelectual, 12 (2008), 49-65; and idem, Los viajes en Bolivia de la Comisión Científica Médico-
Quirúrgica Italiana (Santa Cruz de la Sierra: Fundación Nova, 2011).
8 In 2007, on a Félix de Azara fellowship awarded by the National Library of Argentina, I
explored collections of South American pamphlets and journals to track the Argentinian
itineraries of Bennati, discovering that he and his companions were visible mostly
through the press. I have continued this research in a collective and cooperative way by
visiting archives and libraries; by requesting material through the ILL service from the
MPI-WG and the collegial goodwill of colleagues; by travelling or working in the places
Bennati or his secretaries visited on their trips. Up to now, I have gathered materials and
notes published in the press from Mendoza, Salta, Corrientes, Asunción del Paraguay,
two dusty, thin pamphlets. The first was published in 1876 in Cochabamba
(Bolivia) and contains the “titles of honors, ranks, and diploma” that adorned
the name of Guido Bennati. The second is the catalogue of Bennati’s Museo
Científico Sudamericano (South American Scientific Museum). The catalogue
displays samples from the three natural kingdoms — plants, animals and
minerals — that were gathered by Bennati while travelling through the
Argentine provinces, Paraguay, Brazil and Bolivia, and that were exhibited
in Buenos Aires in 1883.9
The three sets of documents — the cartes-de-visite, the catalogue of Bennati’s
museum and the collection of letters and certificates published in Cochabamba
— indicate a common travel route shared by people, images and objects in
a period lasting from the late 1860s to the early 1880s. At the time of our
discovery, we knew that the Museum of La Plata had bought part of Bennati’s
ethnographic and anthropological collection,10 transferred at an unknown
time to Antonio Sampayo, the man who sold it to the museum.11 Once these
disconnected traces and scattered pieces were put side by side, they revealed
the itineraries of Bennati along the southern cone of the Americas, a travel route
seemingly reflected in the places and people represented in the cartes-de-visite:
from Buenos Aires to Mendoza, and from Mendoza to Córdoba, Entre Ríos,
Corrientes, Asunción del Paraguay, Corumbá (Brazil), Santa Cruz de La Sierra,
Cochabamba, Lake Titicaca and the ruins of Tiahuanaco, La Paz, Tarija, Salta,
and then back to Buenos Aires (see Fig. 13.2). With all these elements in view,
we developed the hypothesis that the cartes-de-visite are likely the remnants
of Bennati’s album, collected, bought or received as a present on his South
American travels.
Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Sucre, La Paz, Bogotá and Cali; articles from Colombia, Bolivia,
and Guatemala; and manuscripts and letters stored at the Bibliothèque Nationale de
France (BNF). The compiled materials give a comprehensive view of the continental
scope of the travels of Bennati and other itinerant charlatans.
9 Guido Bennati, Museo Científico Sud-Americano de Arqueolojía, Antropolojía, Paleontolojía y
en general de todo lo concerniente a los tres reinos de la naturaleza (Buenos Aires: La Famiglia
Italiana, 1883); and idem, Diplomas i documentos de Europa y América que adornan el nombre
del Ilustre Comendador Dr. Guido Bennati, publicación hecha para satisfacer victoriosamente a
los que quieren negar la existencia de ellos (Cochabamba: Gutiérrez, 1876).
10 Máximo Farro, La formación del Museo de La Plata. Coleccionistas, comerciantes, estudiosos
y naturalistas viajeros a ﬁnes del siglo XIX (Rosario: Prohistoria, 2009), pp. 102-03; on the
museum, see also Irina Podgorny and Maria Margaret Lopes, El Desierto en una Vitrina:
Museos e historia natural en la Argentina, 1810-1890 (Mexico City: Limusa, 2008).
11 Roberto Lehmann-Nitsche, Catálogo de la Sección Antropología del Museo de La Plata (La
Plata: Museo de La Plata, 1910), pp. 64-65, 90-91 and 112; and Antonio Sampayo, Objetos
del Museo (Buenos Aires: La Nazione Italiana, 1886). See also Irina Podgorny, “Robert
Lehmann-Nitsche”, in New Dictionary of Scientific Biography 4, ed. by N. Koertge (Detroit,
MI: Scribner, 2007), pp. 236-38. In November 1885, Bennati also sold thirteen boxes of
fossils to the museum. See Farro, p. 103.
1867: Córdoba, Rosario.

1869: Catamarca, Mendoza.
1870-71: Mendoza, San Juan, San Luis, and La Rioja, National Exhibition at Córdoba.
1872: Victoria (Entre Ríos).
1874: From Paso de los Libres, Alvear (Provincia de Corrientes), Villa Encarnación (Paraguay)
Esteros del Iberá to Asunción.
1874-75: From Asunción, Paraguay to Corumbá, Brazil, and from there to Santa Cruz de la Sierra,
Bolivia.
1875-77: From Santa Cruz to Cochabamba via the Piray River. From Cochabamba to Lake Titicaca
up to La Paz, Sucre, Tarija,
1878-79: From Tarija to Jujuy, Salta, Rosario de Lerma, Cachi.
1882-83: From the Argentine NW to Buenos Aires.
Fig. 13.2 Itineraries of Guido Bennati in South America. Map by Samanta Faiad,
Dept. Ilustración Científica del Museo de La Plata, CC BY.
Working from this hypothesis, our chapter focuses on the research that allowed
us to bring back to life this collection of cartes-de-visite, digitised as part of
EAP095 and EAP207, a pilot and a major project undertaken at the Museum
of La Plata in the years 2006-2010.12 The first section is a short introduction to
the history of the museum and its archive; the second is devoted to Bennati
and his travels in South America. Bennati was not a photographer, but he
gathered and displayed photographs in his travelling museum and during
his medical performances. At the same time, other members of Bennati’s
commission bought, resold and dispatched photographs from South America
to the European illustrated journals.
Our contribution presents the network of itinerant characters who circulated
objects, photographs and knowledge in South America in the 1860s and 1870s.
Following the hints provided by the cartes-de-visite, the evidence found in other
repositories (the local press in particular) and secondary texts on the history of
photography in South America, this chapter aims to shed light on the role of
travelling conmen, quacks and charlatans as agents of the circulation of knowledge.
As such, the cartes-de-visite accumulated and collected by these agents tell us
an important history that can be used as a model for interpreting the flow of
images both in the region and on a global scale. At the same time, we want to
contribute to the discussion of how historical researchers devoted to the rescue
of endangered archives — such as those collected in this volume — can work
together to make “murdered” evidence live and speak again.
The Museum of La Plata: collecting without

archiving
The Museum of La Plata was established in 1884 as the general museum of La
Plata, the new capital of the province of Buenos Aires, founded in 1882 after
the federalisation in 1880 of the city of Buenos Aires, the former capital of
12 On this project, see Tatiana Kelly and I. Podgorny, eds., Los secretos de Barba Azul:
Fantasías y realidades de los Archivos del Museo de La Plata (Rosario: Prohistoria, 2011);
and Irina Podgorny and Tatiana Kelly, “Faces Drawn in the Sand: A Rescue Project
of Native Peoples’ Photographs Stored at the Museum of La Plata, Argentina”, MIR,
39 (2010), 98-113. See also EAP095: ‘Faces drawn in the sand’: a rescue pilot project
of native peoples’, photographs stored at the Museum of La Plata, Argentina, http://
eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP095; and EAP207: ‘Faces drawn
in the sand’: a rescue project of native peoples’ photographs stored at the Museum
of La Plata, Argentina - major project, http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.
a4d?projID=EAP207.
the province. In 1906, the museum became one of the faculties of the recently
established National University of La Plata. As such, it was turned into a
school of natural sciences, where zoology, geology, botany, palaeontology,
anthropology and archaeology were taught. The extant collections — fossil
bones from Patagonia and the Pampas, mineral samples, human skulls
and skeletons, dried animal skins, shells, butterflies and herbaria from
Argentina, as well as archaeological pottery, moulages and art, maps and
photographs — were transformed into materials for scientific training and
pedagogical education.13
Fig. 13.3 Museo de La Plata, c. 1890

(Anales del Museo de La Plata, 1890), Public Domain.
These collections had been amassed — and continue to be gathered — through

different strategies: expeditions organised by the museum, donations and
purchases, the latter representing an important part of the acquisitions from
the period.14 Collections began to accumulate in the basements and rooms of
the monumental building, the first in South America specifically designed
for that purpose (Fig. 13.3). As with many museums around the world, the
expansion of the collections was not accompanied by the inventory or study
of the objects being incorporated.15 In La Plata, the task of inventory was
13 On the history and transformations of the museum, see Podgorny and Lopes, El Desierto;
Farro; and Susana V. García, Enseñanza científica y cultura académica: La Universidad de La
Plata y las ciencias naturales (1900-1930) (Rosario: Prohistoria, 2010).
14 Farro, ch. 3.
15 See, for instance H. Glenn Penny, Objects of Culture: Ethnology and Ethnographic Museums
assigned to the designated “jefes de sección” (chiefs of section), namely the

scientists in charge of the different scientific departments of the museum,
who preferred to use their time to work on research and publications rather
than on keeping records, filing or preparing lists displaying the museum’s
accessions.16
The lack of specific administrative staff and the absence of a real budget
for the completion of the inventory resulted in the accumulation of things in
the repositories and in an incomplete record of both entries and withdrawals.
While some departments kept their own records, others did not, depending
on the goodwill and interest of officials and the relative independence of
each scientific department vis-à-vis the regulations that supposedly ruled the
whole institution.17 There was never a single inventory, and no one could
assess how many, or which, items the museum actually had and how they
were being handled by the staff. However, the museum, as a public office,
had to report to its superiors in the Ministerio de Obras Públicas (Ministry
of Public Works) of the Province of Buenos Aires, and, starting in 1906, to
the Presidency of the National University. For the sake of administration, the
Director’s office included a secretary who took care of paperwork, kept the
administrative files and recorded the incoming and outgoing correspondence,
in Imperial Germany (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2002), in
particular ch. 5. This argument is fully developed in William Flinders Petrie, “A National
Repository for Science and Art”, Royal Society of Arts Journal, 48 (1899-1900), 525-33; and
also Irina Podgorny, Un repositorio nacional para la ciencia y el arte (Bogotá: Universidad
Nacional de Colombia, 2012).
16 See García, Enseñanza científica y cultura académica, ch. 4; and idem, “Ficheros, muebles,
registros, legajos: La organización de los archivos y de la información en las primeras
décadas del siglo XX”, in Los secretos de Barba Azul: Fantasías y realidades de los Archivos del
Museo de La Plata, ed. by Tatiana Kelly and I. Podgorny (Rosario: Prohistoria, 2011), pp.
41-65 (pp. 59-64).
17 Thus, late in the nineteenth century, whereas the Department of Geology kept their
records and noted all the mineralogical samples and objects coming to the collections,
others, such as the Department of Zoology, left their collections unrecorded. In 1908,
the Departments of Anthropology and Zoology started an inventory book, following
the protocols of the new university. Later, when the Photographic Archive was created,
Emiliano MacDonagh and Ángel Cabrera, in charge of the Departments of Zoology
and Palaeontology respectively, were two of the few chiefs who donated photographs
from their collections to the archive. See García, “Ficheros, muebles, registros, legajos”.
What caused this difference in attitude to institutional policies and record-keeping, a
difference that characterised the running of the institution for most of its history? Beyond
the personalities of the employees, one might consider, first, the structural weakness of
the institution in comparison to the weight and relevance of certain individuals (which
has its correlative in the weakness of the museum director vis-à-vis the “jefes de sección”);
and second, the micropolitics of the museum, namely the inner alliances and conflicts
which may have caused resistance to certain directives emanating from the authorities.
as all administrative public offices were supposed to do.18 Far from a historic
repository, this was a living archive used for institutional administration and
management. These papers represent the main collections stored today in
the historic archive of the museum.
It was only in 1937 that a memorandum established another kind of
archive: a photographic archive to protect the extant photographic materials
and to illustrate the museum’s collection. All photographic materials — the
ones that already existed and the ones that would be produced in the future
— were transferred to the new archive along with information that would
help in identifying and classifying the images. The archive, located in a
photographic lab created in the late 1880s, had to be organised following
the names of the scientific sections that, in fact, reflected neither the historic
situation nor the disciplinary boundaries of the late nineteenth century, but
rather the scientific organisational chart of the museum in the late 1930s.
Thus, the historical photographs that were incorporated into the archive
were “reclassified” according to the new disciplinary sections created in
those years. In this way, both original order and provenance were lost.19
Furthermore, the transfer of photographic collections from the scientific
departments to the archive had not been recorded, and there are no documented
traces of the implementation of the 1937 memorandum. However, it is clear
that, again, the guidelines were only partially followed: whereas many scientific
departments deposited their plate negatives in the new archive, others continue
to store photographs and negatives following the organisational chart of the
museum’s foundational years.20 These images were never given to the archive,
which in fact continued to function as a photographic lab rather than as a
historical repository. Thus the archive continued to produce photographs
for the researchers working in the museum, but it did not comply with the
procedures set in 1937.
In one of these back and forths of papers, memoranda and collections,
the cartes-de-visite purchased or presented at and unspecficied date became
invisible to curators and officials. Along with many other objects, they started
their life as murdered evidence of forgotten facts and events.
One of the administrative files records the purchase of Guido Bennati’s
collection. The administrator of the Department of Anthropology noted in
the early twentieth century that the collections he curated included 44 skulls
18 García, “Ficheros, muebles, registros, legajos”.

19 Podgorny and Kelly, “Faces”, pp. 99-101.
20 García, “Ficheros, muebles, registros, legajos”, pp. 59-64.
from Bolivia, donated in June 1903 by a certain Señor Zavala, the holder of
Bennati’s collection.21 By 1910, in fact, the Department of Anthropology had
recorded the existence of skulls, skeletons and a dried foetus, collected in
Bolivia in 1878 and 1879 and purchased from Bennati, the good friend of the
Bolivian General Bernabé Mendizábal, in the early years of the museum. Most
probably, this transaction included the collection of cartes-de-visite, which
— together with the skeletons — arrived at the department around 1887.
The travels of Guido Bennati as reflected by the

cartes-de-visite
Bennati was apparently born in Pisa in 1827. He worked in the fairs and
public markets of the Italian provinces and France, where he presented
himself as a “Knight Commander” of the Asiatic Order of Universal
Morality, a circle of practitioners of animal magnetism established in
Paris in the 1830s. Bennati, a professional quack, arrived at the fairs with
a parade of horses, musicians and artists, offering miraculous cures for
free and for the welfare of suffering humanity. In 1865, Bennati and his
associate, an old French physician, were condemned and sued in Lille
for dealing in sham remedies.22
We do not know why Bennati came to South America, but his first
traces on the other side of the Atlantic date from the late 1860s, when he
began travelling in those regions with his successive families, his faux
remedies and his collections of natural history.23 Once in South America, he
honoured himself with the presidency of the so-called “Medico-Chirurgical
Scientific Italian Commission”, an association of his own invention that
included a secretary, a physician, and several helpers and servants.
With this “Commission” he journeyed through Argentina, Paraguay and
Bolivia, pretending to be a travelling naturalist sent by Italy to collect
data and artefacts and to promote the natural wealth and potential of
21 Lehmann-Nitsche, pp. 64-66. I thank Máximo Farro for this information.

22 Podgorny, “Momias que hablan”, p. 51.
23 On Bennati’s travels and museum, see Podgorny, Viajes en Bolivia; idem, “Travelling
Museums and Itinerant Collections in Nineteenth-Century Latin America”, Museum
History Journal, 6 (2013), 127-46; and idem, El sendero del tiempo y de las causas accidentales:
Los espacios de la prehistoria en la Argentina, 1850-1910 (Rosario: Prohistoria, 2009), pp.
271-91.
South America among European investors. Thus, in the Americas, he

substituted the “museum of natural history” for the fair spectacle as a
means to attract customers for his curative powers.
Bennati arrived in Argentina when the first National Exhibition
of industrial and natural products was being organised in the city of
Córdoba. Given that he was acting as travelling doctor and naturalist,
several provincial governments — such as the government of the province
of Mendoza — commissioned him to collect samples from the local
environment and to attend, as their representative, the Exhibition in 1870.
On this occasion, he — or his secretaries — wrote reports, kept detailed
records of the number of people healed on his travels and gave speeches
in Italian on the subject of progress. He was applauded by an audience
of educated gentlemen who, although they might not have understood
a single word of what he said, eagerly greeted the enthusiasm Bennati
displayed for the future of the country.24 Most probably, the experience
of the Exhibition and the instructions given by the organisers regarding
what and how to collect, taught him which kinds of objects were most
valued by governments and politicians.
The collection of cartes-de-visite contains a hint as to Bennati’s relationship
with the people he met in the province of Mendoza and at the National
Exhibition in Córdoba: the portraits of Michel-Aimé Pouget, a French
agronomist hired in 1853 to manage the agriculture school in Mendoza.
Pouget is best known today for his role in introducing the vines and seeds
of Malbec to Argentina, a grape of French origin that was once predominant
in Bordeaux and Cahors. In 1870, he and his wife, Petrona Sosa de Pouget,
were exhibiting in Córdoba many of their economic initiatives, such as their
experiments in apiculture and their cultivation and production of vegetal
fibres and tissues (Fig. 13.4).25
24 Irina Podgorny, “La industria y laboriosidad de la República: Guido Bennati y las

muestras de San Luis, Mendoza y La Rioja en la Exposición Nacional de Córdoba”, in
Argentina en exposición: Ferias y exhibiciones durante los siglos XIX y XX, ed. by Andrea
Lluch and Silvia Di Liscia (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas,
2009), pp. 21-59 (pp. 39-41); and Juan Draghi Lucero, Miguel Amable Pouget y su obra
(Mendoza: Junta de Estudios Históricos, 1936).
25 See also http://eap.bl.uk/database/large_image.a4d?digrec=1120613;r=4827 and http://
eap.bl.uk/database/large_image.a4d?digrec=1120614;r=5436
Fig. 13.4 Carte-de-visite from Michel-Aimé Pouget

(EAP207/6/1, images 29 and 30), Public Domain.
Bennati, aware of the interest in these initiatives, collected fibres that could
be employed as raw materials for several industries, also exhibiting vegetal
products in Córdoba and in other places he visited. At the same time, he
collected the portraits of people who shared his interests, as evidence of
their collegial friendship. In doing so, he was following a fashion that had
spread throughout the Americas and Europe: collecting cartes-de-visite, as it
is well established, became an obsession in the second half of the nineteenth
century.26 As Douglas Keith McElroy has noted:
26 For Latin America, in particular Peru, see Keith McElroy, Early Peruvian Photography: A
Critical Case Study (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Research Press, 1985), pp.
15-45. See also Robin Wichard and Carol Wichard, Victorian Cartes-de-Visite (Princes
Risborough: Shire, 1999).
These humble images dominated the economics of photography and social

intercourse […] Every home became a photographic gallery with luxurious
albums filled with cartes, and these reflected the society and its values better
than any other art of the period. Standardization created a democratic imagery
throughout the world […] The small card was exploited not only for portraiture
but also as a vehicle to transport the collector to famous places, to document
disasters, and to promote business.27
In our case, the cards travelled with the collector and promoted the business
of science and quackery. Bennati, as was common among travelling dentists,
surgeons and photographers at that time, announced his Commission’s arrival
in the cities it visited in the newspapers, promoting the services and gifts it
offered to the local population and government. Thus, in Paraguay in 1875, he
presented fragments of the skeleton of Megatherium that had been discovered
in the surroundings of the city of Asunción; the remains of this formidable
fossil mammal had been considered an icon of prehistoric South America
for decades.28 In January 1875, President Juan Bautista Gill accepted it as a
gift with the intention of creating Paraguay’s national museum — although
this museum was never in fact inaugurated.29
It is probable that when Bennati brought his advertisement to the
newspaper, he met its editor, the French journalist Joseph Charles Manó,
and discovered that they shared common strategies and interests.30 Bennati
invited Manó to join an expedition, covering his travel expenses. Manó, in
exchange, would record geological and botanical observations.31 Together
they navigated the Upper Paraguay River up to the Brazilian fluvial port
of Corumbá, a gateway to Mato Grosso and the Amazon basin which, with
the opening of the Paraguay River after the Paraguayan War of 1864-1870,
had become strategically important for international trade. Manó and
Bennati travelled and, at the same time, encountered a network of itinerant
27 McElroy, Early Peruvian Photography, p. 15.

28 Martin J. S. Rudwick, Scenes From the Deep Times: Early Pictorial Representations of the
Prehistoric World (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1992), pp. 201-02. See also
Irina Podgorny, “Fossil Dealers, the Practices of Comparative Anatomy and British
Diplomacy in Latin America”, The British Journal for the History of Science, 46/4 (2013),
647-74.
29 “Decreto de Creación de un Museo Nacional”, in Fernando Viera (comp.), Colección
legislativa de la república del Paraguay (Asunción: Kraus, 1896), p. 84.
30 Irina Podgorny, “From Lake Titicaca to Guatemala: The Travels of Joseph Charles Manó
and His Wife of Unknown Name”, in Nature and Antiquities: The Making of Archaeology in
the Americas, ed. by Philip Kohl, I. Podgorny and Stefanie Gänger (Tucson, AZ: University
of Arizona Press, 2014), pp. 125-44.
31 Guido Bennati, “Al Señor Viviani: Encargado de la Legación Italiana en Lima”, El Pueblo
Constituyente, Cochabamba, September 1876.
individuals: exiles, émigrés, disappointed European politicians, anarchists,

republicans, revolutionaries, adventurers or simply pretenders who travelled
throughout the continent, trying to survive by selling their skills to those
who were willing to pay for them. The press, writing, and the supposedly
neutral rhetoric of science, nature and progress represented the tools that
assured their survival in the New World. During their stay in Paraguay, the
Commission collected fossils as well as ethnographic objects, such as calabash
gourds for drinking mate, bowls, arrows and bows.32
From Paraguay, the collection of cartes-de-visite includes a portrait of Juan
Vicente Estigarribia, the personal physician of the Paraguayan “Dictador
Supremo” Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia and, later, of the López family, also
rulers of Paraguay from the 1840s to the 1860s.33 Although Bennati did not
meet Estigarribia (who died in 1869), they share certain connections which
may explain the presence of his portrait in the collection (assuming that it
is Bennati’s album): Estigarribia, like Bennati, was described as a naturalist
by historians and contemporaries, and he was also a doctor interested both
in botany and the uses of plants in medicine.34 Objects bring dead and living
people together, and Bennati, in collecting Estagarribia’s portrait, perhaps
wanted to be associated with one of the most important physicians of the
countries he visited.
Bennati’s Commission arrived in Santa Cruz de la Sierra in 1875, and
subsequently continued to other Bolivian cities — Cochabamba, La Paz,
Sucre, Potosí and Tarija.35 In every single city they visited, they were involved
in conflicts with different local actors who sought to demonstrate that the
Commission was a fraud and that none of its members were actually what
they pretended to be.36 Despite these allegations, members of Bennati’s
32 Podgorny, Viajes en Bolivia, pp. 30-33.

33 See http://eap.bl.uk/database/large_image.a4d?digrec=1120611;r=2995
34 Dionisio M. González Torres, Boticas de la colonia y cosecha de hojas dispersas (Asunción:
Instituto Colorado de Cultura, 1978), pp. 67-78; and Juan Francisco Pérez Acosta, Carlos
Antonio López, obrero máximo, labor administrativa y constructiva (Asunción: Guarania,
1948), p. 309. Estigarribia is also mentioned by Augusto Roa Bastos in his historical
novel from 1974, I, the Supreme. On Roa Bastos, see Roberto González Echevarría, “The
Dictatorship of Rhetoric/The Rhetoric of Dictatorship: Carpentier, García Márquez, and
Roa Bastos”, Latin American Research Review, 15/3 (1980), 205-28; and idem, The Voice of the
Masters: Writing and Authority in Modern Latin American Literature (Austin, TX: University
of Texas Press, 1985), in particular ch. 3.
35 Podgorny, Viajes en Bolivia.
36 Irina Podgorny, “Coleccionistas de Arena: La comisión médico — quirúrgica Italiana en
el Altiplano Boliviano (1875-1877)”, Antípoda, 11 (2010), 165-88; and idem, “Momias que
hablan”.
commission moved freely in the cities’ scientific and literary circles. They
were accepted and welcomed by several members of the various political
factions and certain members of the Catholic clergy, who dispensed honours
to them, supported their initiatives in the fields of public health and science,
and gave tokens of their friendship, such as General Bernabé’s carte-de-visite
dedicated to Bennati.
The Commission exhibited its collections in Santa Cruz de la Sierra
and undertook excursions to the Inca ruins nearby as a means of proving
their interest in the local environment and culture. In Santa Cruz, the
Commission produced two publications, Relación del Viaje de la Comisión
Científica Médico-Quirúrgica Italiana por el norte del Gran Chaco y el Sud de la
Provincia de Chiquitos and El Naturalismo positivo en la Medicina (1875); and
in Cochabamba they published Compendio de los trabajos ejecutados en este
trayecto and Diplomas i documentos de honor de Europa y América que adornan
el nombre del ilustre comendador Dr. Guido Bennati (1876).37 While Diplomas i
documentos is a transcription of testimonies made by witnesses to Bennati’s
degrees as a doctor of medicine, the second and the fourth of these volumes
were travel descriptions, and the third a compendium of ideas on the
most modern methods in medicine. These publications described what
the members of the Commission encountered on their travels: fauna, flora,
mineral resources, ruins and natives. They also proposed a plan of action for
the local government and elite on how to improve their economic situation
by means of new roads and encouraging industry and commerce. Probably
written by Manó, an expert in the art of propaganda, these pamphlets were
printed on low-quality paper, with a very dense typography, in the printing
offices of the newspapers in which they worked or in those owned by their
protectors.38
In November 1876, the Commission arrived in La Paz, allegedly after
having completed “The scientific study of the material resulting from their
travels with regards to Hygiene, Climatology, Botany, Mineralogy, Geology,
Zoology, Industry and Commerce of the Argentinian, Paraguayan and
37 Podgorny, Viajes en Bolivia.

38 Diplomas i Documentos, El Naturalismo positivo and Bennati’s speeches from the Boletín de
la Exposición Nacional de Córdoba are kept in the National Library of Argentina (the library
of Harvard University has another copy of Diplomas). The Museo Histórico of Santa Cruz
de la Sierra in Bolivia holds Relación del viaje, while the Benson Latin American Collection
at the University of Texas at Austin has Compendio de los trabajos. These works had been
previously mentioned and collected by the Bolivian historian Gabriel René Moreno
(1836-1908) in his Biblioteca boliviana, catálogo de la seccion de libros i folletos (Santiago de
Chile: Gutenberg, 1879). The French trial is kept at the BNF (see note 59).
Oriental Republics”.39 They wanted to “publish the most exact work on its
Ethnography and the systems of mountains and rivers, questions absolutely
related to the problem of Hygiene”. They promised to publish a “Descriptive
History of the Republic of Bolivia”, imitating the propagandistically-minded
publications advertising their natural resources that had allowed other
Spanish American countries to successfully attract European migration.
This work would be integrated in three quarto volumes of more than 400
pages. They were in fact calling for a subscription and also for the provision
of data, information and objects.40
In La Paz, the Commission installed its offices and museum in a house
located in the main square of the city. While the cabinet of Doctor Bennati
opened from 7am to 11am, the museum opened from 1pm to 4pm, displaying
curiosities and representing the diversity and richness of the nature and arts
of South America.41 The museum was a means to exhibit the commission’s
collection but also to enrich it further: Bennati and company offered monetary
compensation for plants, fruits, fossils, petrifactions, furniture, books in all
languages or in Spanish from the age of the conquistadors, animals, minerals,
artefacts, and everything related to the arts and nature of these regions.42
The museum was indeed the centre of a medical-commercial enterprise.
Healing was performed in the space of the museum, which, at the same
time, exhibited the local medical and industrial products Bennati and his
companions had collected on their travels. The museum attracted not only
potential patients to the medical cabinet but also artefacts, photographs
and books to be resold on a market that would deliver these objects to other
places and people. In doing so, the museum also allowed Bennati and his
circle to procure documents, materials and exemplars of writing about the
topics they had supposedly investigated in the field. In other cities visited
by Bennati, the newspapers published extensive descriptions of the interior
of his cabinet: the walls were covered by photographs showing the patients
before and after being treated by Bennati. The photograph of a “blind invalid
man” is possibly the only item remaining from this series.43
39 El Titicaca, 9 November 1876.

40 “Historia descriptiva de Bolivia”, La Reforma, 15 November 1876.
41 “Museo”, La Reforma, 16 December 1876. For a description of the museum, see Podgorny,
El sendero del tiempo, pp. 271-91.
42 “Historia descriptiva de Bolivia”, La Reforma, 15 November 1876; and “Museo Boliviano”,
El Ferrocarril, 7 March 1877.
43 “Solicitada. Al Dr. Bennati. Los jujeños. La verdad”, La Reforma de Salta, 7 May 1879.
The photograph can be seen at http://eap.bl.uk/database/large_image.a4d?digrec=11
20599;r=19169
None of the members of the so-called Commission was a photographer.

The cartes-de-visite provide a clue as to how they obtained these pictures: they
were purchased at the studio of Natalio Bernal, a Bolivian photographer,
settled in La Paz since the 1860s. As several historians of photography in
South America have remarked, it was a time when travelling photographers
made their living portraying people both alive and dead and creating “typical
characters”, such as the types exhibited in the Bolivian cartes-de-visite.44 Objects
of collection, exchange and trade, the photographs were purchased by locals
and visitors alike. Travelling naturalists, as well as itinerant photographers,
multiplied the destinies of these images. As we will see in the following
section, some images — not kept in the Museum of La Plata, so we do not
know whether they were purchased or stolen — reveal the intricate path
of photographs as they were collected and traded, and the difficulties of
uncovering their complex histories.
The ruins of Tiahuanaco and the Bennati

Museum
In November 1876, the newspaper La Reforma of La Paz published an account
of a four-month excursion made by Bennati’s Italian Commission to Lake
Titicaca and the ruins of Tiahuanaco. The members of the Commission were
obliged, they said, to the Bolivian government for “the help and support given
to science”, as well as to local authorities in the Titicaca regions, including
the priest of the parish of Tiahuanaco and the officials from the Peruvian
side of the lake. The craniological and archaeological observations from
these explorations demonstrated “that Tiahuanaco had been the cradle and
centre of origin of the civilisation of the Americas, which irradiated from
the shores of the Titicaca to all the continent”.45
In a tomb opened by a previous excavation, the commission noted the
co-existence of two different human types among the skulls: one more
advanced and similar to the pre-Aztec skulls; the second representing a
lower race, probably enslaved by the first and similar to the skulls of the
higher families of apes. In 1878, Paul Broca analysed three skulls sent to the
School of Anthropology in Paris by Théodore Ber, another French traveller
44 See, for instance, Douglas Keith McElroy, The History of Photography in Peru in the
Nineteenth Century, 1839-1876 (Ph.D. thesis, University of New Mexico, 1977).
45 La Comisión Italiana, “Escursion a Tiaguanaco y al lago Titicaca”, La Reforma, November
1876.
who was in Tiahuanaco at the same time as the Italian Commission.46 Like
the Commission, Broca classified the skulls as belonging to two different
human types.47
In the meantime, in La Paz, Manó broke with Bennati and returned to
journalism. In March 1877, Manó began an association with Eloy Perillán y
Buxó, a Spanish anarchist, anti-monarchist and director of the newspaper
El Inca. Perillán y Buxó had had to leave Spain and go into exile in 1874 due
to his provocative writings, time he spent travelling in South America.48
Like Bennati and Manó, Perillán y Buxó both mocked and profited from
the tastes, pretensions and consumption habits of the petite bourgeoisie
of Europe and the Americas. All three men were aware of the importance
that government officials and the urban bourgeoisie attached to academic
titles, collections and scientific rhetoric. Throughout their travels, the men
endeavoured to publish records, inaugurate museums and affirm their own
scientific expertise. They also sought to establish newspapers and offer their
services to the political factions of the troubled South American republics.
Manó and Perillán y Buxó issued a new periodical, El Ferrocarril [The
Railroad],49 and in March 1877 they announced that they were collecting
archaeological pieces to be dispatched and published in La Ilustración Española
y Americana, an illustrated journal in Madrid.50 Offering to pay for remittances,
they obtained “mummies, Incan pottery, medals, arrows, photographs of ruins
and Indian types, idols”.51 On 22 November 1877, La Ilustración published
“an engraving with five peculiar views of the Bolivian Republic, based on
direct photographs sent by an old correspondent of our periodical”. These
“souvenirs of Bolivia”, sent by “Mr. P. y B”, showed several vistas, one of
them probably portraying the visit of Bennati’s commission to the ruins and
village of Tiahuanaco (Fig. 13.5).
46 Pascal Riviale, Los viajeros franceses en busca del Perú Antiguo, 1821-1914 (Lima: IFEA,
2000), pp. 145-47.
47 Paul Broca, “Sur des crânes et des objets d’industrie provenant des fouilles de M. Ber à
Tiahuanaco (Perou)”, Bulletins de la Société d’anthropologie de Paris, 3/1 (1878), 230-35.
48 Luis Monguió, “Una desconocida novela Hispano-Peruana sobre la Guerra del Pacífico”,
Revista Hispánica Moderna, 35/3 (1969), 248-54; and Pedro Gómez Aparicio, Historia del
periodismo español: De la Revolución de Septiembre al desastre colonial (Madrid: Editora
Nacional, 1971), p. 204.
49 Gustavo Torrico Landa and Cristóbal Kolkichuima P’ankara, La imprenta y el periodismo
en Bolivia (La Paz: Fondo Ed. de los Diputados, 2004), p. 225.
50 “Museo Boliviano”, El Ferrocarril, 7 March 1877.
51 “Museo Boliviano”, El Ferrocarril, 14 March 1877.
Fig. 13.5 “Souvenirs of Bolivia” (from La Ilustración Española y Americana, 43

(November 22, 1877), p. 316). © CSIC, Centro de Ciencias Humanas y Sociales,
Biblioteca Tomás Navarro Tomás, all rights reserved.
In fact, these vistas had been taken by the travelling German photographer
Georges B. von Grumbkow who, late in 1876, was hired by the aforementioned
Théodore Ber to take photographs of the ruins — photos that Ber wanted to
send to France as part of his role as Commissioner of the French Government
for collecting American antiquities.52 However, Grumbkow, once he took the
pictures, sold them to the many customers interested in this kind of material. In
1876-77 Tiawanaku received visits not only from Ber and Bennati’s Commission,
but also from the German geologists Alphons Stübel and Wilhelm Reiss. These
two men visited the ruins and purchased a set of the photographs taken by
Grumbkow, now stored in the Leibniz Institut für Landeskunde (IFL) in
Leipzig (Figs. 13.6 and 13.7).53
Fig. 13.6 “The Ruins of Pumapungu”, view to the southwest. © Stübel’s Collections,
Leibniz-Institut für Länderkunde, Leipzig, all rights reserved.
52 Pascal Riviale and Christophe Galinon, Une vie dans les Andes: Le journal de Théodore
Ber, 1864-1896 (Paris: Ginkgo, 2013). I am very grateful to Pascal Riviale for his hints
regarding Théodore Ber and Stübel’s collection.
53 See the IFL’s Archive for Geography at http://www.ifl-leipzig.de/en/library-archive/
archive.html. On Stübel’s collections, see Babett Forster, Fotografien als Sammlungsobjekte
im 19. Jahrhundert: Die Alphons-Stübel-Sammlung früher Orientfotografie (Weimar: VDG,
2013). Another set of Grumbkow’s photographs are kept in the Museo de Arte de Lima;
see Natalia Majluf, Registros del territorio: las primeras décadas de la fotografía, 1860-1880
(Lima: Museo de Arte de Lima, 1997). One of the images dispatched by Perillán y Buxó
to Madrid came to be known as the portrait of Alphons Stübel in Tiwanaku. However, as
Riviale’s recent research has proven, the man in the picture is not Stübel but M. Bernardi,
Ber’s travel companion. The image is available at http://ifl.wissensbank.com
Fig. 13.7 “The church of Tiahuanaco”. © Stübel’s Collections, Leibniz-Institut für

Länderkunde, Leipzig, all rights reserved.
Less than a year after they were taken, these photographs had travelled far
beyond the Andes: dispatched by this dynamic world of itinerant people
composed of charlatans, journalists, travellers and photographers, they were
soon incorporated into the visual universe of South American archaeology,
which was emerging in the same years and through the same agents.
Even though until now we have found no trace of Grumbkow’s photographs
either in La Plata or in Buenos Aires, textual evidence suggests that they were
exhibited in Buenos Aires in 1883, when Bennati presented his collection in the
Argentinian capital. The local newspapers celebrated his collections, reporting
and describing them in detail. Bennati’s museum contained the enormous
carapaces of mastodons, mylodons and glyptodonts, in addition to fossils,
bones, teeth, petrified plants and fruits, mineral collections, precious stones,
objects from different tribes and from the Bronze Age, musical instruments,
dried skins, human skeletons, skulls, mummies, weapons, jewels, seeds,
textiles, pottery, bowls, jars, idols, apparel, baskets, feathers, petrified human
eyes, vistas, photographs of Indians domesticated by Bennati, landscapes of
primitive cities, etc.54 The collection also included the same cartes-de-visite
that — as we argue in this paper — came to the Museum of La Plata a couple
of years later. As the catalogue states:
To complement this Group (various), we display a large and diverse collection
of vistas representing places, buildings, ruins, etc., among which the ruins of
the ancient town of Tiaguanacu, with its gigantic monoliths, stand out. This
collection is supplemented by the native attire of nearly all the countries visited.55
This excerpt probably refers to the photographs sold by Natalio Bernal in La

Paz, Bolivia — examples of trade and type photographs that, as McElroy has
said, “usually represented professions and socioeconomic roles typical or
distinctive to a given local culture”.56 These types or roles, McElroy suggests,
were often posed or dramatised in the studio rather than taken from life.
Carte-de-visite portraits of Indians are numerous and most often fall within
the costumbrista tradition of recording distinctive costumes and activities
associated with native culture rather than capturing portraits of individuals.57
But it was the photographs that we suppose to be Grumbkow’s that
attracted the attention of most reporters and visitors to Bennati’s exhibition as
the clearest evidence of the antiquity of the civilisations of the New World.58
Thus, the Buenos Aires press described what they “saw” in the photographs:
Tiahuanaco, this portentous city, with its colossal ruins connects us with the
primitive continent, it is very close, in the North of the Republic.
What do these tremendous ruins tell us?
A vanished race, a missing civilisation and a missing history, what was left?
54 “El Museo Bennati, Reportage transeunte”, La Patria Argentina, 24 January 1883.

55 “Como complemento de este Grupo (diversos) se ha colocado una variada y gran
colección de vistas fotográficas, que representan diferentes lugares, edificios, ruinas, etc.
entre las que sobresalen las del antiquísimo pueblo de Tiaguanacu, con sus gigantescos
monolitos. Está completada esta colección con los trajes naturales de casi todos los países
recorridos”. Bennati, Museo Científico, p. 10. Italics and translation are ours.
56 McElroy, Early Peruvian Photography, p. 26. The photographs are available at http://eap.
bl.uk/database/overview_item.a4d?catId=142284;r=30106
57 McElroy, Early Peruvian Photography, p. 28.
58 Grumbkow’s photographs are available via the IFL’s catalogue at http://www.ifl-leipzig.
de/en/library-archive/online-catalogue.html
Let’s observe the photographs displayed at Museo Bennati and let’s compare
the facts. Huge monoliths, eight metres high and four wide, had been reshaped
by the elapsing of time and the action of wind and rain, to become thin needles,
just a metre high and eroded on their top.
The palaces, the temples, the circuses and the megalithic masonry keep,
however, their mightiness. There one can observe how the monoliths were
used, as well as the arts, crafts and power of those thousands of men that
had erected them.
Carving, transporting them to a place where there were no mountains, building
a city around an “artificial hill”, where the temple of the Sun was located;
having this enormous city destroyed, forgetting that this cyclopean city had
ever existed, having the wind modelling its monoliths … many centuries,
hélas, many centuries must have gone by!
Tiahuanaco! Up there we have its colossal ruins, whose dimensions —as well
as those from Palenque — would scare any Londoner.
The Islands of the Sun and the Moon, the temple of the virgins, they lay over
thousands of shells left in the mountains by the ancient Titicaca lake with a
former circumference of 2650 leagues, today reduced to 52 length and 33 width!
Tiahuanaco, despite all the heresies committed against her, such as the new
temple built with her stones, recalls to us the sorrow already caused by the
Coliseum “quod non fecerunt barbaros fecir Barberini”, and exhibits one of
the oldest civilisations from the Americas.
Is that all?
No! We have photographs in front of us that reveal something still more
spectacular.
Bennati dug at Tiahuanaca, searching the tombs of those ancient beings.
Did he find them?
Six metres below Tiahuanaca, under a triple layer of topsoil, clay and sand, he
found the vestiges of an older city, with great monuments, superb monoliths,
mighty buildings, still more powerful than those from modern Tiahuanaca or
Tiahuanacú (the reconstruction of the name is still uncertain). The excavation
was not very extensive, the city but partially revealed; however it is enough
to confirm its existence, as well as the existence of its monuments, as seen
and photographed by Bennati.
When Bennati presented his collections in Buenos Aires, the Museum of La

Plata did not exist and the objects that his museum exhibited had never been
seen before in South America. The unknown reporter finished his chronicle
by strongly encouraging the Argentinian government to purchase Bennati’s
collection for Argentinian public institutions, which indeed they did in the
years to follow. In this way, a collection that was amassed to accompany a

quack doctor’s cabinet became part of the Museum of La Plata. Some of the
objects were put on display, while others, such as the cartes-de-visite, were
put aside, treated as worthless and, finally, forgotten. However, all of them
originated at the crossroads of itinerant people moving through the Americas
and carrying with them things, ideas and different devices: photo machines,
photographs, collections, newspaper articles and travelling museums.
Manó and Bennati’s travels were propelled by the conflicts in which they
were involved, even though they would describe their frequent departures
as preconceived plans to survey the natural resources of the places they
visited. Bennati represents one of the many itinerant characters — travelling
dentists, photographers, journalists, magicians, circus artists, and impresarios
of popular anatomical museums — journeying through the Americas, from
town to town, from country to country, from one side of the Atlantic to the
other, from north to south, from east to west. Historians still have to learn
how to deal with the history of travelling people; their traces are elusive to
national and institutional histories. The charlatans and photographers did
not tend to keep written records, and they were continually on the move.
They carried news, propagated modes, discourses and objects, and then
disappeared from the scene. However, their traces are there: forgotten,
misplaced, almost invisible. So were the cartes-de-visite in the Museum of La
Plata, the gateway — among many others — that we have chosen to cross
the barrier of South American historiographies and enter into the world of
travelling charlatans.59
59 EAP095 and EAP207 benefited from the professional expertise of Tatiana Kelly, Máximo
Farro, Susana V. García and Alejandro Martínez, to whom I express my deepest
gratitude: it was their engagement and commitment that made this article possible
and that led to the success of both projects. Silvia Ametrano, the director of Museo de
La Plata, Américo Castilla, Lewis Pyenson, Maria Margaret Lopes and José A. Pérez
Gollán supported us in multiple ways: we are all indebted to them and, in particular, to
Cathy Collins, who was always there to help and advise from London. We also want to
mention the permanent support provided by Lynda Barraclough, former EAP Curator.
Part of the bibliographical materials used in this chapter was available to us because
of the permanent support of Ruth Kessentini, Ellen Garske, Birgitta von Mallinkrodt
and Hans-Jörg Rheinberger from the Max Planck Institute for the History of Sciences
in Berlin (MPI-WG). This paper — which also acknowledges the support of PIP 0116
— is based on research undertaken at Biblioteca Nacional de la República Argentina,
Biblioteca Luis A. Arango in Bogotá, Bibliothèque Nationale de France and the Leibniz
Institute for Regional Geography in Leipzig (Archiv für Geographie). The chapter —
which benefited from the comments by Maja Kominko and two anonymous reviewers
— was initiated while I was on a Fellowship at IKKM-Bauhaus Universität Weimar. I am
very grateful to Daniel Gethmann and Bernhard Siegert for their productive suggestions.
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14. Hearing images, tasting pictures:
making sense of Christian mission
photography in the Lushai Hills
district, Northeast India (1870-1920)
Kyle Jackson1
If today the sky were to thunder and the local church bell to peal in the
mountaintop village of Aithur in Northeast India’s Mizoram state, the
resident Christian Mizo villager would simply pack an umbrella to church.
However, a century ago the same soundscape would have held radically
different meaning for most listeners.2 Thunder was not a sonic shockwave
devoid of transcendental meaning, but rather evidence of the god and healer
Pu Vana — Grandfather of the Sky — as he dragged a bamboo plate about
the heavens. The church bell would have rung out in direct contravention
of the village headman’s strict order for its silence. Its sound was thought
to bring pestilence upon Aithur, whose tiny minority of first Christian
converts were far from welcome and farther still from representing the
near total majority that Christians would enjoy a century later, when the
first converts were long dead and Pu Vana long forgotten.3
1 I wish to thank Roberta Bivins, Luke Clossey, Lindy Jackson and Joy L. K. Pachuau for
comments on an earlier draft.
2 R. Murray Schafer coined the term “soundscape” to refer to a “sonic environment”, the
auditory equivalent of a landscape, in his seminal The Tuning of the World: Towards a
Theory of Soundscape Design (New York: Destiny, 1977), pp. 274-75.
3 Haudala, “A Lushai Pastor on Tour”, The Herald: The Monthly Magazine of the Baptist
Missionary Society (London, 1916), p. 63. All quoted editions of The Herald and The
Missionary Herald were viewed in the Angus Library and Archive, Regent’s Park College,
Oxford, UK (hereafter ALA).
© Kyle Jackson, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.14

In the last decade, the field of sensory history — or the “habit” of writing
sensory history, the term historian Mark M. Smith employs to refer to its
overarching utility — has made great strides in advancing our understanding
of historical and cultural articulations of human ways of knowing.4 While
this body of scholarship has been helpful in broadening our understanding
of the complex history of the human sensorium, it nonetheless treats the
continents with an uneven hand. For example, the bibliography of Smith’s
recent overview of scholarship sensitive to the history of the senses reveals
a ratio of roughly 8.5:1 for studies of the west to those of the wider world.5
Historians attentive to non-western countries have yet to examine in
depth the hill tribes of India’s Northeastern frontier and the history of their
ways of knowing. In 1935, many Northeastern hill areas were formally
deemed “excluded areas” by the British Raj; until 2011, Mizoram itself
remained a region restricted to visitors. Entire textbooks on the history of the
subcontinent have been written with only a scant sentence or two reserved
4 Mark M. Smith, Sensing the Past: Seeing, Hearing, Smelling, Tasting, and Touching in History
(Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2007), p. 5; a partial list of essential works by
historians and anthropologists of the senses would include W. F. Bynum and Roy Porter,
Medicine and the Five Senses (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993); Constance
Classen, Worlds of Sense: Exploring the Senses in History and Across Cultures (London:
Routledge, 1993); Alain Corbin, Village Bells: Sound and Meaning in the Nineteenth-Century
French Countryside, trans. Martin Thom (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998);
Steven Feld, Sound and Sentiment: Birds, Weeping, Poetics, and Song in Kalui Expression
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982); Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Scenting
Salvation: Ancient Christianity and the Olfactory Imagination (Berkeley, CA: University of
California Press, 2006); Peter Charles Hoffer, Sensory Worlds of Early America (Baltimore:
John Hopkins University Press, 2003); David Howes, Sensual Relations: Engaging the
Senses in Culture and Social Theory (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2003);
David Howes, ed., Empire of the Senses: The Sensual Culture Reader (New York: Berg, 2005);
Richard Cullen Rath, How Early America Sounded (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press,
2005); Schafer, The Tuning of the World; Leigh Eric Schmidt, Hearing Things: Religion,
Illusion, and the American Enlightenment (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
2000); Bruce R. Smith, The Acoustic World of Early Modern England (Chicago, IL: University
of Chicago Press, 1999); Mark M. Smith, Listening to Nineteenth-Century America (Chapel
Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2001); Mark M. Smith, How Race is Made:
Slavery, Segregation, and the Senses (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press,
2006).
5 As historians Luke Clossey and Nicholas Guyatt have shown, Europe, Canada and
the U.S. together command over three-quarters of all historical research done in
North America and Britain, as of 2012. The UK and Ireland, with only 1% of the
world’s population, command close to 20% of the historical research done in Britain
and North America. See Clossey and Guyatt, “It’s a Small World After All: The Wider
World in Historians’ Peripheral Vision”, Perspectives on History, 51/5 (May 2013), http://
www.historians.org/publications-and-directories/perspectives-on-history/may-2013/
its-a-small-world-after-all
Hearing images, tasting pictures 447
as a quota for the tribes of the comparatively less populated Northeast.6

Only of late, with the publication of works like James C. Scott’s The Art
of Not Being Governed, a special issue of Journal of Global History, Andrew
J. May’s study of the Khasi Hills and Indrani Chatterjee’s monograph on
debt and friendship, is scholarly attention turning to this kaleidoscopically
diverse, borderland region.7 The present chapter, a preliminary “history
through photographs”, mobilises historical sources only recently located and
digitally preserved in Mizoram (known in colonial times as the Lushai Hills
District), allowing us to begin not only to see, but also to smell, taste, hear
and feel an entirely new scene in upland Northeast India. By paying special
attention to the human sensorium, we pry open some crawlspace towards
a thicker and more context-specific understanding of how Christianity in
the Lushai Hills became a specifically and overwhelmingly Lushai Hills
Christianity.
Sources and method

A vast chasm separates the supersaturated world of images that we
inhabit today from the visual world of those creating photographs in
historical Lushai Hills. As historian Robert Finlay points out, someone
surfing the internet or walking down a supermarket aisle sees “a larger
number of bright, saturated hues in a few moments than [would] most
persons in a traditional society in a lifetime”.8 Save for exceptions like
“beetles, butterflies, and blossoms”, the world of nature reaches the
6 Characteristic examples include John Keay, India: A History (New York: Atlantic Monthly
Press, 2000); and Sunil Khilman, The Idea of India (London: Penguin, 2012).
7 James C. Scott, The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast
Asia (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009); Journal of Global History, 5/2 (2010);
Andrew J. May, Welsh Missionaries and British Imperialism: The Empire of Clouds in North-
East India (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2012); Indrani Chatterjee, Forgotten
Friends: Monks, Marriages, and Memories of Northeast India (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2013). See also Joy L. K. Pachuau’s forthcoming monograph Being Mizo: Identity
and Belonging in Northeast India (Oxford: Oxford University Press, forthcoming in 2015).
A story from Sir George Abraham Grierson’s Linguistic Survey of India (1927) highlights
the staggering diversity of India’s Northeast: “One of the witnesses [to a crime] was
a woman who knew only the Khami language. This was translated into Mrū, which
was then translated into Arakanese, which was again translated into the local dialect of
Bengali, from which version the Magistrate recorded the quadruply refracted evidence
in English”. George Abraham Grierson, ed., Linguistic Survey of India, Volume 1, Part 1:
Introductory (Calcutta: Government of India, 1927), p. 21.
8 Robert Finlay, “Weaving the Rainbow: Visions of Colour in World History”, Journal of
World History, 18/4 (2007), 383-431 (p. 398).
human eye “chiefly in browns and greens beneath a sky of unsaturated

blue”. 9 Today, the supersaturated colours of synthetically-produced
objects artificially overexcite the human visual cortex, demanding for the
first time in human history the full biological potential of human colour
vision. Meanwhile, the modern ubiquity of camera devices (there are
seven in various guises within a four-metre radius of the desk at which
I write) has turned modern photographs into ephemeral “snapshots”.
By contrast, late-nineteenth-century Lushai Hills was a world in which
a group of Mizo villagers walked for miles to the colonial headquarters of
Aijal, hoping to see a colonial official’s family photographs.10 Photography
here was not part of an everyday “dull catalogue of common things”.11 For
whatever reasons, photographs could be a destination in themselves. Only
by leaving our modern baggage at the door can we begin to appreciate
the extraordinary in what might otherwise seem a bunch of old “snaps”:
photographs were in fact the most concentrated human-made visual
object then available in the Lushai Hills, unmatched in detail, realism,
resolution and novelty.
It is in part to experiment with a methodology of wide-eyed wonder
that this chapter on the visual history of the Lushai Hills eschews a
typical photo-album approach (where one photograph after another
appears ordered by chronology, typology or geography). Here, we
instead purposefully engage with rarity — indeed primarily with a single
photograph. Taking as our base unit a circa-1913 photograph of the interior
of Aijal’s flagship Mission Veng Church (biak in), we sidestep the question
of whether, in history-writing, images support texts or texts support
images, to instead bring together a range of contemporary textual, oral
and visual sources as equals in the analysis of a single image.12 We thus
take a page from the methodological playbook of French author Raymond
Queneau, whose Exercices de style (1947) retells the same short story in 99
different literary styles.13 I organise the analysis here into six sedimentary
9 Ibid., p. 402.
10 N. E. Parry, People and Places in Assam, n/d, Cambridge Centre of South Asian Studies
Archive, Cambridge, UK (hereafter CSAS), Parry Papers, Microfilm Box 5, No. 40, p. 250.
11 Finlay, “Weaving”, p. 430.
12 Patricia Uberoi, discussant for the workshop “History Through Photographs: Exploring
the Visual Landscape of Northeast India”, Delhi, 31 October 2013.
13 Raymond Queneau, Exercices de style (Paris: Editions Gallimard, 1947). I am grateful to
layers — the different styles, for our purposes — of human knowing:

hearing, seeing, tasting, smelling, touching and, as a wild card, the Mizo
harhna (or “awakening”). The senses are far from quarantined into these
analytical containers, nor is this list exhaustive. With the inclusion of a
sixth “sense” — the non-biological but still sensory-charged world of the
historical Mizo harhna — we can attempt to approach the earliest Mizo
Christians on their own terms, remaining attentive both to the diversity
of sense broadly defined and to the potential hamfistedness of traditional
western models of sense when applied without due reflexivity to sensory
cultures in the wider world.14
Listening in the biak in

From 1911-1912, the people living in what the British Raj knew as the Lushai
Hills District suffered mautam (bamboo death). As entire mountainsides of
bamboo simultaneously flowered, seeded and died, jungle rat populations
skyrocketed in number with the mass availability of protein-rich seeds.
Exhausting these, the rodents turned next to village rice crops and grain
stores; as the colonial government in Aijal, as well as Baptist and Welsh
Calvinistic Methodist foreign missionaries in Aijal and Serkawn village,
scrambled to distribute meagre relief loans of rice, villagers subsisted on
jungle roots.15 Within such a context of hunger and desperation, Christian
converts in Mission Veng, Aijal borrowed the fundraising concept of
buhfai tham (handful of rice) from Khasia-Jaintia and Garo churches in the
neighbouring Khasi Hills, and began donating precious handfuls of rice
towards the construction of a new chapel. Our central photograph (Fig.
14.1) depicts the result: the Mission Veng biak in, constructed in 1913.
historian Carla Nappi, whose ongoing project, Qing Bodies: Exercises in Style, brought
Queneau to my attention.
14 On Asia-normative history-writing and the challenging principle that written histories
should seek to be empathetic, meaningful and understandable to their historical subjects,
see Luke Clossey, “Asia-Centered Approaches to the History of the Early Modern World:
A Methodological Romp”, in Comparative Early Modernities: 1100-1800, ed. by David
Porter (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), pp. 73-98.
15 J. H. Lorrain, “Amidst Flowering Bamboos, Rats, and Famine: Report for 1912 of the
B.M.S. Mission in the South Lushai Hills, Assam”, reprinted in Reports by Missionaries
of Baptist Missionary Society (B.M.S.), 1901-1938 (Serkawn: Mizoram Gospel Centenary
Committee, 1993), p. 88.
Fig. 14.1 Mission Veng Church, c. 1913-1919,

Mizoram Presbyterian Church Synod Archive, Aijal, Mizoram, India.
Like the life-sustaining jungle tubers, sound was far more important
to people in early-twentieth-century Lushai Hills than it is in Mizoram
today.16 Indeed, life and death were literally at stake in the audible realm,
for malevolent forest phantasms (ramhuai) lived in the forest, listening to
and seizing those people careless enough to utter the names of humans,
certain animals or ramhuai aloud. Mizos, too, interacted with this forest world
through auditory channels. Lasi Khal was the hunter’s chanted sacrifice to
the female forest spirit Lasi, who decreed his success or failure in the hunt;
the auspicious crow of the rooster informed a village headman’s surveyors
as to whether a given clearing was healthy and thus habitable; the tap of
a metal knife (dao/chempui) on fallen bamboo shafts betrayed the position
of protein-rich worms (tumlung) to the careful listener.17
16 Rath, How Early America Sounded, p. ix.

17 Interview, M. S. Dawngliana, Serkawn, Mizoram, 29 March 2014 (all interviews were
conducted by the author).
The jungle offered up only occasional instances of sonic uniqueness: the

onomatopoeic huk of the barking deer, the throaty chawke of lizards, the
kaubupbup of jungle birds, the kek and kuk of monkeys and gibbons were all
infrequent interruptions of the otherwise “constant hum or whir of the insect
world”.18 The human village added voices to the soundscape: women’s voices
in public at certain times, travelling to the water source or to the jhum field,
men’s voices at others, setting out on early morning hunts.19 Spikes in volume
were unusual and unpredictable, save for the assured din of domesticated
animals waking at sunrise, the thunder claps of the rainy season and the
singing and dancing at periodic festivals (kut).
The early Christian church was an acoustic outlier in the typical village
soundscape. The interior of the church in our central photograph has its own
sonic signature, one unique in the Lushai Hills. Mizo structures were always
constructed in bamboo weave, their thatched and layered design highly
reminiscent of the noise control panels preferred in acoustic design today.
One need only step into a thatched bamboo home in a modern Mizo village
to hear the difference: the bamboo weave radically reduces reverberation
time, diffusing and absorbing sound waves like an anechoic chamber. But
though this traditional construction technique is alluded to aesthetically in
the 1913 church walls, the structure is primarily made of great planks of
acoustically-reflective hardwood, likely teak harvested locally.
The pulpit raised a central speaker so the congregants could hear his voice.20
The elders (upa) seated in the individual chairs visible in the photograph,
facing the congregants, had the poorest view of the platform, but by far the
best sound from it. Speech loses six decibels in sound level each time the
distance in metres is doubled from speaking mouth to listening ear. Hence,
those nearest the Welsh Calvinist and Mizo preachers, whose doctrine
emphasised hearing the Word of God, were not only the most senior in the
hierarchical church structure as upas, but also most privy to the sound of
the Word itself. In Mizo terms, they were the most bengvar (literally, “quick
hearing”, or informed).21
18 E. Lewis Mendus, The Diary of a Jungle Missionary (Liverpool: Foreign Mission Office,
1956), p. 74 (“constant hum”). For historical Lushai onomatopoeia, see J. H. Lorrain,
A Grammar and Dictionary of the Lushai Language (Shillong: Assam Secretariat Printing
Office, 1898); and idem, Dictionary of the Lushai Language (Calcutta: Royal Asiatic Society
of Bengal, 1940).
19 Schafer, The Tuning of the World, p. 231.
20 Rath, How Early America Sounded, p. 100.
21 David Vumlallian Zou, The Interaction of Print Culture, Identity and Language in Northeast
India (Ph.D thesis, Queen’s University, Belfast, 2007), p. 75; and E. L. Mendus, “Editorial”,
Kristian Tlangau, Aijal, September 1932, p. 188.
Regardless, however, of where one sat, the room depicted in the photograph
was the largest and most reverberative single space in the region, encouraging
human voice and song in ways hitherto unheard in the Lushai Hills. The
church structure employed the type of high, gabled ceiling that, as the
historian of hearing Richard Rath notes, “sonically fortif[ies]” congregants’
singing, praying and audible verbal and non-verbal responses.22 In inherently
promoting such a uniquely live acoustic space, this built environment could
itself have been a catalyst for the “noisy” hlimsang Mizo revivalist song and
dance that so worried stoic missionaries throughout the early history of
Christianity in the region. In a very real sense, this particular church was
not just a building. It was also an instrument.23
The church resounded outwards too. Alain Corbin’s pioneering work
on the social history of the church bell in rural France resonates in colonial
Lushai Hills, for here also the Christian community was inherently reliant on
the church’s brass gong.24 Residents in the model Christian village of Mission
Veng had to live within earshot to know when to attend mandatory services
— the invisible “acoustic horizon” of the gong defined the physical range of
the community.25 In Mission Veng, a handbell announced schoolchildren’s
classes, while a brass gong heralded church services. Tone and frequency
thus attended concepts of time and punctuality.26 Such human-made sonic
tools were second only to guns in the range and volume of their report.
Within this new auditory milieu, foreign missionary preachers still
fought for their own brand of sonic discipline. Physical walls served their
obvious structural function, but they also acted as sonic barriers against what
missionaries heard as the “unruly” sounds of the village and of agents of
Satan, the “evil spirits” who disturbed outdoor preaching tours by making
livestock “cackle”, “squeal”, “bark”, “bleat”, and human babies “cry”.27
Part of the missionary project within the church’s walls was an imposition
of what historian Andrew J. Rotter calls “respectable, mannerly sound”.28

23 Ibid.
24 Corbin, Village Bells.
25 Smith, The Acoustic World, p. 51.
26 D. E. Jones, A Missionary’s Autobiography – D. E. Jones (Zosaphluia), trans. by J. M. Lloyd
(Aijal: H. Liansailova, 1998), p. 54.
27 Lorrain, “Our New Mission: Touring in the South Lushai Hills”, The Missionary Herald,
July 1904, p. 343.
28 Andrew J. Rotter, “Empires of the Senses: How Seeing, Hearing, Smelling, Tasting, and
Touching Shaped Imperial Encounters”, Diplomatic History, 35/1 (2011), 3-18 (p. 11).
Early missionary preaching seems to have baffled the Mizo, who repeatedly
interrupted sermons with unrelated questions and diversions. The central
pulpit in our photograph points to a new way of ordering communication
and sound. Verbal communication in the hills had no precedent for the
monologue, the expectation of silence lasting “twenty or thirty minutes”
while a single speaker stood in front of a seated group.29 Mizo communal
meetings were more casual, held in what the missionaries would have called
an informal manner on verandahs or at the entrance to villages.30 In song,
too, Mizo congregants had difficulty with the Welsh fourth and seventh scale
degrees, their efforts sounding flat or “plaintive” to western ears. Traditional
Mizo musical languages operated in five-note pentatonic registers, whereas
Welsh mission music assumed an eight-note, or diatonic, scale.31
In many ways, then, Christianity arrived packaged as a bafflingly foreign
sonic cacophony. Missionaries record that it was only when they started
promoting Jesus less as a redemptive saviour from sin and more as an ally (Isua
Krista, the “vanquisher” of the huai) that Mizos suddenly started listening.32
This Isua Krista claimed power to intervene in the ancient aural regime of the
ever-listening huai. The very radicalness of the Mission Veng church’s aural
practices — jarringly foreign scales, tempos, bells and monologues — would
thus have been wholly consistent with the arrival of the missionary’s sonic
revolutionary, Isua Krista.
Tasting in the biak in

Here, our central photograph demands some imagination, for it does not
depict anything particularly taste-worthy. Following on from our discussion
of hearing, one way towards taste is to imagine inhabiting the photograph,
with its congregation in song. Song in the Lushai Hills had always been tied
to drink, and the ear to the taste bud. An oft-quoted missionary report records
that early Christian hymns were frequently met with confused questions
29 John Meirion Lloyd, On Every High Hill (Liverpool: Foreign Mission Office, 1952), p. 30.
30 Dorothy Glover, Set on a Hill: The Record of Fifty Years in the Lushai County (London: Carey
Press, 1944), p. 12.
31 Joanna Heath, “Lengkhawm Zai”: A Singing Tradition of Mizo Christianity in Northeast India
(Master’s dissertation, Durham University, 2013), p. 59; interview, Joanna Heath, Aijal,
Mizoram, 25 May 2014; Lorrain, Dictionary of the Lushai Language, p. 302 (“plaintive”).
32 J. H. Lorrain, “After Ten Years: Report for 1912 of the B.M.S. Mission in the South Lushai
Hills, Assam”, reprinted in Reports by Missionaries, p. 88.
of, “Where is the zu?”.33 Communal singing demanded rice beer. Indeed,
this link was so strong that missionaries soon felt compelled to institute
a twelve-month probationary period on all candidates for baptism: new
Christians had to keep the Sabbath Day for a year, abstaining from both zu
and sacrificing animals for health.34 Missionary translations tiptoed around
inconsistencies in their message. In a purposeful lexical distancing, the wine
of the Last Supper and Communion was translated into Mizo from English
partly phonetically, as uain tui (wine liquid), while sweetened water was used
in the ritual itself.35 Taste was policed with a watchful eye and a discerning
tongue, with alcohol banned from communion cups and missionary print
media alike.
Such missionary authority over taste could become even further entwined
in everyday life, as when missionaries were granted the government monopoly
over the local distribution of salt. Then as now a favourite condiment of
the Mizo diet, salt sustains both health and life, particularly in such a hot
climate.36 Colonial records from the 1880s and 1890s reveal a sellers’ market:
brokers were making 100% profit, trading salt from the plains for rubber
from the Mizo hills; marching British Raj soldiers were being stopped by
Mizo villagers hoping to trade foodstuffs not for money, but for salt; and
in Mission Veng, too, missionaries paid for construction labour with the
popular condiment.37 Mizos craved salt for medicines to treat goitres and to
soothe burns, and, of course, for food, particularly bai — bean or pumpkin
leaves boiled with vegetables and fermented pig fat (sa um).38 The first
33 Glover, Set on a Hill, p. 12 (“Where is the beer-pot?”).

34 Peter Fraser, Slavery on British Territory: Assam and Burma (Carnarvon: Evans, 1913), p. 33;
Lady Beatrix Scott, “Indian Panorama”, CSAS, Lady B. Scott Papers, Box 1, p. 165.
35 C. L. Hminga, Christianity and the Lushai People: An Investigation of the Problem of
Representing Basic Concepts of Christianity in the Language of the Lushai People (Master’s
dissertation, University of Manchester, 1963), p. 136 (“uain tui”); and J. H. Lorrain,
Logbook, 25 January 1904, Baptist Church of Mizoram Centennial Archive, Lunglei,
Mizoram, India (hereafter BCMCA), p. 92.
36 J. S. Weiner, and R. E. van Heyningen, “Salt Losses of Men Working in Hot Environments”,
British Journal of Industrial Medicine, 9 (1952), 56-64.
37 G. A. Way, Supplementary Report on the North-East Frontier of India (Simla: Government
Central Branch Press, 1885), p. 29; R. G. Woodthorpe, “The Lushai Country”, 1889,
The Royal Geographical Society Manuscript Archive, London, mgX.291.1, p. 24; and
David Kyles, Lorrain of the Lushais: Romance and Realism on the North-East Frontier of
India (London: Stirling Tract Enterprise, 1944), p. 13. See also the Endangered Archives
Programme (hereafter EAP) website and in particular EAP454/6/5 (http://eap.bl.uk/
database/overview_item.a4d?catId=183501;r=12382).
38 H. Buanga, “Old Lushai Remedies”, 13 June 1940, India Office Records (hereafter IOR),
British Library, London, Mss Eur E361/24, pp. 1 and 3.
letter written by a Mizo — in 1897, from the village headman Khamliana to

Kumpinu (Company Mother) Queen Victoria herself — explained, “we have
become your subjects now and in this distant land live by your rice and salt”.39
Thinking of our central photograph and attuned to our sense of taste,
we suddenly see the pulpit at the front of the church as occupied not only
by foreign pastors, but also by salt barons, whose open- or close-fistedness
meant everything to anyone with burns or goitres, or indeed anyone with
food they wished to cook. Imported salt in the Lushai Hills would also become
an “unmistakably modern” good, first in terms of its gradual devolution
(imported salt — as opposed to the salt-spring varieties of “Lushai salt”,
available in small quantities —was the first luxury foodstuff to become
prevalent amongst the general populace), and second in terms of its trade
(salt was also the first luxury foodstuff “to become considered essential by the
people who had not produced it”).40 Modernity had its own attendant tastes.
Sometimes the sheer foreignness of the Welsh missionaries’ taste
preferences met with baffled amusement. For instance, one Mizo from
Aijal is recorded as deeming the missionaries’ toast altogether too “noisy”
for human consumption.41 However, certain equally foreign conventions of
missionary-normative taste and tasting could have a much deeper significance.
Viewed on its own, the missionary pattern of serving food on individual
plates or communion sweet-water in individual bamboo cups, promoted for
hygienic reasons to Mizo congregants, might seem inconsequential enough
at first blush.42 But these patterns were a part of a whole gamut of colonial
practices that worked to promote the individual. New names and individual
identities grew increasingly real as they were repeated in public and written
into “property deeds, tax returns, and school registration forms”,43 while
Christianisation began to imbue old names with new Christian undertones.
39 Khamliana to Kumpinu, 16 June 1897, EAP454/23/3; translation in P. Thirumal and C.

Lalrozami, “On the Discursive and Material Context of the First Handwritten Lushai
Newspaper ‘Mizo Chanchin Laishuih’, 1898”, Indian Economic & Social History Review,
47/3 (2010), 377-404 (p. 399), emphasis mine.
40 Sidney W. Mintz, “Time, Sugar, and Sweetness”, in Food and Culture: A Reader, ed. by
Carole Counihan and Penny Van Esterik (New York: Routledge, 2008), pp. 91-103 (p. 93,
“unmistakably modern”); Lorrain, A Grammar and Dictionary of the Lushai Language, pp.
75, 80 and 181 (“Lushai salt”); and Smith, Sensing the Past, p. 84 (“to become”).
41 Kitty Lewis to Mother and Father, 27 April 1923, Letters of Kitty Lewis to her Family,
1922-1923, J. M. Lloyd Archive, Aijal Theological College, Durtlang, Mizoram (hereafter
JMLA), p. 2.
42 Lorrain, Logbook, 25 January 1904, BCMCA, p. 92.
43 Adam M. McKeown, Melancholy Order: Asian Migration and the Globalization of Borders
(New York: Columbia University Press, 2008), p. 289.
By the time our central photograph was taken, the Mizo names of Lalrinawma
and Lalliani would have denoted “the Lord is trustworthy” and “the Lord
is great” respectively, whereas only decades earlier they had referred not to
Lal Isua (Lord Jesus), but to a historical lal, or village headman.
As a digitisation team from the British Library’s Endangered Archives
Programme (EAP),44 we travelled around Mizoram in 2011, following thick
webs of kinship connections and uncovering in Mizo homes an array of
individual forms and certificates that were issued by colonial institutions
long before the rise of any predominantly literate public sphere.45 These
historical collections were maintained as often by professional and amateur
Mizo historians as by the rural and urban descendants of historical village
headmen or by those early educated Mizos who had lived in the mission
centres and beyond. Everywhere, the act of colonial documentation had
generated new identities that apparently needed to be preserved.46 Many
such colonial files are still used in legal battles over land entitlement today.47
The broader encounter with the colonial state worked to pull individuals
out of communitarian social networks. In a world where people were normally
defined within networks of indebtedness (of marriages, friendships, oaths
or a variety of possible fealties to a village headman, any of these potentially
spanning generations), colonial bureaucratic practices did not document
existing individual identities so much as create them.48 Networks, village
identities and multi-generational debts were irrelevant to the matrices
of standardised, individualised files on which colonial bureaucracy and
surveillance in Aijal depended.
As Adam McKeown has shown in the case of China, the act of bureaucratic
documentation can be a powerful force towards individualisation.49 In the
Lushai Hills, the two mission stations demanded individual hospital in-patient
names, dispatched myriad certificates for Sunday School, recorded the
44 See EAP454: Locating and surveying early religious and related records in Mizoram,
India, http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP454. The digitised
documents are avilable at http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP454
45 According to historian J. V. Hluna, literacy rates in the Lushai Hills during the period
under discussion were 0.93% in 1901, 3.98% in 1911, 6.28% in 1921, and 10.70% in 1931. J.
V. Hluna, Education and Missionaries in Mizoram (Guwahati: Spectrum, 1992), p. 225.
46 McKeown, Melancholy Order, p. 353
47 For instance, our digitised collection “EAP454/2: Pi Lalengliani collection of Chaltlang
chief R. D. Leta’s materials [1906-1929]”could not preserve certain historical material
deemed legally sensitive by the custodian to an ongoing land-ownership case.
48 Chatterjee, Forgotten Friends; and McKeown, Melancholy Order, pp. 10, 12, 269.
49 McKeown, Melancholy Order.
names of individual congregants in vast registers and offered salvation on

a person-by-person basis, devoid of any ancestral or familial articulations.
Government authorities took individuals’ thumbprints; offered and monitored
individual loans during famines; licensed individuals to own shops and
guns, and individual chiefs to own property (via standardised ramri lekha
forms); restricted individual mobility; stationed writers in each village to
record individual births and deaths; granted individual savings books and
passbooks; and counted up all individuals in the district in 1901 and every
decade thereafter. In 1902, the Sub-Divisional Office in Lungleh was keeping
49 separate register books, including books for house tax, guns, periods of
leave, criminal cases, obituaries and lists of Mizo “coolies”.50
The Mizoram State Archives today are bursting with colonial papers
that assumed and mapped individual identities, and with emotive appeals
to such papers by village headmen who were quickly made to understand
the need to work within the matrices of these files, lest they forfeit rights to
the land, jungle and village headship. One’s qualifications were no longer
the sole purview of a flexible village memory, embedded within matrices
of family, bride price, oath, debt, personal and familial deeds, and local
history. Missionary tastes and standards of right eating and drinking must
be viewed as a part of a much larger colonial challenge to everyday ways
of living, knowing and being known. It was within a very specific and
atomising colonial context that Mizos learned to eat from individual plates,
to drink from individual cups, to abstain from communal pots of rice beer
and, indeed, to believe in only one soul inhabiting each human body. Mizos
before had always had two.
Smelling in the biak in

Following our noses into our central photograph, we learn that Christians in
the Mission Veng biak in were intended by missionaries to be differentiated by
smell. Specific rules were applied to the residences immediately surrounding
the church in order to ensure that this was so: stipulations included a separate
latrine for each home and separate buildings to house animals. In addition,
converts patronised the weekly day called Puan suk ni (washing-up day) — a
missionary translation into Mizo of the noun “Saturday”, implying ideas
50 “List showing the registers kept in the Sub-Divisional Office at Lungleh other than the
treasury account book”, Mizoram State Archives (hereafter MSA) CB-2, H-28, n/p.
of both hygiene (the godliness and healthiness of washing) and time (the
concept of a named day in a seven-day week).51
A common thread running through the missionary literature is disgust
with the smell of the unredeemed Mizo. Mizos lived in “squalid hovels”, their
“hair matted with clay”.52 In contrast, the mission station served as a “model
of order [and] cleanliness”, and missionaries who lived there filled their
accounts with praise for the exemplary Christian Mizos and, by association,
for the transformative power of their god: “our [Mizo student] children are
much cleaner than any other children”.53 The link between Christianity,
cleanliness and olfactory neutrality was portrayed and manufactured as
self-evident as much as it was insisted upon. When one Lushai woman
came to see Pu Buanga (J. H. Lorrain) and professed to be a Christian, the
missionary told the “abominably filthy” woman he would not believe it
“until she made herself cleaner”.54
The manufacture and continuous repetition of such a sensory stereotype
was an important part of the missionaries’ civilising mission and of the
construction of a Mizo “race”, seeking to protect the senses against affront
as defined by a missionary-normative nose. In an offhand comment in 1891,
a colonial superintendent pointed out that the Mizo ideas of “disagreeable
smells are not ours”; arriving three years later, missionaries worked at
bringing the Mizo sense of smell around, towards sensing in “right” ways.55
The olfactory was thus ideological. Missionaries had a self-imposed duty
as “more sensorily advanced westerners to put the senses right before
withdrawing the most obvious manifestations of their power”.56
Missionaries lived among and smelled the Mizos with whom they worked
on a daily basis — Mizos who in their eyes looked and smelled filthy and,
worse, did not know it. Early on, an exasperated Pu Buanga noted that
“to teach the inseparableness of Godliness and cleanliness… seems to be
51 Lloyd, On Every High Hill, p. 61.

52 Lorrain, Logbook, 20 June 1894, BCMCA, p. 35.
53 F. W. Savidge, “A Note from the Lushai Hills”, The Missionary Herald, 31 May 1910, p.
284 (“model of order”); E. Chapman, clipping entitled “Day by Day in Darzo”, n/d, ALA
IN/65, p. 140 (“our children”); Mendus, The Diary of a Jungle Missionary, p. 33.
54 Lorrain, Logbook, 23 April 1903, BCMCA, p. 82.
55 “Diary of Captain J. Shakespear for the year ending 17th October 1891”, IOR Photo Eur
89/1, p. 1. Brojo Nath Shaha also pointed to the cultural articulation of pleasant smells
when noting, “Lard is pleasant to the smell. (So it is to the Lushai)”, in his A Grammar of
the Lushai Language (Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Press, 1884), p. 26.
56 Rotter, “Empires of the Senses”, p. 5.
the hardest doctrine of any for them to understand or act upon”.57 Over a
decade later, the missionary was still frustrated that local Mizos remained
unconcerned with washing.58 The righting of this sensory wrong provided
significant justification not only for the white missionary “staying on”, but
also for the non-devolution of his authority. In terms of pure subjectivity,
the white missionary nose was the most powerful nose (indeed, which Mizo
was ever qualified to disagree?), powerful enough even to ignore its own
hypocrisy. In one instance, in early private letters home, two missionaries
told of not bathing for two weeks on account of a water scarcity, apparently
oblivious to the human effort required to transport water in the hills (by way
of bamboo tubes generally carried in baskets on Mizo women’s backs).59 While
foreign missionaries handed out cakes of soap as school prizes, Christmas
gifts and tokens of attendance, there could not have been enough soap to lift
contemporary Mizos up to olfactory equality.60 The extension of soap and
right-smelling were potent and highly visible symbols for the missionaries
of “improvement” and of civilisation, yet missionary racial and sensory
stereotypes simultaneously barred Mizos from full membership of this
civilisation, no matter how much the converts washed.61
The question of what made a smell “good” or “bad” was culturally
subjective in a radical sense. Using the visual orientation of our central
photograph as a perspectival thinking tool, we can in fact bend historians’ usual
assumptions about the missionaries’ civilising mission back on themselves.
As early as 1903, a new compound noun had crystallised in the Mizo lexicon:
“the foreigners’ smell”, used to refer to the missionaries’ use of soap.62 The
deprecating label had gained some traction in the Hills, and J. H. Lorrain
heard it across multiple villages. In one instance, he was baffled when the
Mizo owner of a house at which the missionary was staying “ran over to
the other side of the street muttering, ‘I can’t stand the smell any longer!’”.63
When asked by Pu Buanga what she meant, a passerby seemed surprised
57 Lorrain, “Miscellaneous Notes”, Logbook, c. 1903, BCMCA, p. 82.

58 Lorrain to Lewin, 16 October 1915, University of London Archives and Manuscripts,
London (hereafter ULAM), MS 811/IV/63, p. 6.
59 Smith, How Race is Made, p. 67; and Lorrain, Logbook, 29 January 1894, BCMCA, p. 28.
60 Smith, Sensing the Past, p. 71.
61 On Indian converts’ integration (as subordinates) into a localised Christian mission’s
“public sphere”, see David Hardiman, Missionaries and their Medicine: A Christian
Modernity for Tribal India (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2008).
62 Lorrain, “Miscellaneous Notes”, Logbook, c. 1903, BCMCA, p. 74.
63 Ibid.
at having to explain what appears to have been a smell as familiar as it was

unpopular: “Why! The foreigners’ smell — the smell of soap!”.64
Here, the repulsive personal habits of the missionaries made them disgusting
and unacceptable. Useful analyses of the “other” have appeared in recent
historiography where the “other” generally refers to “non-Europeans, as
seen through European eyes”.65 Seated in the Mizo congregant pews of our
central photograph, facing the missionary leaders rather than peering over
their shoulders, we perform an about-face: if indeed the Mizo themselves
ever thought in such generalising terms, the foul-smelling “other” could
equally be European. As anthropologist Constance Classen points out, the
dominant classes in a society often define themselves in positive olfactory
terms against their perceived subordinates.66 In 1903 Lushai Hills, who was
subordinate seems to have depended upon who was doing the smelling.
Touching in the biak in

A clear hierarchy of physical comfort is visible in our central photograph.
The chairs of the elders (upa) and pastors face the congregants. They use
at least twice the wood per seated person as the pews opposing them; the
leftmost chairs are designed with top- and lower-rails, as well as three vertical
spindles offering support in line with the upa’s spine. The mid-backs of general
congregants were supported crosswise, a single bar bisecting the spinal cord.
We see that the pastors, sitting in the finest seats of all behind the central
table, benefited from the ergonomic elasticity of pressed sheet cane backings
for their chairs, these sheets (almost certainly machine-woven by this time)
pressed and glued into grooves at the back of the chair’s frame. The glare on
the rightmost of these two chairs in the photograph reveals careful sanding
and softer edges. For their part, the edges on the congregants’ benches are
sharp and unfinished, devoid of even the curved visual ornamentation
that elaborates the arms of the upas’ chairs. This was a gendered hierarchy
of tactility, for only men (white men and those chosen Mizo trainees and
pastors closest to them) would have ever occupied the frontmost chairs, or
64 Ibid.
65 Luke Clossey, Salvation and Globalization in the Early Jesuit Missions (New York: Cambridge
66 Classen, Worlds of Sense, p. 81.
enjoyed their comparative comfort during church services that lasted for
“hours on end”.67
Colonial stereotypes about the Mizo often had the haptic at heart, and
acted as catalysts for a broader human exhaustion in early-twentieth-century
Lushai Hills that did not exclude lay members of the Mission Veng biak
in. In the colonial archive, Mizos are above all characterised as lazy (“the
Lushai will always scheme out of his work if he can”) and incapable of hard
work (their “laziness can only be got over by good supervision”).68 Though
comparatively light on the ground in terms of actual manpower, colonial
officials were uncompromising in their demands, overseeing what historian
Indrani Chatterjee has called “government by terror”.69 Mizo households
groaned under the imposition of heavy taxes (chhiah) payable in cash or rice,
even in times of famine, and the ten days’ forced “coolie” (kuli) hard labour
that required men to travel and work anywhere in the Lushai Hills District
with meagre or no pay.
The district was explicitly intended to be governed with more flexibility
and less accountability, and colonial impositions were only more resented as
they were further abused.70 Assistant political officer C. S. Murray demanded
sexual corvée from Mizo village women until his removal following a village
riot in protest; the records of Superintendent John Shakespear’s assistant
nonchalantly report the burning of tens of Mizo villages (“We burnt the
village and returned to Serchhip”); village headmen begged for relief from
the crippling debt of loans extended by the government in times of scarcity.71
In a private letter dating from 1938, retired officer Shakespear boasts to the
contemporary incumbent about the corruption, profiteering and misuse of
human labour under his superintendentship decades earlier:
I gather that matters are not as casual now as they were in my day. We had
lots of ways of wangling a few rupees when we needed them. That very fine
67 Vanlalchhuanawma, Christianity and Subaltern Culture: Revival Movement as a Cultural

Response to Westernisation in Mizoram (Delhi: Indian Society for Promoting Christian
Knowledge, 2006), p. 213.
68 John Shakespear to the Commissioner of the Chittagong Division, 14 August 1895, MSA
CB-4, G-47, p. 3.
69 Chatterjee, Forgotten Friends, p. 308.
70 Ibid., p. 271.
71 On C. S. Murray, see Chatterjee, Forgotten Friends, pp. 294-96, 299 and 301; on burning
villages see, for example, “The Story of Dara, Chief of Pukpui”, IOR MSS Eur E361/4, p.
5, and J. Shakespear, “Landmarks of history”, IOR MSS E361/6; on loans, see “Annual
Report on the Administration of the Lushai Hills, 1916-17”, MSA CB-18, G-219, n/p
(“anything they earn or make... is required to pay off the Government loans”).
retaining wall and the parapet along the terrace in front of your house represents
the result of a raid by Cole, who was acting for me, on the Aijal-Champhai
road estimate. The plough cultivation in Champhai, was started by Loch &
myself misusing government bullocks and coolies supplied for transport
purposes. Then there was the Political Fund, at my uncontrolled disposal. I
also instituted a “Political Bag”, into which fines for political offences were
put to be used for just things as your rugs. Alas I fear that I should find the
Superintendents [sic] job far harder than it was in my day.72
Within such a context of state violence and the rhetorical stereotypes of

lazy, savage Mizo “tribesmen” necessary to underwrite it intellectually,
kuli-impressed labour was presented as good for the Mizo male. The Mizo
skin was to be thickened and the Mizo condition improved through the
imposition of a new work ethic — work towards civilisation that, as Shakespear
once told a group of gathered males, “you are too lazy to do except under
compulsion”.73 In forced labour and in punishment, Mizo bodies thus bore
the physical brunt of a colonial stereotype that saw them as too soft. In 1897,
a letter from E. A. Gait, Secretary to the Chief Commissioner of Assam,
specifically aimed for the extension of the Whipping Act, VI of 1865 into the
Lushai Hills District under the Scheduled Districts Act, XIV of 1874. The act
granted the superintendent power to sentence Mizos, including juveniles
and female tea-plantation workers, to punishments of whipping.74 In 1909,
Superintendent H. W. G. Cole had to intervene in what seems to have become
a culture of violence in local government itself, issuing a standing order to
stop government workers from assaulting Mizos with “light canes etc”.75
To consider the tactile dimensions of our central photograph in the Mission
Veng church we must first situate the benches in their haptic context, as filled
with exhausted human bodies.
The “improvement” of Mizo tactility extended to the handshake. Earlier
this year in Mission Vengthlang, I was taken on a short walk down the hill
from the religious tel atop which sits the latest incarnation of the Mission
Veng church, to visit Pu Thangliana, the great-grandson of the famous Mizo
Christian named Challiana. The family’s history is full of human hurt. The
colonial archives tell us clearly that Challiana was born in the 1890s out
of travelling political officer C. S. Murray’s demands for sexual corvée.
72 Shakespear to McCall, 28 August 1938, IOR Mss Eur 361/5, p. 4.

73 Shakespear quoted in Chatterjee, Forgotten Friends, p. 308.
74 E. A. Gait to the Secretary to the Government of India, “Proposals for the Administration
of the Lushai Hills”, 17 July 1897, MSA CB-5, G-57, p. 3.
75 H. W. G. Cole, “Standing Order No. 10 of 1909-10”, 19 July 1909, MSA CB-14, G-169, p. 1.
The child was raised by his mother, unbeknownst to Murray, until village
rumour of a boy sap reached missionaries J. H. Lorrain and F. W. Savidge in
Serkawn. The mother was made to bring the child, and Challiana was taken
away from her in the missionaries’ firm conviction that no Mizo could raise
a (half) white boy. Under Savidge’s bungalow roof and tutelage, and with
Murray’s discreet financial support from abroad, the boy was groomed
as a translator, church pastor and medical assistant. He smoothed out the
Mizo language translations of his new, missionary fathers and even visited
England with Savidge (Fig. 14.2).
Fig. 14.2 Challiana, seated second from right, with F. W. Savidge, seated second
from left, and others, n.d., British Library (EAP454/16/1), CC BY.
The archives’ version of things is not discussed publicly in Serkawn or Mission

Vengthlang today. The family’s genealogy stops at Challiana, for atrocity
is sometimes easier to forget than to articulate. But Pu Thangliana’s family
photographs and carefully circumscribed memories of his grandfather depict
a staunchly Europeanised man.76 Challiana would insist on eating with a

fork and knife as well as on handshakes — indeed on careful tactility. At
the time, these habits were all strange to his grandson.77 Family photographs
digitised under the EAP depict a man dressed impeccably in western clothes
— a trope common throughout mission photography of students and chiefs
under mission tutelage. As in the cases of cutlery or handshaking, we might
be tempted to see a primarily visual marker of difference in such mission
photographs (see Figs. 14.3 and 14.4).
But clothes have a crucial haptic dimension, too. Smith reminds us that
“the quality and feel of the clothing on the inside, how it was understood to
either caress or rub the skin of the wearer” can also suggest something “about
the wearer’s skin and [thus] about his or her worth and social standing”.78
Christian leaders like Challiana first had to be deemed, and then had to see
themselves as, meritorious of wearing softer, imported, luxury dress — clothing
that would have caressed Mizo skin, the human body’s largest sense organ,
with a thread count higher and a weave tighter than any puan produced by
the Mizo handloom.79 Westernised Christian male leaders wearing softer
clothes (Sunday School teachers, medical men and evangelists) were those
uplifted individuals on whose behalf missionaries applied for the treasured
kuli awl — exemption from the colonial regime’s hated demands for male
Mizo labour.80 Changes in Mizo uses and perceptions of tactility, whether via
a softer collared shirt or a civilised handshake, said much about politeness,
hmasawnna (“cultural progress”) and one’s broader place in society, even
as polite conversation today about the same must stop short — must have
tact — in discussions about some of these pasts.81
76 Interview, Thangliana, Mission Vengthlang, Mizoram, 16 May 2014.

77 For a Europe-focussed history of table manners and etiquette, see Norbert Elias, The
History of Manners, Volume 1: The Civilizing Process, trans. Edmund Jephcott (New York:
Pantheon, 1982).
78 Smith, Sensing the Past, p. 107 (“the quality and feel”) and p. 106 (“about the wearer’s
skin”).
79 Smith, Sensing the Past, p. 106; on clothing and hapticity, see also Michael Zakim, Ready-
Made Democracy: A History of Men’s Dress in the American Republic, 1760-1860 (Chicago, IL:
University of Chicago Press, 2003).
80 J. H. Lorrain to J. Hezlett, 13 September 1913, pp. 2-3, and J. H. Lorrain to J. Hezlett, 19
November 1913, pp. 1-5, MSA CB-16, G-204.
81 On hmasawnna, see Joy L. K. Pachuau, “Sainghinga and His Times: Codifying Mizo
Attire”, paper presented at the workshop History Through Photographs: Exploring the
Visual Landscape of Northeast India, Delhi, 1 November 2013.
Fig. 14.3 Wedding at Mission Veng Church, n.d., British Library (EAP454/12/1 Pt 2), CC BY.
Fig. 14.4 Church leaders at Mission Veng Church, 1919, British Library
(EAP454/13/22), CC BY.
Seeing in the biak in

Early textual records from the Lushai Hills explain how the typical Mizo house
was windowless — a widespread security precaution that prevented the huai,
or the malevolent phantasms of the forest that caused human sickness, from
entering the dwelling.82 Beliefs about health thus dictated architectural design,
since windows were portals to suffering. When missionaries made windows
mandatory in multiple Christian model villages, not all Mizo Christians were
ready to accept such rules.83 Some were convinced that “great misfortune” would
befall the village that allowed Christians to so recklessly entice the huai.84 Folk
tales were the security cameras of the Lushai Hills, and they recorded huai
entering homes through holes in the wall — huai real and physical enough to
pull occupants out and slam their heads through the soil.85
Our central photograph, then, allows us to glimpse just how far early
missionary architecture transgressed Mizo norms. By switching our perspective
from the missionaries to the Mizo, we can here begin to see the extraordinary
in what would otherwise just be a source of light or a hole in a wall:
windows were dangerous designs from abroad that were ill-suited to the
Hills. Photographs show that the Mission Veng biak in was no less than a
seventeen-window-sash offender (see Figs. 14.1 and 14.5).86
Bamboo chapels, mission school buildings, the central mission bungalow
and the mission dispensary at Aijal all featured windows extraordinary to
Lushai belief and building custom.87
82 Entitlement to a window only came with fantastic social and spiritual status. Indeed,
only those who had performed the elaborate and expensive khuangchawi ceremony at
communal feasts were permitted a window, presumably because through the ceremony
they attained their own security. See Grace R. Lewis, The Lushai Hills: The Story of the
Lushai Pioneer Mission (London: Baptist Missionary Society, 1907), p. 25; Lloyd, On Every
High Hill, p. 60; McCall, Lushai Chrysalis, pp. 118 and 167; and John Hughes Morris,
The History of the Welsh Calvinistic Methodists’ Foreign Mission, to the End of the Year 1904
(Carnarvon: C. M. Book Room, 1910), p. 230.
83 Interview, B. Lalthangliana, Aijal, trans. by Vanlalchhawna, 25 April 2006. See also J. H.
Lorrain, “South Lushai”, Annual Reports of the BMS, 118th Annual Report, 1910, ALA, p.
62.
85 McCall, Lushai Chrysalis, p. 92.
86 Baptist Missionary Society: London Baptist Mission, South Lushai Hills, handwritten annual
statistics book, “Plan of Mission Bungalow, 1903”, ALA BMS Acc 250, Lushai Group
IN/111, p. 10.
87 Kitty Lewis to Parents, 22 November 1922, JMLA, p. 4; John Meirion Lloyd, History of
the Church in Mizoram: Harvest in the Hills (Aijal: Synod Publication Board, 1991), p. 111;
“Mission Cottage at Aijal, blueprints by District Engineer, Lushai Hills”, 29 September
1905, Llyfrgell Genedlaethol Cymru/National Library of Wales, Aberystwyth (hereafter
LLGC/NLW), CMA 27 300.
Fig. 14.5 Liangkhaia at Mission Veng Church, 1919,

British Library (EAP454/13/22), CC BY.
The Mizo in-patient at a mission dispensary thus had in a real sense to ignore
or endure the health risk inherent in the very structure itself. So when a
missionary made the offhand jest that, between Christ and windows, “more
than one kind of light has come … into Lushai”,88 he was actually touching
upon a massive chasm between missionary and Mizo ideas of both health and
architecture. For the missionary, an open window letting in air and sunlight
was healthy. For the Mizo, it endangered the pursuit of health.
Turning in our central photograph from the windows to the tables, we
can make out seven books —three thin (perhaps the New Testaments first
printed in 1916, since the complete Bible in Mizo did not appear until the
1950s) and four thick (likely the Kristian Hla Bu, or “Christian Hymn Book ”).89
Like the church windows, the church’s New Testaments were not immune
to the infiltration of the huai. In the Mizo-language Gospel of John, one of
the first books of the Bible to be translated, Jesus’s response to a crowd’s
accusation is “Ramhuai zawl ka ni lo ve [I am not possessed by a ramhuai]”.90

89 The broader history of print media in the region is to be taken up in David Vumlallian
Zou’s monograph Bible Belt in Babel: Print, Identity and Gender in Colonial Mizoram (New
Delhi: Sage, forthcoming in 2015).
90 J. H. Lorrain, Chan-chin tha Johana Ziak (London: British and Foreign Bible Society, 1898),
p. 40; John 8:49.
While other words without Mizo equivalents (like “crown”) were simply
kept in their English form, the demons of Galilee literally became the huai
of Northeast India in this text.91
Meanwhile, the song books pictured would have been hot off the press,
for updated volumes of the Hla Bu were released in 1913, 1915 and 1919.
The Hla Bu was a living text, with ten versions appearing between 1899
and 1922. The 1919 version was the heftiest and most indigenised at that
time, featuring some 558 songs, many by Mizo Christian composers and
some, written after the mautam famine of 1911-1912, characterising the
world as a place of suffering.92 The Kristian Hla Bu was in fact crystallising
around the historical moment these texts were photographed here: no
edits followed for twenty years after the 1922 version. By 1919, young
Mizo composers like Kamlala (1902-1965) and Huala (1902-1995) started
penning lyrics that included elements of the traditional, poetic register of
the Mizo language — a lexicon that until then had been largely banned in
the church along with traditional drumming, dance and drink.93 That the
Hla Bu stabilised at the same time as traditional Mizo drumming and poetic
vocabulary made their debuts within Mizo Christianity is no coincidence.
Christianity in the Lushai Hills was becoming a vernacularised Lushai Hills
Christianity. The Mission Veng biak in, the historical headquarters for the
Welsh Calvinistic missionaries, was henceforth one of only two churches
in the district where congregants were barred from hearing the traditional
drum (khuang) in worship.
As knowledge about literacy, and then literacy itself, spread throughout
the early 1910s, Mizo interpretations of the power of the written word
abounded. Some realised its potential to transform ephemeral oral and
aural declarations into edicts of greater permanency: one lal, or village
headman, demanded that the missionary Daktawr Sap (Dr. Peter Fraser)
confirm the lal’s declaration so “that it may not be destroyed for ever. I
want you very much also to kindly write it in a book”.94 Others decoupled
missionary claims about the inherent truth of God’s word while assisting
91 Birgit Meyer, Translating the Devil: Religion and Modernity Among the Ewe in Ghana
(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999), pp. xvii and 109-10.
92 Tlanghmingthanga, An Appraisal of the Eschatological Contents of Selected Mizo-Christian
Songs with Special Reference to Their Significance for the Church in Mizoram (Master’s
dissertation, Serampore College, 1995), pp. 86 and 94.
93 Ibid., p. 88; and Heath, “Lengkhawm Zai”, p. 34.
94 Fraser, Slavery, p. 59.
with the translation of it: one Mizo co-translator of the Gospels — not
self-identifying as a Christian himself at the time — was known to argue
with Mizo converts, claiming that he knew “more about the Gospel than
[the converts]” for he had “helped to make it up!”.95 Others saw books as
talismans for missionary soothsayers, in the register of traditional Mizo
puithiam healers: one Mizo father whose daughter had run away demanded
the missionaries “consult their books” to tell him whether she would return
to Aijal or run to Silchar.96
Whatever the interpretations, by the time our central photograph was
taken, the New Testament had become a mandatory photographic prop in
all Mizo Christian circles (see Figs. 14.4, 14.6 and 14.7). Captions on such
photographs regularly single out individuals such as the one “sitting in the
middle holding books”97 or the one “on the right holding books”.98 Those with
books sometimes placed themselves (or were placed) in conspicuous positions
of prominence, their tomes emphasised and open, or displayed prominently
against their bodies. Mizo Christians, known in the hills as “Obeyers of God”
(Pathian thuawi), were under strict injunction to transgress traditional Mizo
norms. These could be as emotive as where to bury dead family members,
as fundamental as which actions were socially acceptable or as conceptually
diverse as ideas about marriage, gender or entry to the afterlife. In doing so,
Obeyers of God met with much opposition at this time.
Most likely, Christians held the New Testament especially close in
photographs as a visible marker both of difference and of real and genuine
personal conviction. Perhaps, too, the burgeoning Mizo literacy was seen as
the key conduit to greater Mizo roles in the expanding church and colonial
government, for the 1910s witnessed the ordination of the first trained Mizo
pastors, the commissioning of the first Mizo Bible Women and the paid
employment of the first Mizo evangelists, all while groups of Mizo graduates
began to assist the colonial bureaucracy in Aijal. Reading could and did provide
Christians with a route around social persecution via colonial brokership.

96 Lorrain, Logbook, September 1894, BCMCA, p. 39.
97 “Wives of the Soldiers in Lungleh”, loose photograph in J. H. Lorrain’s file, c. 1938, ALA
BMS Acc. 250.
98 “Some of the mothers who live in Lungleh”, loose photograph in J. H. Lorrain’s file, c.
1938, ALA BMS Acc. 250.
Fig. 14.6 Suaka Lal, Veli and Chhingtei at Durtlang, 1938,

British Library (EAP454/3/3 Pt 2), CC BY.
Fig. 14.7 “Wives of the Soldiers in Lungleh”, c. 1938, loose photo in J. H. Lorrain’s
file, BMS Acc. 250, Angus Library and Archive, Regent’s Park College, Oxford.
Before noticing the books in our central photograph, the congregant’s eye
would have been drawn to the pulpit and, above it, to the visual centrepiece
of the church interior: the signboard proclaiming chibai (greetings). The
prominence of this Mizo word is significant, for it seems to have undergone
a revolution in both meaning and usage in the early colonial Lushai Hills.
In the late nineteenth century, chibai was in fact part of the vocabulary of
human health, employed by a highly specialised Mizo practitioner (puithiam)
when he approached forest spirits (ramhuai) with offerings on behalf of
the sick.99 Chibai thus functioned as a sort of inter-species pidgin, a human
attempt at communication with powerful non-human beings. The word had
seemingly little or no public life of its own; the earliest English dictionaries
and grammars of the Mizo language ignore it entirely, despite their impressive
breadth (Brojo Nath Shaha’s 1884 work spans 93 pages; T. H. Lewin’s 1874
work teaches 1609 phrases) and their emphasis on the basic vocabulary
typical of a phrasebook.100 Lewin and Shaha equip readers to ask “What is
your name?” but offer no words of greeting.
To contemporary officials (and to our modern ears), the question “What
is your name?” may have sounded innocuous enough. But attempting to
listen to the question with historical Mizo ears, we can begin to hear the
discordant echoes of conceptual chasms that existed between Mizo and
colonial, western modes of interpersonal communication. These differences
are key to the history of chibai —the word which would come to be elevated
to the quintessential personal greeting in colonial Lushai Hills and in today’s
Mizoram, catapulted into public use and onto 1930s church platforms. For
an historical Mizo, the seemingly mundane question “What is your name?”
was actually rather grave, for it would have involved an acute assessment of
risk. Personal names were directly related to personal health. Intentionally
unattractive names were sometimes given to Mizo children as a precautionary
measure against their being stolen by the ramhuai.101 Names were thus an
asset that cost nothing and yet could pay back in spades: a properly given
name could be an important prophylactic against ill health.
Since names had transcendental value, they could prove a battlefield
between the physical world of the Mizo and the spirit world of the ramhuai.
Thla ko was the verb for calling back a Lushai soul (thlarau) that had escaped
99 McCall, Lushai Chrysalis, p. 74.

100 Brojo Nath Shaha, A Grammar of the Lushai Language (Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Press,
1884); and T. H. Lewin, Progressive Colloquial Exercises in the Lushai Dialect of the ‘Dzo’ or
Kuki Language (Calcutta: Calcutta Central Press Company, 1874).
its two-souled human body only to be seized by the ramhuai.102 Losing one’s
thlarau meant sickness. The responsibility then fell to the grandfather (pu) of
the sick person to call aloud the name of his grandchild at the abode of the
huai — an experience harrowing in itself. The lost soul could then be escorted
home safely to its body, whereupon the afflicted person could recover.103
Names were thus to be jealously guarded, “since the name of a being also
encapsulated the [thlarau] of the being”.104 Historian Indrani Chatterjee notes
that for a Mizo to be addressed by her childhood nickname “constituted a
public invitation to seizure” by the ramhuai who continually eavesdropped
on human conversation.105 In 1912, Superintendent Shakespear noted that
there was “a strong and general dislike among all Lushais to saying their
own names”,106 this perhaps not least because anti-huai names could be
embarrassingly unattractive. Mizos in the early twentieth century would
instead introduce themselves via a cautious triangulation of nouns, as the
son of a father, or as the friend of a friend.107
Taken together, a keynote feature of Mizo interpersonal communication in
the Lushai Hills was that personal names were seen less as simple, semiotic
referents and more as actual verbal embodiments of the person — the signifier
was the signified.108 This connection seems to have been taken literally: in
one case, a Mizo man remembered first identifying as a Christian when “as
a boy his Day School Teacher wrote his name down as a Christian.”109 If
we attempt to turn towards this Mizo perspective where names are deeply
significant, the missionaries’ requirement that the Mizo register their names
upon seeking conversion — or the government’s myriad bureaucratic registers,
or the grammars informing arriving officials and missionaries of phrases like
“What is your name?” —becomes deeply imbued with meaning. It is highly
likely that the missionaries employed Mizo terminology in their frequent
references to the approaches of new potential converts who, in all the reports,
“give their names”, “gave their names” or “have given their names” (all
102 Lorrain, Dictionary of the Lushai Language, p. 476.

103 Ibid.
104 Indrani Chatterjee, “Slaves, Souls, and Subjects in a South Asian Borderland”, paper
presented at the Agrarian Studies Colloquium, Yale University, 14 September 2007, p. 14.
105 Ibid.
106 John Shakespear, The Lushei-Kuki Clans (London: Macmillan, 1912), p. 19.
107 Interview, H. Vanlalhruaia, Champhai, Mizoram, 22 June 2014.
108 Chatterjee, Forgotten Friends, p. 14.
109 E. L. Mendus, “A Jungle Diary” draft, n/d, LLGC/NLW HZ1/3/46, p. 4.
variants of the Mizo hming an pe) to become Christians.110 To “give” one’s

name — indeed, one’s self — was likely for the Mizo an act of faith much
more meaningful than even the missionaries ever realised.
The history of chibai played out against this backdrop of radically different
interpersonal modes of communication. Upon the arrival of missionaries in
the late nineteenth century, the word chibai featured in the chants and forest
negotiations of the village puithiam, the complexities and nuances of which
were disparaged by missionaries as mere “demon worship”. Once only an
oral and aural word, chibai came to be written down in missionary writings
with connotations of the English word “worship”. In the Gospel of John, the
Christian worshippers (in spirit and in truth) are translated as chibai an buk
(givers of chibai, or worship).111 With the reach of schools gradually expanding
under missionary leadership, and with a tertiary economy opening to young
Mizo graduates in the colonial bureaucracy, chibai accrued new meaning
over the ensuing decade.
By 1914, the Mizo leh Vai Chan Chin Bu [Mizo and (Indic) Indian News] — a
monthly government newspaper launched in 1903 to disseminate government
rulings, district news and western knowledge in vernacular Mizo to an
increasingly literate public — gave explicit guidance on new protocols of respect
expected in interpersonal communication, particularly with regard to colonial
government servants. A September 1914 article entitled “The New, Admirable
Rules” pointed out that government employees and first-generation students
in Aijal greeted one another, and asserted that this was an “admirable practice
among the foreigners (Sap [British] and Vai [Indic Indians])”.112 The article
informed villagers that the foreigners “appreciate it when we greet them”,
and taught the new pleasantries such as khawngaih takin (if you please), ka
lawm e (I thank you) and chibai (greetings) preferred by government officials
and students, or the moderns of contemporary society.113
110 Fraser to Williams, 11 July 1910, LLGC/NLW CMA 27 314, p. 9 (“give”); Fraser to
Williams, 28 March 1912, LLGC/NLW CMA 27 318, p. 6 (“gave”); Fraser to Williams, 10
March 1909, LLGC/NLW CMA 27 315, p. 4. See also Fraser to Williams, 25 September
1909, LLGC/NLW CMA 27 315, pp. 3 and 4 (“have given”).
111 John 4:24; Lorrain, Chan-chin tha, n/p (“‘Jihova Thlarao ani e, a chibai bûk-tute’n thlarao leh
ti tak zet-in chibai an bûk tûr ani,’ a ti a”). See also E. Rowlands, English First Reader: Lushai
Translation (Madras: SPCK Press, 1907), p. 7.
112 “Dan Thar Mawite [The New, Admirable Rules]”, Mizo leh Vai Chan Chin Bu, September
1914, p. 148.
113 Ibid.
In another article, one Thangluaia (who was employed by the colonial

government) urged villagers to show respect to government employees and
to the Aijal students, for those in power would in turn help the villagers and
not treat them badly.114 Mizo historian Lalpekhlua notes that, at this time,
Mizo men who had once had long hair cut it, “put on long pants, and began
to say, ‘Ka pu, chibai’ [Good Morning, Sir]”.115 In the context of a burgeoning
vernacular print culture, and of the expectations of verbalised respect for
colonial officials and a missionary-educated Mizo nouveau elite, the word chibai
became publicly heard, its meaning fettered and exported through print, as
the new and enduring personal greeting of the most modern people in the
district, and of those villagers who wished to greet such people in hopes of
being treated well by them.
Like an epoxy, through the twin injection of a missionary-controlled
education system and a booming vernacular print culture, chibai seems to
have spread, stabilised and crystallised. By 1922, missionary Kitty Lewis
could write home that “everybody shakes hands in this country — people
you meet casually on the road, and everybody else. They say ‘chibai’ …”.116
By the late 1930s, chibais were used in letters both as goodbyes and as
fond hellos, in missives from Mizos in Serkawn to retired missionaries in
Britain.117 The authoritative 1940 dictionary published by the missionary J. H.
Lorrain included the stabilised chibai as a “salutation, greeting, or farewell,
equivalent to Good Morning, Good Afternoon, Good Evening”.118 In a final
coup evident only in visual sources, missionaries used “CHIBAI” signs to
welcome Christian congregants to “Harvest Thank Offerings”, and indeed
to the Mission Veng biak in itself — the very epicentre of church power in
the North Lushai Hills.119 Once merely the specialised pidgin of village
puithiams approaching forest spirits, a word unnoticed even by colonial
grammarians, chibai was over a half-century co-opted and elevated literally
to the front-piece of the missionaries’ flagship church, to the outset of all
polite and modern conversation.
114 February 1914, Mizo leh Vai Chan Chin Bu, p. 23. I am grateful to Rohmingmawii for
bringing to my attention the above two articles from Mizo leh Vai Chan Chin Bu.
115 L. H. Lalpekhlua, A Study of Christology from a Tribal Perspective (Ph.D. thesis, University
of Auckland, 2005), p. 116.
116 Kitty Lewis to Mother and Father, 20 November 1922, JMLA, p. 4.
117 Thu dik ziak ngama [One who dares to write the truth] to McCall, 26 December 1937, IOR
Mss Eur E361/20, p. 8; and Challiana to Wilson, 27 January 1938, ALA IN/56, p. 2.
118 Lorrain, Dictionary of the Lushai Language, p. 88.
119 Lloyd, On Every High Hill, p. 64 (“Harvest”).
In a sense, the history of chibai parallels the history of hello, for both
were elevated to their current prominence in part by technology — the
early-twentieth-century rise of Mizo vernacular print culture for chibai, the
late-nineteenth-century rise of the telephone for hello.120 But in the Lushai
Hills, chibai also provided a malleable tool for the colonial import of several
basic tenets of interpersonal communication: that one person greets another
person, that one person asks another’s name, and that these exchanged
names are inherently devoid of transcendental value. Only by approaching
this photograph in context — and by leaving aside our modern, western
assumptions about communication — can we see the extraordinary in what
would otherwise just be a church welcome sign.
Harhna in the biak in

We could say that harhna was, for historical Mizos, the physically felt and
enacted “sense” of being awakened spiritually — a process that manifested
itself amidst the whole gamut of physical senses. Here, we stretch the term
sense elastically, in an approach purposefully open-minded and sympathetic.
Taking the supramundane sensory worlds of our subjects seriously can
reward us with new insights into their subaltern pasts, even as it reminds
us that we operate today in a world radically removed. Harhna, like the
sense of hearing, was completely involuntary: just as Mizos had no earlids
to block out unwanted sound, those with this “sensory” ability were unable
to block out harhna. “To have the spirit” or “to receive the spirit” (thlarau
chan) was to have harhna; “to not have the spirit”, “to quench the spirit” or
to be “anti-spirit” was not to have it — the binary of this distinction closely
paralleled those of sensory ability and disability, sighted or blind, hearing or
deaf, tasting or ageusia.121 Harhna was often characterised as an involuntary
moving under and of God’s spirit — something like a proprioception
attuned to the supernatural. Translated, the term evokes “being awakened”,
“enthusiasm” or, out of historical context and rendered in terms familiar to
Mizo Christians today, “revival”.122

121 Lalrinawma, Impact of Revivals on Mizo Christianity, 1935-1980 (Master’s dissertation,
Serampore College, 1988), p. 29; Lalsawma, Revivals the Mizo Way (Mizoram: Lalsawma,
1994), p. 72.
122 Vanlalchhuanawma, Christianity, p. 1.
Around the time of this photograph, harhna was characterised by sensory

overload, both of the person with harhna doing the sensing and of those
around her or him. In contemporary missionary reports, those Mizos
“with the spirit” engaged in “singing, dancing, quaking, swooning” and
“trembling”; they “stiffened”, “stretched”, “shivered” and “fell”.123 In Welsh
missionary eyes, such Mizos were “quite out of control”, as they practiced
“singing, simultaneous prayer and dancing and jumping all the time”.124 As
with the human senses of overwhelming physiological pain (nociception)
or overwhelming heat (thermoception), harhna demanded an immediate
physical response: Mizo church historian Lalsawma relates how the “whole
body quaked and could be brought under control by no other means than
dancing. […] Refusal to dance might result in pains in the head, throat, or
stomach, or it might even turn to paralysis of the whole or parts of the body”.125
Contemporary observers highlight this compulsion as characteristic: “Those
who danced did not merely dance because of a sense of joy but because they
were shaking and could not but dance”.126
As with the other human senses, a distinct physical process appeared
to be at work. As an odour might spread through a room, or the front of a
cold wind blow across a city, so did it seem that the “quaking might pass
to the one in the back row, and to the middle row, and then the corner” in
contiguous fashion.127 For their part, Mizos seem to have valued those with
“awakening” as uniquely spiritual guides, their special sense offering an
uplink to another realm, not unlike the zawlnei — the women seers in their
past. Missionaries complained that congregants often valued the words and
revelations of those “that danced or jumped or fell in a swoon” (in other
words, those attuned to harhna) more than the “words of the Scriptures or
preacher or common sense”.128 Harhna was a credible sense to the Mizo, its
revelations as physically real as, and arguably of greater import than, those
of the biological senses.
123 D. E. Jones, “The Report of the North Lushai Hills, 1923-1924”, in Reports of the Foreign
Mission of the Presbyterian Church of Wales on Mizoram, 1894-1957, ed. by K. Thanzauva
(Aijal: The Synod Literature and Publication Boards, 1997), p. 67; Lalrinawma, “Impact
of Revivals”, p. 35 (“trembling”, “stiffened”, “stretched”, “shivered”).
124 D. E. Jones, “A note on ‘The Revival’”, 24 April 1913, LLGW/NLW CMA 27 318.
125 Lalsawma quoted in Vanlalchhuanawma, Christianity, p. 253.
126 Lloyd, History of the Church, p. 192.
127 Lalsawma quoted in Vanlalchhuanawma, Christianity, p. 253.
128 Jones to Williams, 22 May 1913, quoted in Vanlalchhuanawma, Christianity, p. 205.
The battle over harhna (over who sensed what from the spirit of God,
how and in what sensory ways these revelations should be manifested)
played out in the myriad texts of mission reports, in conflicts in meetings (as
when Savidge screamed, “Stop dancing!”, during a meeting in Muallianpui
village) and, turning to our photograph, apparently also in the layout of
the mission’s most important church.129 By the time this photograph was
taken, the lam tual was an important feature of most chapel architecture in
the Lushai Hills — a central area made between the pulpit and the pews for
a circle of processional dancing. However, the interior of the Mission Veng
biak in, the centre of mission power pictured at the height of a wave of harhna
in the Lushai Hills, is altogether unaccommodating. The placement of pews
cannot have been accidental; from a contemporary Mizo perspective, they
are “anti-spirit” and authoritative, crowding out both the quintessential
Mizo sense of the movement of God’s spirit and any chance for the attendant
dancing which was, as contemporary accounts suggest, a bodily reaction of
self-preservation as innate as pulling away from a hot flame.
Conclusion: interpretation, method and visual

sources of mission history
Historian Andrew J. May has rightly argued that by reading historical
photographs alongside textual sources about often heavy-handed missionary
demands for “moral compliance”, historians can discover codes of “indigenous
symbolism and modes of resistance”.130 However, there is a danger that
when historians attempt to recover, without explicit evidence, the motives of
missionary photographers or the agency of the colonised from their camera’s
“gaze”, they run the risk of imprisoning missionaries and missionised alike
in their own interpretive frameworks or historiographical dogmas. Without
explicit evidence, can we conclude that the blurry Mizo woman in Fig.
14.8 is resisting colonial power by exploiting the slow shutter speed of the
missionary’s camera?131 Do the women in Fig. 14.9 necessarily assert agency
by “denying the gaze” of the missionary’s camera?132
129 H. Sangchema, “Revival Movement”, in Baptist Church of Mizoram Compendium: In

Honour of BMS Mission in Mizoram, 1903-2003 (Serkawn: Centenary Committee, Baptist
Church of Mizoram, 2003), p. 53 (“stop dancing”).
130 May, Welsh Missionaries, p. 240.
131 Loose photograph bound with J. H. Lorrain’s file, ALA BMS Acc. 250.
132 Ibid.; and May, Welsh Missionaries, p. 240 (“denying the gaze”).
Fig. 14.8 “Some of the mothers who live in Lungleh”, c. 1938, loose photo in J. H.
Lorrain’s file, BMS Acc. 250, Angus Library and Archive, Regent’s Park College, Oxford.
Fig. 14.9 Two Mizo nurses in Serkawn, c. 1924, British Library (EAP454/6/1), CC BY.
This chapter instead uses the historical mission photograph as a thinking

cap. The material scarcity, wonder and feel of photography in the historical
Lushai Hills might break down in the modern, supersaturated visual world
from which historians must visit the historical Mizo. But we can seize on this
breakdown as an opportunity, even pulling it on board as a methodological
organising principle, gazing again and again at the same photograph. By
simultaneously attending to the human sensorium in all its cultural and
historical articulations, we take a human pulse in an historical moment of
real, tumultuous and lived religious change.
Here, we move beyond the post-colonial critiques in mission studies
that have focused on one-way cultural hegemony and conquest. These
perspectives, while useful in shining the brightest light possible onto questions
of subordination, can also wash out the complex collisions, contestations and,
indeed, cooperations that arose in the mission field. In extreme cases indicative
of a broader trend, we find modern post-colonial assertions that would have
baffled their historical subjects, missionary or missionised. For instance, historian
Emma Anderson claims that the “official purpose” of missionaries baptising
converts was “rendering the exotic, dangerous ‘other’ familiar”; Christopher
Herbert claims that missionaries taught converts to read simply as “a means
of reordering the mind itself and putting it in thrall to new institutions”.133
Thinking with and making sense of photographs can help us move beyond
clunky categorisations of domination to explore the many layers of cross-cultural
action, reaction, discourse and everyday lived experience inherent in the
missionary enterprise, landing us on the interesting “ambivalent ground between
missionary versions of their roles and relationships with [locals], and the ways
in which indigenous converts refashioned and subverted these expectations”.134
Extending goodwill and empathy to our historical subjects by endeavouring to
approach them on their own sensory terms allows us to see old stories in new
ways — “to see the strange as familiar so that the familiar appears strange”.135
Suddenly windows and wooden benches and gabled roofs are wholly astonishing.
Unlocking a fuller research potential for mission photographs might just take a
little less looking at photographs and a little more savouring of them.
133 Anderson quoted in Luke Clossey, “Review of Emma Anderson, ‘The Betrayal of
Faith’”, International History Review, 30 (2008), 828-29 (p. 829); and Christopher Herbert,
Culture and Anomie: Ethnographic Imagination in the Nineteenth Century (Chicago, IL:
Chicago University Press, 1991), p. 167.
134 Patricia Grimshaw and Andrew J. May, “Reappraisals of Mission History: An
Introduction”, in Missionaries, Indigenous Peoples and Cultural Exchange, ed. by Patricia
Grimshaw and Andrew J. May (Eastbourne: Sussex Academic Press, 2010), p. 96;
135 Eduardo Kohn, How Forests Think: Toward an Anthropology Beyond the Human (Berkeley,
CA: University of California Press, 2013), p. 22.
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Joanna Heath, Aijal, Mizoram, 25 May 2014.
B. Lalthangliana, Aijal, trans. by Vanlalchhawna, 25 April 2006.
Thangliana, Mission Vengthlang, Mizoram, 16 May 2014.
H. Vanlalhruaia, Champhai, Mizoram, 22 June 2014.
15. The photographs of Baluev:
capturing the “socialist
transformation” of the Krasnoyarsk
northern frontier, 1938-1939 1
David G. Anderson, Mikhail S. Batashev

and Craig Campbell
The craft of photography played an important role in the construction of

early Soviet society. In western Europe and the Americas, the early Soviet
period is associated with repressions and the blacking-out and forced amnesia
of portraits and other representations.2 It is less known that photographers
and photographic equipment were widespread, not only capturing faces for
identity documents and staged, instructive scenes, but also giving glimpses
of a new society and new subjectivities coming into being. The photographs
of the period should not be read merely as superficial political instruments,
although they were also undoubtedly used that way. We argue that some
photographers, or at least some photographers some of the time, strove to
capture the aspirations and tensions experienced by people living in rapidly
changing times. To this end, we present a selection of photographs from a
1 In this chapter we employed a simplified version of the Library of Congress transliteration

system without diacritics. In cases where there is a recognised standard English-language
equivalent for a place or ethnonym (Krasnoyarsk, Yenisei River), we use this version in
the text, but not in the references or citations.
2 Alain Jaubert, Le Commissariat aux archives (Paris: Barrault, 1986); and David King, The
Commissar Vanishes: The Falsification of Photographs and Art in Stalin’s Russia (New York:
Metropolitan, 1997).
© D. G. Anderson, M. S. Batashev and C. Campbell, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.15

relatively unknown photographer who assembled a portfolio of images of

everyday life in what was then a remote corner of the Soviet Union in the
time of the great repressions and political dramas of the Stalinist period.
In the photographs — which we have selected from what is a large archive
— we demonstrate the difficult yet successful balance that this artist struck
between documenting “topics” and depicting personalities.
Ivan Ivanovich Baluev was employed as a staff photographer at the
Krasnoyarsk Territory Regional Museum (Krasnoiarskii Kraevoi Kraevedcheskii
Muzei, or KKKM) through the worst of the Stalinist period, from 1934-1941.
During this time, 1,951 of his images were added to the collection of the
museum, illustrating a broad range of subjects from the industrialisation of
the city of Krasnoyarsk to, more typically, the lives and living conditions of
a variety of rural peoples across the vast central Siberian district where he
worked. His name is usually cited in the tradition of realist ethnographic
photography that was, for example, published by N. N. Nekhoroshev in the
Turkestanskii al’bom, or associated with N. A. Charushin’s work in Zabaikal’e.3
Portions of Baluev’s mostly unpublished archive of fragile glass-plate
negatives came to our attention only recently during a broader thematic
research project, supported by the Endangered Archives Programme (EAP),
to digitise and safely preserve a vast number of plate negatives featuring
images of indigenous peoples across central Siberia.4 At that time we digitised,
annotated and posted on the internet 297 examples of Baluev’s work on this
topic plucked from the larger set, the existence of which we were for the most
part unaware. His haunting images captured our attention and, indeed, at the
end of the project his work emerged as by far the most prolific of any individual
photographer on our stated topic. With the exception of a few images, his work
has never been published or discussed in Russian or in English.
For the purposes of this discussion, we decided to focus on one particular
chapter in his career — his participation in a nine-month expedition from
1938 to 1939, called the “Northern Expedition”, through some of the most
3 On Nekhoroshev, see Heather S. Sonntag, Genesis of the Turkestan Album 1871-1872: The
Role of Russian Military Photography, Mapping, Albums and Exhibitions on Central Asia
(Ph.D thesis, University of Wisconsin, 2011); and A.L. Kun, editor Turkestanskii Al'bom:
po razporiazheniu Turkestanskogo general’nogo guberatora K.P. fon Kaufman (Tashkent: n.
pub., 1872). On Charushin, see Sergei Aleksandrovich Morozov, Russkie puteshestvenniki-
fotografi (Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe izdatel’stvo geograficheskoi literatury, 1953). pp.
38-40.
4 EAP016: Digitising the photographic archive of southern Siberian indigenous peoples,
http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP016. The digital images are
available at http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP016
The photographs of Baluev 489
remote regions of the central Siberian district (which is still known today as
Krasnoyarsk Territory). Using the same equipment and skills provided by the
EAP, we consulted, catalogued and digitised an additional 91 of his glass-
plate negatives and catalogue annotations to produce what we assume to be a
near-complete series of 711 images.5 Furthermore, we found and transcribed
his diary of travels during the Northern Expedition.6 We also consulted and
partially photographed a thin folder of archived reports and correspondence
about the expedition, and consulted the scattered references in the secondary
published literature on the expedition. Perhaps most ambitiously, we linked
the photographs to diary entries — which was a Herculean task given the
sometimes unhelpful ways that images are sorted and catalogued in Soviet-
era museum archives. For a variety of reasons, the images and diary entries
were linked by date and are quoted as such in this chapter.7 Our discussion
further focuses on a four-month section of his travels between 7 November
1938 and 17 February 1939 for reasons we discuss below.
5 In this chapter, the glass-plate images digitised by the EAP are referenced with a two-
part number which represents the box number within which they were found as well
as their ordinal number with the box (EAP125-020). This is the reference which links to
copies displayed online and held on microfilm in the British Library. The newly digitised
images are referenced with a four digit number which is hand-written on the negatives
and which corresponds to an older cataloguing system, now lost (KKKM 3604). We have
no hard evidence to prove that the 711 images form a complete unbroken series since
there is no archival record of how many images Baluev took; neither do the hand-written
numbers consistently correspond to a series. We assert that the set must be more-or-
less complete due to the fact that it would be hard to imagine Baluev carrying many
more plates back to Krasnoyarsk. The older cataloguing system corresponds to a single-
sentence description of the item which we have called an annotation. While it stands to
reason that Baluev must have composed this annotation, we cannot be sure. It may have
been another member of the expedition or indeed any other museum worker.
6 I. I. Baluev, “Dnevnik ekspeditsii museia na sever krasnoiarskogo kraia v 1938-1939”,
KKKM-Nauchnyi arkhiv, 7886 Pir 222 (in three separate notebooks). The archived
notebooks are not consistently paginated and all references herein are therefore by date.
7 In Soviet-era museum practice, collections are curated by topic, not by date or collector.
Further inventory numbers are assigned sequentially to any object that is added to the
collections and therefore do not necessarily sequence items in a particular collection.
To add more complexity, inventory numbers are regularly redone and the records of
the previous inventory discarded. Baluev’s images were re-numbered thrice (and for
the EAP a fourth time). It is extremely difficult to see a logic in the older numbering
system. Indeed, our EAP system was also topical and not universal. For this article we
reassembled the entire collection according to date by linking the images to the diary
by their attributions, in many cases by viewing the images and making a judgement
as to which place or nationality was represented, and then often arranging the images
in order by one or another of the older numeric codes. We cannot be sure that we have
reconstructed the exact sequence of photographs, but we are confident that we sorted
most photographs accurately by date, place and subject.
In this chapter we have decided to address what we call the documenting

of “socialist transformation”, which is based on the somewhat loose
translation of the headline term in the surviving documents of this expedition.
What came to be known as the Northern Expedition was originally outfitted
as the “Expedition [documenting] socialist construction [sotsialistcheskoe
stroitel’stvo] in the North of Krasnoyarsk Territory”.8 The Soviet concept of
stroitel’stvo, directly translated as “construction”, is an active concept which
should be more accurately, but clumsily, translated as “building”. The term
implies that a new socialist society is being erected in an empty space. While
the northern taigas of central Siberia were undoubtedly thought to be more
empty than most places in the Soviet Union at that time, the fact of the
matter was that, even here, socialist society was by necessity reassembled
from the already existing traditions, lifestyles and infrastructures of both
indigenous dwellers and settler Russians in the region.
The “struggle” to build socialism was often commented upon at the
time, and one of the goals of the expedition was to document for the KKKM
those ways of life which were being replaced. We have therefore coined the
term “socialist transformation” in order to represent the conflicted, ironic,
but nonetheless creative way that many of Baluev’s photographs represent
the old being turned into something new. Our argument is based on a
selection of seventeen images which we find to be evocative of this theme
during this particularly intense period in his life. In their own time, Baluev’s
expeditionary images, although unpublished, were displayed in museum
exhibitions, perhaps mixed in with the work of other photographers, perhaps
on their own.9 This term represents, therefore, our attempt to use an early
8 In Russian: “Ekspeditsiia po sotsialistichekomu stroitelstvu Severa Krasnoiarskogo

Kraia”. B. Dolgikh, 1937.12.28, “Plan ekspeditsii etnograficheskogo kabineta Krasn., Gos.
Muz., 1938g” p/n 1842, op. 01, d. 599, ll. 4-5; and idem, “Programma raboty ekspeditsii
po sotsialisticheskomu stroitelstvu Severa Krasnoiarskogo Kraia”, KKKM, f.1842 op. 1 d.
599, ll. 24-25. All translations are ours, unless otherwise stated.
9 The records of the exhibitions of this time do not survive and therefore we cannot
comment on how Baluev or his colleagues selected images from this expedition for
public presentation. There is some commentary which suggests that this collection may
have been out-of-step with the times. As late as the end of the 1920s, it was common to
present expeditionary images in large photograph albums. See Morozov, Pervye russkie
fotografy, pp. 52-55; and David G. Anderson, “The Turukhansk Polar Census Expedition
of 1926/27 at the Crossroads of Two Scientific Traditions”, Sibirica, 5 (2006), 24-61.
According to Sergei S. Savoskul, until 1938 there had been a tradition of ethnographic
displays in the KKKM, which in that year was subjected to criticism and the exhibits
were taken down. World War II also, of course, had a great effect on publication plans,
and Savoskul lists the number of manuscripts stemming from the Northern Expedition
twenty-first century logic to look back on what has become a mythic time,
to see if we can sense and touch elements of choice, insight and agency in
circumstances that are thought to be dark with intrigue.
Our study has yet another goal in terms of trying to reach beyond
stereotypes and myths to reveal people caught up in difficult processes.
This archive helps us see through what might at first glance seem like the
overwhelming “provincialism” of one man’s story, caught as it was in a
network of relationships so very far away from Moscow and Leningrad, the
so-called centres of political and cultural life. Baluev’s life and work seems
ephemeral when set beside the relatively rich biographies of aristocrats
and revolutionaries in the capital cities. This is why we tried to provide
more detail about his life before he became a photographer and then after
he left the museum. Similarly to what has been often done for the great
figures of this time, we attempted to follow Baluev’s life through a trail of
correspondence and reports in local newspapers.
While our attempts to find this material and to provide this global
context are admittedly tentative and partial, what emerges in this study is
a snapshot of the man as he was known by the museum which employed
him. All the materials which we discovered on Baluev are in the personnel
files, the manuscript collections or the photographic collections of the KKKM
itself. After Baluev left the museum his trail vanished and faded from view.
We do not know where or when he died, but again this is not uncommon
in the traumatic period on the eve of World War II. This tale is therefore
also the tale of an archive — a repository which has given us a brief bright
window onto the life of a creative person. In the theoretical terms in which
we have framed this chapter, early Soviet institutions not only transformed
people but represented them, leaving us with material records of their lives
which allow us to think through the events they experienced.
Ivan Ivanovich Baluev

Baluev was in many ways a product of the Soviet project of social advancement
(Fig. 15.1). In his Avtobiografiia — a standardised list of dates and events filed
as part of his personnel records in the museum — he records that he was
born into a peasant family in the village of Karatuz on 23 September 1905
which never went to press for that reason. Sergei S. Savoskul, “Etnograf Krasnoiarskogo
muzeia B. O. Dolgikh v 1937-1944 gg.”, Etnograficheskoe obozrenie, 1 (2009), 100-18 (p. 112).
(6 October 1905 NS) on the eve of the revolutions which would transform
the Russian Empire.10 This village was a centre for the Yenisei Cossacks,11
and was one of the largest Cossack villages in the south of Yenisei province.
After the October Revolution this social group would come to be labelled as
suspect, due in part to their wealth as well as to the role that many Cossacks
played in the civil war resisting Bolshevik power.
Fig. 15.1 Baluev writing in his journal in Dudinka, 1938.

© Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia (KKKM 3604), all rights reserved.
10 I. I. Baluev, 1935.06.15, “Avtobiografiia. KKKM-Nauchnyi arkhiv”, op. 02 d. 44: 2-3.

11 For an English introduction to Siberian Cossacks in the early twentieth century, see
Peter Holquist, “From Estate to Ethnos: The Changing Nature of Cossack Identity in the
Twentieth Century”, in Russia at a Crossroads: History, Memory and Political Practice, ed. by
Nurit Schleifman (London: Frank Cass, 1998), pp. 89-124. For specific references to this
region and the oppression of Cossacks, see V. P. Trut, “Tragediia raskazachivaniia”, in
Donskoi vremennik. God 2004-i: Kraevedcheskii al’manakh, ed. by L. A. Stavdaker (Rostov-
on-Don: Donskaia gosudarstvennaia publichnaia biblioteka, 2004); A. V. Marmyshev
and E. G. Eliseenko, Grazhdanskaia voina v Eniseiskoi gubernii (Krasnoyarsk: Verso, 2008);
L. I. Futorianskii, “Problemy kazachestva: raskazachivanie”, in Vestnik OGU, ed. by V. P.
Kovelevskii (Orenburg: Orenburgskii gosudarstvennyi universitet, 2002) pp 43-53. S. A.
Kislitsyn, Gosudarstvo i Raskazachivanie, 1917-1945 gg.: Uchebnoe posobie po speskursu, ed.
by E. I. Dulimov (Rostov-na-Donu: Nauchno-issledovatel’skii tsenr kul’tury, istorii Dona
im. E. N. Oskolova, 1996).
Baluev studied in the Karatuz local school and upon completion of his
studies was trained as a photographer in the provincial capital Minusinsk
between 1926 and 1928. He married Zinadia T. Toropova in 1928, and
then went to work in the Rembrandt photographic company in the same
city, most likely doing portraiture for private clients. In 1930 he tried to
change careers by retraining as an accountant (ekonomist). However, due
to a lack of money he was unable to finish his studies and took a job as
a casual labourer. Between 1930 and 1931, he resumed photographing at
the Slavgorod invalid commune. Again, it is not entirely clear what his
duties were in the commune. These organisations were formed to help
improve the lives of handicapped people through selling handicrafts or
through repairing shoes or watches. It is possible that he took photographs
to advertise the work of the organisation, or taught photography to the
organisation’s clients. From 1931 to 1934, he became one of the main
accountants in the Alma-Alta biochemical factory. While there are many
details in his autobiography, it is silent on one point: it seems that his
family was repressed. In a book documenting repressions in Krasnoyarsk,
he and his wife are listed as victims of political repression along with his
father, mother, brothers and sisters. According to this source, the entire
family was exiled to Slavgorod.12
Baluev moved to Krasnoyarsk in 1934, possibly at the time that his
exile was annulled. First he worked from 1934 to 1935 as a planner in
the worker’s trade organisation KraRAIORS (Krasnoiarskii Raionnyi Otdel
Rabochego Snabzheniia), and then as a planner in the Education Department.
In the autumn of 1935, he returned to photography at the KKKM. His
wife joined him there in the summer of 1938, also as a photographer, and
they worked together until the war, at which point his fate is not clear.
Baluev’s personal biography is only faintly outlined in the museum’s
records. However, his brick home still stands in the city of Krasnoyarsk
at number ten Oborony Street, and the world he saw through his camera
is registered in hundreds of photographs.
Baluev’s photographic portfolio is archived by the KKKM, which in
2005 was a partner in the EAP project. The museum was founded in 1889
at the initiative of a group of intellectuals who wished to bring together
12 O. A. Karlova, ed., Kniga pamiati zhertv politicheskikh repressii Krasnoiarskogo kraia

(Krasnoyarsk: PIK Ofset, 2012), p. 90.
objects and collections held in private hands.13 Between 1903 and 1920,
it came under the sponsorship of the Krasnoyarsk section of the Eastern
Siberian Division of the Russian Geographical Society, which outfitted
many expeditions to outlying regions, greatly increasing its collections
of objects and photographs. The work of the museum in this respect did
not depart from the already widely-documented work of the Russian
Geographical Society in this period. 14 It would be fair to say that the
majority of the collecting concerned the Turkic peoples to the south and
the Tungusic peoples in the near north along the Angara River. Arctic
collections were few and far between for reasons of distance, but also
due to the fact that they were administered from different towns such
as Eniseisk or Turukhansk.
The Egyptian-style building in which the photographs are currently
housed was designed between 1913 and 1914 and completed in 1930. In
1934, following the merging of former Tsarist-era territorial divisions, the
museum came to be responsible for representing the entire territory of the
newly-joined entities which made up Krasnoyarsk Territory (krai).15 This
included the Evenki National District, the subject of most of the images
analysed here (Fig. 15.2). From 1934 onwards, the KKKM was therefore
given a new mandate to represent a regional territory that had in fact
quadrupled through annexation to the north. It is within the context of
this new Soviet mandate to depict a vast and newly acquired frontier that
Baluev’s collection should be interpreted.
13 V. M. Iaroshevskaia, “Muzei vchera, segodnia, zavtra”, in Vek podvizhnichestva, ed. by V.

I. Parmononova (Krasnoyarsk: Krasnoiarskoe knizhnoe izdatel’stvo, 1989), pp. 3-15.
14 Morozov, Pervye russkie fotografy, pp. 89-103; and Francine Hirsch, Empire of Nations:
Ethnographic Knowledge and the Making of the Soviet Union (Ithaca, NY: Cornell, 2005), ch. 1.
15 Krasnoyarsk Territory is a long central Siberian political district which extends from
the Sayan Mountains on the border between Russia and Mongolia to the uppermost
islands in the Arctic Ocean. The territory roughly follows the Yenisei River, which flows
from south to north. The internal political territorial division of this region is unusually
complicated: it has been divided up into local administrative districts in entirely different
ways by every administration in the late Imperial period, the Soviet period, and the
present period of the Russian Federation. Today the region is still a single administrative
region known as Krasnoyarsk Territory (krai) with its capital in the city of Krasnoyarsk.
Before the Revolution, the same space was primarily encompassed by the Yenisei
guberniia with the capital in Eniseisk. At the time of the Northern Expedition, the region
had just been freshly assembled into two “national” districts which were given a certain
amount of regional autonomy vis à vis the new capital in Krasnoyarsk: the southerly
Evenki National District, with its capital in the newly established settlement of Tura, and
the northerly Taimyr (Dolgano-Nenets) National District, with its headquarters in older
settlement of Dudinka.
Fig. 15.2 Map of the Evenki National District. Photo by I. I. Baluev (EAP016/4/1/223).
Baluev’s contribution to the 1939 Northern Expedition is his most famous

portfolio of work — 711 images taken across an enormous territory
in difficult conditions. The images are still admired by local museum
curators today for their clarity and honesty of composition. In 1937,
prior to the expedition, Baluev contributed a set of photographs to
the Khakas villages along the Chernyi lius, Belyi lius and Mana rivers.
After the end of the expedition, Baluev made another 300 images for
the museum. These include a 1940 photographic essay of the Sovrudnik
gold mine in the North Yenisei district, another set of essays on three
state farms in the northern part of the district and a 1941 photo essay
on the Janus Darbs collective farm in Uiar district. In 1941 he was also
asked to re-photograph (duplicate) a set of images of Stalin and Sverdlov,
and a set of images of World War I. All of these collections are housed
in the KKKM.
The Northern Expedition

The Northern Expedition of the Krasnoyarsk Territory Regional Museum
(1938-1939) was organised by the famous ethnographer Boris Osipovich
[Iosovich] Dolgikh,16 and led by the young communist party activist Mark
Sergeevich Strulev (Fig. 15.3).17 The team travelled in the late autumn
downstream from Krasnoyarsk to the mouth of the Yenisei River at
Dudinka, on the last navigation before the winter set in. They then travelled
overland across the southern portions of the vast continental peninsula
of Taimyr using hired reindeer porters, and then southwards through the
taiga interior of this territory back to Krasnoyarsk. The majority of the
work took place in the Evenki National District. The expedition would
encounter and document the lives of peoples known today as Enets,
Nenets, Nganansan, Dolgan (Yakut) and Evenki, as well as local Russians.
16 Savoskul, “Etnograf Krasnoiarskogo muzeia”, pp. 100-18.

17 V. A. Danileiko, “Gosudarstvennaia etnografiia, ili otrazhenie protsessa sotsialisticheskogo
stroitel’stva na Prieniseiskom Severe, v rabotakh etnografov kontsa 1930 gg. (k postanovke
voprosa)”, in Vestnik Krasnoiarskogo gosudarstvennogo pedagogicheskogo universiteta im.
V. P. Astaf’eva, ed. by N. I. Drozdov (Krasnoyarsk: Krasnoiarskskii gosudarstvenii
pedagogicheskii universitet, 2011), pp. 122-27.
Fig. 15.3 The first camp after crossing the border between Taimyr and Evenkia
with all three expedition members: Baluev, Dolgikh and Strulev.
An expedition of Socialist discovery

The goals and styles of Northern Expedition fit within a long history of
state-sponsored research on the lives and ethnography of northern peoples.
To some degree, these surveys of indigenous dwellers did not differ in style
from those conducted by great empires the world over. Travellers, be they
Imperial-era Orthodox priests or Scottish geologists crossing the Canadian
North, tended to note the difficulties of their journeys, the exoticness of
the food and clothing, and the harshness of the taiga and tundra they
travelled through. Russian ethnographic expeditions differed from those
of other empires in one important sense: they surveyed a “near” frontier.
The Russian Empire was inland and contiguous. Rather than travelling for
weeks and months across oceans, most travellers already had a pre-formed
impression of the people they were to encounter.18
Early Soviet expeditions adopted many of the time-tested techniques
of earlier expeditions; there was, however, a distinct new quality — one of
our co-authors has described it elsewhere as a spirit of “discovery”.19 Briefly
put, if in the Imperial period there was always a consciousness that settler
Russians were surrounded by non-Christian “alien” peoples (inorodtsy), these
peoples were of little concern to the Russians busy with cultivating the taiga
and building new settlements. After the Revolution and extended civil war,
however, there was a new sense that all residents of the Soviet Union enjoyed
a common citizenship and and that qualities once dismissed as cultural
differences were now recognised as matters requiring improvement: hence
the early Soviet-era battles against backwardness and illiteracy. Although
northern Siberians had been in regular contact with Russians since the
seventeenth century, this mid-twentieth-century expedition was nevertheless
one of discovery, since these Soviet museum workers were travelling to
encounter people and places in a new way. With reference to standard Soviet
rhetoric and roles, they literally saw themselves as “pioneers”.20
The blending of older methods of expeditionary work with new
assumptions can be best illustrated by two formal aspects of the expedition.
As already mentioned, Baluev, Dolgikh and Strulev followed trails and
roads which were already well-established. This autumn-winter clockwise
expedition route from the Yenisei through the taiga had been followed
routinely by state servants for the past half-century if not longer. Within
the ethnographic literature we can compare the itineraries of the missionary
18 For an overview of the stereotypes which framed Russian Eurasian exploration, see
Galya Diment and Yuri Slezkine, Between Heaven and Hell: The Myth of Siberia in Russian
Culture (New York: St. Martins, 1993); and Mark Bassin, Imperial Visions: Nationalist
Imagination and Geographical Expansion in the Russian Far East, 1840-1865 (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 274-82. For an overview of debates surrounding
middle Yenisei aboriginal peoples, see Craig Campbell, Agitating Images: Photography
against History in Indigenous Siberia (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press,
2014); and Elena Kovalaschina, “The Historical and Cultural Ideals of the Siberian
Oblastnichestvo”, Sibirica, 6 (2007), 87-119.
19 David George Anderson, “First Contact as Real Contact: The 1926/27 Soviet Polar
Census Expedition to Turukhansk Territory”, in Recreating First Contact: Expeditions,
Anthropology and Popular Culture, ed. by Joshua A. Bell, Alison K. Brown and Robert J.
Gordon (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Scholarly Press, 2013), pp. 72-89.
20 We would like to thank an anonymous reviewer for this observation.
Innokentyi Suslov in 1870,21 the Polar Census expedition led by Dolgikh in

1926 and 1927,22 and then two expeditions headed by Andrei A. Popov in
1930-1931 and 1936-1938.23 Dolgikh himself repeated the same route as a
territorial formation worker, mapping the boundaries of newly-collectivised
economic enterprises in 1934.24
Although the route was traditional and well-worn, the group travelled
across the boundaries of the newly created socialist districts, and focused
their attention in a different way. In the preliminary proposal for the
expedition, Dolgikh stressed the importance of documenting the lives of
the “new” administrative districts they would be visiting. The route was
justified by the need to visit both the new Taimyr National District and the
new Evenki National District.25 The window of entry across these “new”
territories corresponded to deep winter (November-February) — this is
the period of time that we focus upon almost exclusively in this article.
The material artefacts produced by the expedition also followed many
of the standard protocols set up in the Imperial period. Roughly stated,
the task of the Party-appointed leader Strulev was to collect statistical data
on the population, much as his Orthodox predecessor Innokentyi Suslov
might have counted pagan and Christian souls. However, in Strulev’s
case, the task was to count people and animals collectivised into farms,
and the numbers of indigenous people being trained for new occupations,
which a nineteenth-century Orthodox priest would not have done. 26
Dolgikh’s contribution was clearly aimed at the collection of folklore texts
and genealogies, much like a nineteenth-century ethnologist, although as
he would describe his work in his final report, the genealogies gave him
21 David G. Anderson and Natalia Orekhova, “The Suslov Legacy: The Story of One
Family’s Struggle with Shamanism”, Sibirica, 2 (2002), 88-112.
22 Sergei S. Savoskul and David G. Anderson, “An Ethnographer’s Early Years: Boris
Dolgikh as Enumerator for the 1926/27 Polar Census”, Polar Record, 41 (2005), 235-
51. Sergei S. Savoskul, “Vpervye na Severe: B. O. Dolgikh — registrator pripoliarnoi
perepisi”, Etnograficheskoe obozrenie, 4 (2004), 126-47.
23 Andrei Aleksandrovich Popov, “Poezdka k dolganam”, Sovetskaia etnografiia, 3-4 (1931),
210-13; and idem, “Iz otcheta o komandirovke k nganasanam ot Instituta Etnografii
Akademii Nauk SSSR”, Sovetskaia etnografiia, 3 (1940), 76-95.
24 Savoskul, “Etnograf Krasnoiarskogo muzeia”, p. 101.
25 Dolgikh, “Plan ekspeditsii”, pp. 4-5.
26 Danileiko, pp. 122-27; and M. S. Strulev, 1938, “Materialy sotsstroitel’stva po
Evenkiiskomu natsional’nomu okrugu”, Statisticheskie dannye, KKKM, O/f 7886/PIr
223.
insight not into an individual’s past, but into “the details of the historical
development of one or another people”.27
Finally, Baluev’s task was to take images of people and landscapes using a
type of camera which required careful choreographing, planning, posing and
staging. The level of light and his equipment would have limited the angles he
could choose and his opportunities for “spontaneous” portraiture. Therefore
he worked within the constraints and guidelines of a nineteenth-century
traveller working for the Russian Geographical Society.28 He nevertheless
departed from the canon by photographing objects (usually structures)
which represented institutions and by capturing new forms of association
(usually represented as groups of people engaged in specific tasks), as we
will describe in detail below.
The interweaving of old and new ways of life seems to have been part
of a long process of negotiation. Indeed, the expedition was planned over
a period of a year. In the summer of 1939, Dolgikh had just taken charge of
the ethnographic “cabinet” of the museum, assigning himself the broad goal
of documenting the “social and economic structure [stroi] of the people of
the North of Krasnoyarsk Territory”.29 The term “structure” is misleading
in the sense that what was meant was a process. The data that the team
gathered — be they narratives, images or statistical tables — spoke not to
how people saw themselves, but instead of their trajectories in space and time,
from the past to the present, and from the present to the future. In the plan
for the expedition, filed on 28 December 1937, Dolgikh listed the following
subjects as important to describing these destinies. The intangible sense of
27 B. Dolgikh, “Predvaritel’nyi otchet etnografa Severnoi ekspeditsii Krasnoiarskgo

kraevogo muzeia”, 1938-39, gg. KKKM, 1843-1-600, p. 1.
28 We would like to thank an anonymous reviewer for this analysis and comparison.
According to Sergei Aleksandrovich Morozov, the very first use of photography for
scientific ethnography was by I. A. Lopatin on his 1866 expedition in the same region
visited by Baluev (then known as Turkhansk District). Morozov, Russkie puteshestvenniki-
fotografi, p. 160. For further information on the guidelines of ethnographic photography,
see Elena Barkhatova, “Realism and Document: Photography as Fact”, in Photography in
Russia 1840-1940, ed. by David Elliot (London: Thames and Hudson, 1992), pp. 42-43;
and for the list of rules, translated and quoted below, see Anonymous, “Nastavleniia
dlia zeliaiuschikh izgotovliat fotograficheskie snimki na polzu antropologii”, Izvestiia
Imperatorskogo Russkego Geograficheskogo Obshestva, 8 (1872), 86-88. For short descriptions
of the work of several late nineteenth-century photographers, see Morozov, Russkie
puteshestvenniki-fotografy, especially his sections on D. N. Anuchin (folkloric costumes
and landscapes), pp. 52-55; and M. P. Dmitriev (Volga River portraits and landscapes),
pp. 82-83.
what people were becoming is evident in the words “social development”,

“extension”, “Sovietisation”, “dawn”, “transformation” and “movement”:30
1. [Documenting] industrial development (the activities of the Main
Administration of the Northern Sea Route and of Sevpoliarles [the
state forestry company]);
2. The activities of the Northern Sea Route Administration {in general}
in {the exploitation of} the north of Krasnoyarsk Territory and in
contributing to social development (transport, trade, scientific work
and political enlightenment work, among others);
3. The extension of agriculture into the north;
4. The Sovietisation of the northern national districts;
5. The dawn of cultural and primary school education among the
peoples of the north;
6. The {sedentarisation and} transformation of the lifestyle [byt] of the
peoples of the north;
7. The collective farm movement and the collective farms of the peoples
of the north;
8. A presentation of talented individuals among northern peoples;
9. {Folklore};
10. {History and Ethnography}.
We will return to this list in the next section when we analyse the types of
images Baluev took.
The team was also guided by an official document from the People’s
Commissariat of Internal Affairs (NKVD) that provided a list of subjects to be
photographed in the north.31 In this document, the Commissariat instructed
them to photograph intangibles such as “further education of the population”
or “the work of teachers liquidating illiteracy”, as well as tangibles such as
industry, factories and collective farms. 32
30 Dolgikh, “Plan ekspeditsii”, pp. 2 and 4. The categories in curled brackets were added by
Dolgikh in pencil to the second draft of this document (p. 4).
31 Antsiferova, 1938.06.02, “Spisok raboty po fotosnimki Krasnoiarskogo kraevogo muzei
ekspeditsii eduiushie na Sever”, KKKM 1842-1-599, p. 26.
32 Ibid., p. 26
An expedition in the time of “terror”

Knowing what we know today about the late 1930s in the Soviet Union, it is
difficult to write about a scholarly or artistic endeavour as if it were an open-
ended creative process. To this end, Baluev’s diaries and photographs offer
us a unique opportunity to contextualise a time now remembered darkly.
Both an earlier published account of this expedition33 and an unpublished
report by our co-author Mikhail Batashev make a strong and convincing
argument for how state terror provided a centrifugal inspiration for northern
ethnography: people simply wanted to escape the epicentres of political
intrigue and hide as far away as possible in the most remote corners of the
Soviet Union. Such “little corners of freedom”, as historian Douglas Weiner
has called them, became the places where ethnographic and artistic intuition
were cultivated during these trying times.34
There is indeed a lot of evidence for this argument. Two of the participants
in the expedition, Baluev and Dolgikh, had both suffered personally from
the repressions. Baluev, as stated above, was forced into exile to support
his parents, who had likely been exiled due to their family heritage. This
experience probably gave him a certain shrewdness, and caution can be read
in the passages of his diary which we quote below. The life history of Dolgikh
is much better documented. With his long-standing interest in the lives and
fate of indigenous taiga peoples, Dolgikh developed a critical attitude to the
strict methods used to remove property from the rich. He voiced criticisms
to others in a student dormitory in Moscow; his dissent was overheard and
reported to the authorities. As a result, Dolgikh was expelled from university
and exiled for four years, beginning in 1929, to the village of Krasnoiarovo
on the Lena River in the northern part of Irkutsk province.35 Although it
was at this time he was to write some of his better-known earlier work, and
eventually gain a position in Krasnoyarsk as a museum ethnographer, it is
likely that this experience bred in him an element of caution reflecting the
stressful and dangerous times. It is perhaps noteworthy that, after his return
from exile, Dolgikh legally changed his Jewish-sounding patronymic from
33 Savoskul, “Etnograf Krasnoiarskogo muzeia”.

34 Douglas R. Weiner, A Little Corner of Freedom: Russian Nature Protection from Stalin to
Gorbachëv (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1999).
35 S. I. Vainshtein, “Sud’ba Borisa Osipovicha Dolgikh: cheloveka, grazhdanina, uchenogo”,
in Repressirovannye etnografy, ed. by D. D. Tumarkin (Moscow: Vostochnaia literatura,
1999), pp. 284-307 (p. 289).
Iosevich to the Russian sounding equivalent Osipovich. He is best known

by the later middle initial and name.
According to Sergei Savoskul’s reading of the archival records, Dolgikh’s
idea was to organise an expedition in the North, ostensibly to “diplomatically”
investigate “socialist transformations”, but in reality to collect texts for the
museum and to document the clan structure and ethnogenesis of northern
peoples.36 The stated goal of the expedition, in Savoskul’s opinion, was a
convenient mask for the actual work of ethnography, which was subversive to
some degree. Despite Dolgikh’s role as the initiator of the expedition, Savoskul
notes that a much younger and less experienced man, Strulev, was appointed
expedition leader.37 Instead of having credentials as a seasoned traveller and
a speaker of indigenous languages, Strulev was an approved Komsomol
member who could be trusted to represent the expedition politically.
It is striking that there is not much sense of fear in the diaries of either Baluev
or Dolgikh. True to form, Dolgikh’s manuscript diary seems obsessed with
kinship terminology and structural debates over the evolution of indigenous
native groups in this region. His manuscript report of the expedition is full
of flow-charts showing how one clan group merges into another, eventually
leading to the creation of distinct nations. This manuscript would anticipate
his famous works on ethnogenesis.38 The dominant tropes in Baluev’s diary,
which can be read in the excerpts selected below, are homesickness, frustration
with working conditions and, interestingly, a sense of resistance to some of
the tasks set before him.
In many places Baluev reveals a sense of caution and irony regarding the
instructions given to him by his superior. In one of the strongest passages,
which admittedly follows a rather gruelling trip in rough conditions, Baluev
questions Strulev’s instructions to photograph a recently expropriated state
enterprise.
January 24, 1939. At noon we arrived at a camp after having travelled fifty km
At this camp I took a few photographs. While I was taking them it somehow
entered the heads of my colleagues, and especially Mark Sergeevich [Strulev],
to go to the Reindeer State Farm and photograph it. Nothing that I could say
to the effect that photographing an immense quantity of reindeer under these
conditions was pointless had any effect on the stubbornness of my boss. In

37 Ibid., p. 104.
38 Boris Osipovich Dolgikh, Rodovoi i plemennoi sostav narodov Sibiri v XVII veke (Moscow:
Nauka, 1960); and idem, “Proiskhozhdenie dolgan”, in Sibirskii etnograficheskii sbornik,
ed. by Boris Osipovich Dolgikh (Moscow: Nauka, 1963), pp. 92-141.
order that nobody could ever say that I refused to photograph the State Farm
I agreed to go. In the evening a worker from the State Farm escorted me […]
Elsewhere we can read his worry about the privileges of the political leadership
vis-à-vis the workers he was documenting. In one incident, the team travels
to a remote hunting camp to photograph the heroic Stakhanovite squirrel
trappers who had exceeded their quota of animals hunted for the state (Fig.
15.4). Here, he represents the heroic workers almost as second-class citizens.
After several days of illness, Baluev writes:
January 19, 1939. I woke in the middle of the night in terrible shape. The
people inhabiting the rooms given to the Stakhanovites were the leaders
of the Nomadic Soviet and the Simple Production Unit. The Stakhanovites
themselves had collapsed on the dirty floor near the door. The leaders were
sleeping on their beds.
Fig. 15.4 Stakhanovite hunter, Stepan N. Pankagir, on the hunt for squirrels.
Uchug, Evenki National District, 17 January 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1264).
In other fragments of this late Stalinist description of everyday life we get a

picture of the banal — of taking the opportunity to leaf through a newspaper
when one finds it, to play the card game préférence, to enjoy sleeping late or to
read a novel by Pushkin, Dostoevsky or Balzac that one might discover lying
about even the most remote camp. The terror certainly disrupted lives and
careers, but it also left space for mundane being in which certain routines,
fascinations and relationships remained relatively stable. In viewing these
photographs it is the impression of routine and stability that comes through
most strongly.
Photographing northern transformations

The photographic archive of Ivan Baluev provides us with one of the more
reliable insights into how a “socialist transformation” was perceived in
1939. The texts surviving from this time — full of calls to “enlightenment”,
a “new dawn” and political inclusion — contain pointers to an implicit
collective knowledge of what people hoped would come to be, but few
clues as to what these transformations might look like. In the case of the
indigenous peoples of Siberia, their lives were often framed as a “leap”
from primitive communism to proper communism. All state and scholarly
academic interactions with them reflected this aspiration.39 This article is one
of the first published attempts to assess how photography participated in
building this sense of transformation. After reviewing some of the technical
challenges to making photographs in this sub-Arctic setting, we identify
six transformational themes in the Baluev collection.
The creation of this collection of black and white glass plate negatives
— ultimately gathered together as an archive — was in itself a difficult task
requiring great discipline and inventiveness on the part of the photographer.
The team travelled in open-air reindeer sledges and often spent their nights in
tents. The fragile glass plates had to be protected from damage and mishap.
While their vulnerability to damage was evident, the benefit of dry plate
glass negatives was superior image quality and greater stability in cold
conditions than flexible cellulose film, which would become brittle in low
39 The foundational text describing the “non-capitalist path” for Siberians is Mikhail
Alekseevich Sergeev, ed., Nekapitalisticheskii put’ rasvitiia mal’ykh narodov Severa (Moskva:
Nauka, 1955). The ideology as it applied to Siberia is described and criticised in David G.
Anderson, “Turning Hunters into Herders: A Critical Examination of Soviet Development
Policy among the Evenki of Southeastern Siberia”, Arctic, 44 (1991), 12-22; Yuri Slezkine,
Arctic Mirrors: Russia and the Small Peoples of the North (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press,
1994); and more generally in Alexei Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More:
The Last Soviet Generation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006).
temperatures.40 Once exposed, the glass plates were often developed in the
field — an effort that required preparing temperature-sensitive chemicals
and having different equipment to hand. Finally, the photographer was
burdened with heavy but fragile cameras, as well as cumbersome tripods.41
The photographic glass plates Baluev used were not unlike small
windowpanes coated with a dried chemical solution that was extremely
sensitive to light. The vast majority of negatives in the KKKM collection
are 9 x 12 cm (roughly 4 x 5 inches). A box of negatives can be seen on the
table in front of Baluev as he works on his journal (Fig. 15.1). Exposure to
light outside the camera would render the chemical coating on the plates
unusable, producing a negative that was uniformly black. To make his
pictures, Baluev would have loaded each precious frame into a light-tight
cartridge. These loaded cartridges would then have been stored in a box or
leather pouch, ready for exposure. It is not clear how many cartridges the
photographer would have had, though we estimate that it was not more
than a dozen or so (commercially available pouches appear to have held
five to ten cartridges).42
When his camera was ready, Baluev would load the cartridge into its
interior, which did not admit any light whatsoever. Once in the camera,
a cover was removed from the cartridge where the plate — opposite the
camera’s lens — was ready for exposure. After taking measurements
and adjusting the camera to let more or less light through the lens, and
deciding upon the duration of the exposure, he would open the shutter for
the selected exposure time. The cover of the cartridge was then re-inserted
and the cartridge itself removed, placed in a pouch or box of cartridges
containing exposed plates and saved until it could be developed in chemicals.
40 Kodak, “Photography Under Arctic Conditions”, October 1999, http://www.kodak.com/

global/en/professional/support/techPubs/c9/c9.pdf, p. 1.
41 For detailed information on the procedures for working with glass plate negatives and
cameras, see Georgi Abramov, “Etapy razvitiia otechesvennogo fotoapparatostroeniia”,
http://www.photohistory.ru/index.php. For other general notes concerning historical
photo-technical processes, see Bertrand Lavedrine, Michel Frizot, Jean-Paul Gandolfo
and Sibylle Monod, Photographs of the Past: Process and Preservation, trans. by John P.
McElhone, 1st edn. (Los Angeles, CA: Getty Conservation Institute, 2009). See also the
discussions on equipment and the problems of using tripods and available light in
Morozov, Pervye russkie fotografy; see especially Morozov’s sections on P. K. Kozlov in
Mongolia (1899), p 160, and on M. P. Dmitriev and the Volga River (1886-1929), pp.
82-83.
42 For a similar description of the difficulties of working in the Russian Arctic and the use
of pouches, see Morozov on the work of the Arkhangel’sk photographer A. A. Bunan on
Novaia Zemlia. Morozov, Pervye russkie fotografy, pp. 173-75.
If the plate was exposed to light prior to development, the image would be
obliterated. Photographers until this time appear to have been technicians
as much as they were artists. They learned their craft through a mixture of
training, shop theory and experience.43
Baluev notes in his diary that he is using a “Compound” shutter.44
This style of shutter (also known as Kompur) was typically affixed to
“Fotokor” cameras. The Fotokor (short for Photo Correspondent) was
a highly portable rangefinder camera. It used a bellows system which
collapsed into a small box. This kind of camera is referred to as a “folding
bed plate camera”. In the portrait of Baluev where he is writing in his diary,
you can see a case that is very similar in appearance to the kind used to
hold these cameras when they are folded up. The Fotokor cameras were
produced by GOMZ (Gosudarstvennyi Optiko-Mekhanicheskii Zavod/State
Optical-Mechanical Factory) in Leningrad.45 The bellows and compartments
in Baluev’s Kompound camera were no doubt brittle and stiff in the cold.
Working with the plates and camera mechanisms must have been a great
challenge with numb fingers. Nonetheless, Baluev produced hundreds
of images both inside and out, in all conditions, even temperatures cold
enough to freeze mercury — not to mention skin — upon exposure.
The process of developing the negatives required chemicals, water
and a completely dark room or tent. Darkness in the long winter nights
in northern Siberia was probably not difficult to come by. Indeed it was
light that was more likely to be a concern. While daylight was critical for
exposing the images, Baluev also had flash equipment and used magnesium
powder for interior shots. By the 1930s the magnesium powder formula
was so refined and the flash so quick that the photographer could take
more or less candid shots in darkened spaces.46 According to his journals,
he attempted to use available light whenever possible, implying perhaps
that his magnesium stock was in short supply. The challenges of using this
equipment in Arctic conditions are thoroughly documented in his diary:
43 Erika Wolf, “The Soviet Union: From Worker to Proletarian Photography”, in The Worker-
Photography Movement, 1926-1939: Essays and Documents, ed. by Jorge Ribalta (Madrid:
Museo Centro de Arte Reina Sofía, 2011), pp. 32-50 (p. 34).
44 Baluev, “Dnevnik ekspeditsii”, 4 December 1938.
45 The Worker Photography Movement, 1926-1939: Essays and Documents, ed. by Jorge Ribalta
(Madrid: Museo Centro de Arte Reina Sofía, 2011).
46 Beaumont Newhall, The History of Photography, from 1839 to the Present Day (New York:
Museum of Modern Art, 1964), p. 140. Newhall suggests that the magnesium powder
flash was “hardly more than a way of creating enough illumination to take snapshots in
dark places” (p. 157).
7 November 1938, Kamen’. Today is the 21st anniversary of the October

Revolution. I got up at 8.00, went outside, and an entire herd of reindeer
ran up to me. I took some salt out of my bag and began to feed them. […]
Today was a lightly cloudy day, and therefore it was difficult for me to
make spontaneous [momental’nye] photographs. […] My camera froze and
the shutter took exposures much longer than the meter was showing. […].
26 December 1938, Tura. I guess I have finally caught cold from all of
these severe frosts [minus 48]. This evening I felt very poorly. My legs
hurt and my head is beginning to hurt. The cold is creating ice fog which
makes it impossible to take pictures outside. And now I am running out of
photographic plates. Today I went around the village of Tura looking for
replacement plates. The veterinarian has some, and he promised to give me
a few. I wasn’t able to photograph anything today […].
29 December 1938, Tura. The cold is not particularly bad but it still does not
allow me to do my work. I took a picture of the meteorological station and
the post office. I am really fed up with Tura. And the worst is that it [the
village] does not allow me to take any pictures. Also there is nowhere to
develop the negatives because it is so cold. The room where we live is warm
only when the stove is burning at full blast, and then only in that corner
where the stove is sitting. If I developed the negatives then there would be
no place to dry them. At night it is horribly cold in the room despite the fact
that it is packed with people.
30 December 1938, Tura. My nerves are fraying from the fact that it is not
possible to photograph the subjects that interest me. I can only take pictures
inside and then with magnesium [magniia]. Today I took a picture of the
cafeteria with the delegates of the Ilimpi region conference.
One surprising revelation of Baluev’s diaries is the balance between the

difficulties of managing glass-plate photographic technology in the alien
environment of the far north and the fact that photographic technology
was apparently present nevertheless in every small corner of this northern
frontier. Although Baluev complains of difficulties in replenishing his
photographic stocks, it was not impossible. During his one-month stay
in the village of Tura he came to distinguish local stocks of photographic
plates by type and quality — at one point rejecting some plates held in the
school and accepting a set from the government administration. There are
numerous mentions in the diary of the fact that, as he moved southwards, the
team was successful in procuring replacement stocks in other settlements.
The 1930s may have been a time of strict political control, but Baluev’s
diaries suggest that access to image-making technology was widespread
in these communities.
One of the strongest themes in the Baluev collection is the representation

of indigenous people in the setting of modern institutions. One finds
photographs of young Evenki children learning to read, or of white-coated
doctors examining Yakut patients. In other images we see representatives
of the nomadic populations standing in front of newly-built structures or
before machines. These compositions have a strong sense of irony to them.
In most, the subject in the foreground, perhaps dressed in furs, contrasts
strongly with the clean lines of a newly-hewn log building or a metal
machine in the background. This sense of social distance is often amplified
by the somewhat static pose adopted by the subject, who was undoubtedly
asked to remain motionless for the rather long periods of time needed to
take a photograph during the polar night.
Baluev’s representations of indigenous people applying themselves to
study or tasks recall some of the guidelines published for ethnographical
portraiture in the nineteenth century. In 1871, the Imperial Russian
Geographical Society evaluated ethnographic portraiture as being different
from physical anthropological portraiture in that it “opens up a wider field
for the artistic inclinations of the photographer”. The society then provided
a list of subjects and contexts:47
Of particular importance is the subject’s clothing, one or another of their
typical poses, their weapons or other equipment [utvar], and equally
[importantly], scenes which show how one or the other of these things
are used. In addition [one should photograph] dwellings, cities, villages,
riverine landscapes, scenes of public life, and specialised domestic animals.
These rules of thumb are clearly visible in most of the photographs

selected here (see especially Figs. 15.3 and 15.6). However, Baluev’s work
distinguishes itself from the late Imperial canon by what might be described
as a photographic essay documenting particular enterprises or institutions
such as a school, a collective farm, trading posts, or a hunting party (see
especially Figs. 15.5, 15.8, 15.12 and 15.15). Here what nineteenth-century
photography might describe as the habitual background is replaced with
posters or backdrops revealing public scenes to be fully organised and
contained by a particular institution. In these photographs we feel the force
of another list, like the one written by Dolgikh and quoted above, demanding
portraiture which captures “the dawn of […] primary school education”
or “the collective farm movement”.48 To this end, Baluev brought with him
47 Anonymous, p. 88.
48 Dolgikh, “Plan ekspeditsii”, p. 4.
particular skills, both technical and compositional. It would seem that his
training in portraiture as well as his previous experience in working for
small enterprises gave him the skills and the imagination to photograph
something as intangible and fragmented as a “collective farm”.
The photographic conventions practised by Baluev presented a stable and
recognisable world. His camera was oriented according to the horizon. His
backgrounds were critical for the recognition of individuals. Architectural
features were used to locate the viewer in space to help make sense of the
scene. When he photographed people, he usually placed a clearly defined
subject in the centre of the frame. Landscape photographs tended to be
composed to maximise the perception of key features like rivers, cliffs,
ridges and forest clearings. Pictorial representation as a conventional
photographic technique dominated Baluev’s photography, which, unlike
more revolutionary types of photography, was more concerned with
documenting socialist transformation than formally instigating it.
What enlivens Baluev’s work on this topic is what we could perhaps define
as an “aspirational” quality and what some readers might call propagandist.
We would argue that the term propaganda is a heavy one, castigating more
than it enlightens. The term implies that the visible engagement of subjects
in the photographs is forced or somehow legislated in order to legitimate
an unpopular policy goal. Although the late 1930s were over-determined
by rather arbitrary policy goals, we must also bear in mind that many of
the institutional public settings that Baluev photographed were new. They
brought together people united by a particular skill set and class profile;
they might have never worked together before. In that vein, these enterprises
were experimental, organised with a sense of destiny or hope that they could
improve the lives of people in a single state-constructed community.49 This
intangible sense of aspiration — what we theorise here as a sense or feeling
of transformation — is what comes across in Baluev’s photographs, and
what may have made him a favourite photographer for commissions over
a five-year period at the start of the Stalinist era.
49 For a critical overview of the history of new labour units in this region of Siberia, see
David G. Anderson, Identity and Ecology in Arctic Siberia: The Number One Reindeer Brigade
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); Craig Campbell, Agitating Images: Photography
against History in Indigenous Siberia (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press,
2014); and Nikolai Ssorin-Chaikov, “Bear Skins and Macaroni: The Social Life of Things
at the Margins of a Siberian State Collective”, in The Vanishing Rouble: Barter Networks
and Non-Monetary Transactions in Post-Soviet Societies, ed. by Paul Seabright (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 345-61.
Ironic Compositions
Fig. 15.5 Prize-winning hunter Ivan K. Solov’ev (a Yakut) shows his award
to his wife. Next to her is V. V. Antsiferov. Kamen’ Factory, 7 November 1938
(EAP016/4/1/1913). © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia, all rights reserved.
Moving beyond Baluev’s aspirational public photographs, we can also detect

in this archive a set of images and notes-to-self in his diary which are ironic
or perhaps even critical of what he was witnessing. A strong candidate for
an ironic interpretation is a photograph of a ceremony in which a prize was
given to a hunter (Fig. 15.5). Here we can clearly see a roll of wool fabric being
presented to the Stakhanovite hunter who is identified in the attribution as
Ivan Solovev; the date is specified as 7 November, Soviet Army Day. In the
background there is a typical northern Taimyr Dolgan balok — a box-shaped
caravan containing a stove, table, bed and belongings, designed to be pulled
by a set of reindeer. Over the door a socialist banner celebrates the occasion.
To the left, a woman and a man in fancy beaded clothing are offering the gift.
The hunter receiving the present is standing in blindingly bright, newly tanned
leggings and smoking a cigarette. While these ceremonies were part of the fabric
of Soviet life, the Kamen’ group of Yakut-speaking Evenki hunters portrayed

in this photograph were not particularly well-known for their loyalty to the
Soviet project. Two years prior to Baluev taking this picture, kinsmen of those
photographed incited a rebellion against collectivisation.50 Nevertheless, the
photograph seems to denote stability, acquiescence and participation.
Counterpoising other photographs with Baluev’s diary entries shows
a deeper conflict between Soviet expectations and local ways. There is,
for example, an interesting set of photographs taken in late January in the
Kataramba River region of Baikit district. Here two female squirrel hunters
caught the eye of Baluev, and he took a photograph that was likely to illustrate
gender parity within a productive trapping regime (Fig. 15.6).
Fig. 15.6 Female hunters. From the left, Mariia L. Mukto and Mariia F. Chapogir
hunting for squirrels in the forest. Evenki National District, 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1323).
However this encounter was soon recorded in Baluev’s diary with puzzlement
and disappointment at the productive logic of the region (Fig. 15.7):
50 Anderson, Identity and Ecology, pp. 49-50 and 69-70.

Fig. 15.7 Icefishing with reindeer fat. Evenki National District, 1939.
20 January 1939, Kataramba River. In the morning after having tea, I got
to work. Here I found two women squirrel hunters, and took their picture.
Around noon I travelled with the camp owner to go fishing. Among his fishing
equipment I found a fishing lure that was not in any way alluring [nekliziuzhe].
It was like a branch that would likely frighten any fish set before it. At the end
of the lure the fisherman set a huge cube of fat weighing about 25 grams. He
threw it into the water, waited for half an hour and then decided that there
were no fish. He then turned around and went back to the lodge. He tried
to convince me that on this lure, the hook of which was as thick as an index
finger, he catches fish. Fishing with such equipment is called khinda.
The passage reveals Baluev’s lack of faith in the traditional ecological knowledge
of local Evenkis and his sense of knowing better than them how production
should be organised. Reading this passage today, in an era when ideologies of
production are not sacrosanct, allows us to interpret this encounter as a clash
of worldviews. From the perspective of an average urban Russian of this time,
the point of fishing would be to catch fish, with success being quantified and
measured by the number of fish caught. Such a Russian would assume that
fish would have to be lured into a fish trap or onto a hook.
However, within many northern indigenous cosmologies, including those
of the Evenkis, animals are attributed with agency and are expected to come
to hunters of their own will.51 Approaching the task from this point of view,
a fisherman would not try to lure the fish onto a subtly concealed hook but
instead strive to advertise his or her presence to give the fish an opportunity
to present itself. If a fish did not turn up on the hook, it would mean that it
did not want to provide itself for food, or “that there were no fish”. It is not
entirely clear why Baluev took the time to comment on a fishing strategy that
he found to be inefficient. He may have been expressing a frustration with
the impossibility of the Soviet project that aimed at including all nationalities
equally in a common economic project of building socialism.52 It would seem
that here he notes the impossible distance between the utopia of a fully efficient
productive society and the level of education of the citizens in this region.
Making boundaries real

As has been well-documented, a major aspect of Soviet modernisation was the
inscription of more or less arbitrary boundaries and then the insistence that
these boundaries had meaning in everyday life.53 Jurisdictional boundaries
were made relevant by the fact that subsidies and opportunities flowed within
them. The population was expected to receive their employment and the
right to groceries, healthcare and education only within the orbits of specific
regions. Within the new redistributional economy, families became tethered
to these specific places so that it was difficult — if not impossible — to survive
outside the spatial domains where one was registered.
51 A. Irving Hallowell, “Ojibwa Ontology, Behaviour, and World View”, in Culture in

History: Essays in Honour of Paul Radin, ed. by Stanley Diamond (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1960); Tim Ingold, “From Trust to Domination: An Alternative History
of Human-Animal Relations”, in Animals and Human Society: Changing Perspectives, ed. by
Aubrey Manning and James Serpell (London: Routledge, 1994), pp. 1-22; and Anderson,
Identity and Ecology, ch. 6.
52 Hirsch, pp. 273-308; Anderson, Identity and Ecology, ch. 3; and V. N. Uvachan Perekhod k
sotsializmu malykh narodov Severa (Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe izdatel’stvo politicheskoi
literatury, 1958).
53 Petr Evgen’evich Terletskii, “Natsional’noe raionirovanie Krainego Severa”, Sovetskii Sever,
7-8 (1930), 5-29; Anderson, Identity and Ecology, ch. 4; Gail Fondahl and Anna Anatol’evna
Sirina, “Working Borders and Shifting Identities in the Russian Far North”, Geoforum, 34
(2003), 541-56. Ronald Grigor Suny and Terry Martin, A State of Nations: Empire and Nation-
Making in the Age of Lenin and Stalin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); Francine
Hirsch, “Toward an Empire of Nations: Border-Making and the Formation of Soviet
National Identities”, Russian Review, 59 (2000), 201-26; and Hélène Carrère d’Encausse,
L’empire éclaté: la révolte des nations en URSS (Paris: Flammarion, 1978).
While many of these compact civic domains were built upon existing
patterns of trade and movement in the south, the north was quite different.
Here local peoples, with their knowledge of how to identify subsistence
resources as they moved and with their domesticated reindeer, were not
necessarily tied to one particular place, although to claim that they were
completely nomadic would also be an exaggeration. Engineers of socialism
put a lot of energy into inscribing “national autonomous districts” across the
river valleys and mountain escarpments of the northern part of Krasnoyarsk
Territory where they had very little relevance.
One consistent quality in Baluev’s work is his attempt to make these
newly created districts appear solid and real. As Savoskul noted following
his short survey of Baluev’s collection: Baluev had a remarkable interest in
capturing geography lessons, in which children would follow these ephemeral
boundaries with their fingers (Fig. 15.8).54
Fig. 15.8 Geography lesson in grade seven at the Russian School.

Evenkii National District, Tura Settlement, January 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1546).

There are many such staged photographs taken in different parts of this vast
region. One might add that Baluev also had an interest in maps. In many
cases, he simply photographed paper maps wherever he found them —
perhaps to help document the expedition, or to provide a reference copy for
himself when he returned home (Fig. 15.2). It must be understood that these
maps were undoubtedly rare, having been freshly printed, and that even the
intellectuals in Krasnoyarsk might not be too sure where the boundaries of
one district ended and another began.
One remarkable exercise, in which he invested a lot of effort, was
photographing the exact place where one district turned into another.
Baluev created an entire series of photographs attempting to document the
division between the northerly Taimyr National District and its southern
neighbour, the Evenki National District. On one photograph (Fig. 15.9), he
notes with irony that the trapper Nikolai Nikloaevich Botulu, who traps
from a collective farm within Taimyr, actually sets his deadfalls for Arctic
foxes within the Evenki National District.
Fig. 15.9 The Yakut Nikolai N. Botulu (Katykhinskii) with a polar fox caught in the
jaws of a trap. He was from Ezhova, Taimyr National District, but his traps were
located in the Evenki National District, 1938 (EAP016/4/1/315).
This comment draws attention to the arbitrariness of these divisions. On 9

February 1939, at another border, between Evenkia and Boguchan County,
he desperately tries but fails to find the frontier among the trees (Fig. 15.10).
He captures the same scene in his diary:
Today we crossed the border between Evenkia and Boguchan County. I had
an idea to capture the exact place where the [National] District became a
County, but neither my guide nor the people in the postal caravan we met
on the road could give me an exact answer as to where the border was. I
took a photograph of the place that B. I. [Boris Iosofich Dolgikh] indicated
for me. We are now travelling in a mixed forest.
Fig. 15.10 Krasnoyarsk krai forest on the border of the Evenki National District,
Boguchansk Region, February 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1646).
Built structures
A second marked feature of the Baluev collection is the photographer’s
attention to institutional architecture. In every named, populated place he
made a concerted effort to photograph every government building and note
the institution it held. If poor weather prevented him from taking photographs,
he held the images in his head until the weather cleared, and then he would
quickly “photograph the place”. Unfortunately, his diary does not give much
insight into how he made his selection of what to photograph. It is tempting
to conclude that Baluev was checking off either a formal or implicit list of all
the institutions that made up Soviet civic order. In every named place we have
photographs of schools, collective farms, nursing stations, boats and other
vehicles, as if these were the architectural grammar from which a civilised
place was constructed. His choice of objects is presented as self-evident:
3 January 1939, Tura. I tried today to photograph the village, but as with the
previous days my efforts were not rewarded with success. […] The cold is
the main thing that is freezing my work.
4 January 1939, Tura. In the evening I photographed students of Evenkia’s

primary school in their school.
6 January 1939, Tura. At noon I walked around Tura glancing at interesting

subjects to photograph, but it was impossible to photograph them since the
fog was covering everything.
8 January 1939, Tura. The temperature rose to minus 38. The fog thinned and
I took advantage of the opportunity to run around Tura to take a picture of
whatever I could.
9 January 1939, Tura. I got up at 10.00 and after breakfast went to photograph
[different] means of transport in Tura. Yesterday I made arrangements that all
the automobiles and horses would be ready. The reindeer, to my great fortune,
were standing in front of the School of Political Enlightenment [politprosvet
shkola], although their antlers were unattractive [Fig. 15.11]. I dropped the
idea of photographing the reindeer and instead went to the place where all
the Tura vehicles are concentrated. After doing ‘the transport’ I went to the
Fur Exchange [Fig. 15.12].
Fig. 15.11 Three modes of transport: reindeer, sleigh and truck. Evenki National
District, Tura, 1939. © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia (KKKM 3767), all rights reserved.
Fig. 15.12 Evenki hunter Danil V. Miroshko trading furs. The head of the exchange
is Luka Pavlovich Shcherbakov. Tura, January 1939. © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia
(KKKM 3822), all rights reserved.
By documenting this architectural grammar, Baluev allows the viewer to

think that even this remote corner of the Soviet Union has a familiar feel
and function, just like every other corner. However, there are also points
of resistance and even cynicism. We already cited above his dissatisfaction
and sense of frustration towards Strulev, who diverted the expedition
from their homeward journey to photograph the newly formed state farm
(sovkhoz) at what is today Surinda (Figs. 15.13 and 15.14).
Fig. 15.13 A reindeer herd with herder from the Reindeer Sovkhoz (state farm), NKZ.
Evenki National District, February 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1341).
The same diary entry continues:

[It was] another 15km to the headquarters of the state farm. It was dark. I
was terribly tired not having slept for two nights being on the road all the
time. And now I was travelling again at night. The state farm reindeer were
weak. They barely pulled us. […] The reindeer did not run in a straight line
but would escape into the metre-deep snow, or the thick brush, and we
would have to stop to retrieve our sleds. [… 25 January] I got up at 6.00,
looked around the camp, dried my reindeer-skin leggings [bakhari] and
ordered the men to harness the reindeer. […] I went around photographing
what I could. This morning the sun reflected off the snow and burned our
eyes. […] Taking pictures of reindeer is very clumsy.
Fig. 15.14 Headquarters for the Reindeer Sovkhoz (state farm), NKZ. A chum (conical
tent) is in the foreground, a new home for Evenki labourers in the background.
Here, aside from venting his dissatisfaction at the reality of travel in this
region, Baluev indicates a dislike for collective subjects like reindeer herds
— subjects of great scale and variety. This observation resonates with the
character of his portfolio; with the exception of this one image, all of his
other images feature a single building, a portrait or a rather strictly posed
group of people. It seems that in his aesthetic view there were limits to the
demands of state authorities on what should be photographed.
Within his chosen frame of the intimate subject, however, there was room for
personal interest and visual juxtaposition. After filing dozens of photographs
of imposing log structures with multiple smoking chimneys, he liked to add
photographs of how modest people lived. One particularly striking image
captures a hastily-constructed Yakut tent pitched in among the grid-like
structures of the capital of the Evenki National District, Tura (Fig. 15.15).
Fig. 15.15 Yakut tent in Tura in the winter. Evenki National District, Tura settlement,
January 1939 (EAP016/4/1/1556). © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia, all rights reserved.
Reinvented traditions
Soviet transformation was often illustrated with depictions of rituals reinvented
for a new era. In Baluev’s portfolio, a series of photographs portray the
reconfiguration of a traditional Slavic New Year’s celebration as a “tree
celebration” (elka). The entry in his diary seems to suggest that Baluev
documented the celebration simply because at the darkest time of year it
was difficult to take any pictures outside.
1 January 1939, Tura. Today we allowed ourselves to relax in our sleeping
bags as long as we wished. We got up at 12 o’clock. It was a clear day, minus
51 degrees. Tura was sitting in clouds of steam and smoke. The visibility
was not more than 70-100 sazhen. In the sky one could see that the sun was
peeking up far away (but it didn’t warm us). By 2 o’clock there was the fog
before the sunset and by 3 o’clock people were already lighting lamps in their
flats. It is very boring. At 4pm the procurator came by to visit. […] at 7pm I
photographed the New Year’s tree in the school.
Fig. 15.16 New Year’s tree celebration at the secondary school.

© Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia, (KKKM 3759), all rights reserved.
In Fig. 15.16, we see a group of children standing before the festive tree
adorned in an array of costumes representing various nationalities (Cossack
militiamen, Russian peasants and possibly Uzbeks), iconic labourers (such
as a sailor), as well as animals from fairy tales (a fox or wolf, etc.). This looks
like a relatively familiar spectacle of organised youth theatre in the winter
holiday season. The Soviet New Year tradition eclipsed the old Orthodox
Christmas, which was celebrated on 7 January. The festival culture of the
officially atheist state was an important element in the production of everyday
Soviet socialism that stripped old festivals of their religious symbolism and
remade them as non-spiritual celebrations of human community and national
patriotism. The costumes in this photograph appear to be part of a staged
programme, perhaps in part celebrating the communist international — an
aspirational community of happy communist nationalities. The calendric
marker of the decorated tree and the masks demarcate a carnival time defined
by collective celebration even at the most remote edges of the Soviet empire.
Conclusion
Although overtly focused on documenting Soviet futures, Baluev’s images
from the Northern Expedition came, more often than not, to be consulted by
historians, museum workers and anthropologists in an effort to document
the vanishing past. The two enterprises are of course linked, since a view
to the past can give an impression of the tremendous distance a society has
travelled. Savoskul’s Russian-language overview of the Northern Expedition
has done the most to document the way that Baluev’s images were circulated
and cited. Savoskul’s interest in the development of the security state leads
him to note that
[…] the photographs of I. I. Baluev even came to the need of the employees
of the GULAG. In December of 1954, the Museum received a letter on the
letterhead of the Political Division of the NKVD Noril’sk Labour Education
Camp. It turned out that in preparation for the publication of a book celebrating
the 25th anniversary of the Komsomol [the agency] was lacking photographic
material on the life and living conditions of the ‘indigenous population of
the Taimyr National District which was absolutely necessary to illustrate the
introduction to the collection’.55
Baluev’s images began to circulate among anthropologists and museum workers,

specialists in the representation of cultural traditions. In 1939, the Russian
Ethnographic Museum requested copies of the material from the Northern
Expedition, perhaps including photographs.56 A selection of his photographs
was sent in 1941 to the Museum of Ethnography and Anthropology in Leningrad
in order to enrich their collections on the native peoples of central Siberia.57 At
least one public exhibit was organised in Krasnoyarsk from the materials of
the Northern Expedition to illustrate “the progressiveness of Leninist-Stalinist
Nationality policies in the backward regions of the USSR”.58 In all cases it was
others who selected and circulated the images on Baluev’s behalf.
Although the use of these images to create a sense of distance from the
past is quite understandable, we feel that it misrepresents the spirit of this
collection. In this article we placed our emphasis on how this photographer
tried to balance inherited styles of field photography, the difficult technical
challenges of winter work in the sub-Arctic and a rather strict laundry-list
55 Savoskul, “Etnograf Krasnoiarskogo muzeia”, p. 116 (note 9).

56 Ibid., p. 113.
57 Ibid., p. 111.
58 The date and content of this exhibit unfortunately is not known, although one would
expect it to have taken place the early 1940s. KKKM, 1842-1-599, pp. 4, 6.
of requisite topics with an element of intuition and style. We argue that this
particular photographer during this troubled time felt limitations and saw
opportunities, and that this comes out strongly in his images. For example,
one of Baluev’s photographs was published in an early twenty-first century
English-language monograph documenting the effects of the redistributive
state on the psychology and ways of life of forest hunters (Fig. 15.17).59
Fig. 15.17 Children performing exercises under a portrait of Stalin (a small portrait
of the assassinated Bolshevik leader, Sergei Kirov, is behind the teacher’s head)
(EAP016/4/1/1246). © Krasnoyarsk Museum, Siberia, all rights reserved.
59 Nikolai V. Ssorin-Chaikov, The Social Life of the State in Subarctic Siberia (Stanford, CA:
This photograph, taken in the boarding school in Tura, portrays a group of

young school children happily conducting their lessons under a gigantic
image of Josef Stalin in the background. In the book it was selected to evoke
a sinister Orwellian tone. However, when taken in context with the rest of
the collection, the photograph was likely composed to illustrate a comforting
form of social inclusion.60
This particular exercise also illustrates a human side to one of the more
technocratic institutions of modern life — the archive itself. As we mentioned
several times in this chapter, there are few social memories or material remains
of the life and work of Baluev other than his photographs and the personnel
files housed in the KKKM. Without the archive itself, and indeed without
the intervention of the EAP, the vision and words of this artist might have
disappeared. Just as his glass-plates provided a window onto vanishing lives,
the archive has given us an important window onto Baluev’s work and life.61
60 David G. Anderson and Craig Campbell, “Picturing Central Siberia: The Digitization
and Analysis of Early Twentieth-Century Central Siberian Photographic Collections”,
Sibirica, 8 (2009), 1-42 (p. 30, Fig. 17).
61 The digitisation of the Baluev archive was primarily funded by a grant from the Arcadia
Foundation administered by the British Library as part of the Endangered Archives
Programme (EAP016). The work on the attributions and the writing of this article was
funded by the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC ES/K006428/1), “Etnos: A Life
History of the Etnos Concept Among the Peoples of the North”. We are very grateful to the
Krasnoyarsk Territory Regional Museum for permission to reproduce all the images in this
article. We would also like to thank the two anonymous reviewers and the volume editor
for their highly detailed comments, which greatly improved the manuscript. Finally, we
would like to thank Zoe Todd for her last-minute help in formatting and proofing the
chapter.
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Trut, V. P., “Tragediia raskazachivaniia”, in Donskoi vremennik. God 2004-i:
Kraevedcheskii al’manakh, ed. by L. A. Stavdaker (Rostov-on-Don: Donskaia
gosudarstvennaia publichnaia biblioteka, 2004).
Uvachan, N., Perekhod k sotsializmu malykh narodov Severa (Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe
izdatel’stvo politicheskoi literatury, 1958).
Vainshtein, S. I., “Sud’ba Borisa Osipovicha Dolgikh: cheloveka, grazhdanina,
uchenogo”, in Repressirovannye etnografy, ed. by D. D. Tumarkin (Moskva:
Vostochnaia Literatura, 1999), pp. 284-307.
Weiner, Douglas R., A Little Corner of Freedom: Russian Nature Protection from Stalin to
Gorbachëv (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1999).
Wolf, Erika, “SSSR na stroike: From Constructivist Visions to Construction Sites”, in

USSR in Construction: An Illustrated Exhibition Magazine, ed. by Petter Osterlund
(Sundsvall: Fotomuseet Sundsvall, 2006).
—, “The Soviet Union: From Worker to Proletarian Photography”, in The Worker-
Photography Movement, 1926-1939: Essays and Documents, ed. by Jorge Ribalta
(Madrid: Museo Centro de Arte Reina Sofía, 2011), pp. 32-50.
Yurchak, Alexei, Everything Was Forever, Until It Was No More: The Last Soviet
Generation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006).
Archival resources
Antsiferova, 1938.06.02. Spisok raboty po fotosnimki Krasnoiarskogo kraevogo
muzei ekspeditsii eduiushie na Sever KKKM fond 1842 opis 1 delo 599 list 26.
Baluev, I. I., 1935.06.15. Avtobiografiia. KKKM-Nauchnyi arkhiv, opis 02 delo 44
list 2-3.
Baluev, I. I., 1941.5.12. Anketnyi list I. I. Balueva. KKKM-Nauchnyi arkhiv, opis 02
delo 44 list 11-12.
Baluev, I. I., 1938-39. Dnevnik ekspeditsii museia na Sever Krasnoiarskogo Kraia v
1938-1939. KKKM-Nauchnyi arkhiv, 7886 Pir 222 (in three separate notebooks).
Dolgikh, B., 1939. Predvaritel’nyi otchet etnografa Severnoi ekspeditsii
Krasnoiarskgo kraevogo muzeia 1938-39 gg. KKKM, fond 1843, opis 1 delo 600
list 1-12.
Dolgikh, B., 1937.12.28. Plan ekspeditsii etnograficheskogo kabineta Krasn. Gos.
Muzeiana 1938g Number p/n 1842, opis 01, delo 599, 4-5. Programma raboty
ekspeditsii po sotsialistichekomu stroitelstvu Severa Krasnoiarskogo Kraia.
KKKM, fond 1842, opis 1 delo 599 list 24-25.
Strulev, M. S., 1938. Materialy sotsstroitel’stva po Evenkiiskomu natsional’nomu
okrugu. Statisticheskie dannye. KKKM, osnovnoi fond 7886/PIr 223.
16. Archiving a Cameroonian
photographic studio
David Zeitlyn
In 2005, I helped to organise an exhibition of the work of Joseph Chila and

Samuel Finlak, two Cameroonian studio photographers, at the National Portrait
Gallery, London.1 This arose from my then twenty-year involvement as a social
anthropologist working in Cameroon. Chila later introduced me to his “patron”,
Jacques Toussele, who had taught him photography in the early 1960s (Figs. 16.1-
16.4). Together we made several visits to “Photo Jacques” in Mbouda, Western
Province, and I was shown the pile of boxes containing what I now know to be
approximately 45,000 medium format negatives and some uncollected prints: the
legacy of Toussele’s forty-year career.2 The collection is an unparalleled archive
of local photographic practices spanning several decades. Among the negative
archives of the studios, as well as administrative (identity) photographs, we found
marriage photographs, family groups, new babies and young couples. Others
mark funerals and in some cases illness. Road traffic accidents and buildings
under construction are among the other types of image.
With the help of the British Library’s Endangered Archives Programme
(EAP), the negatives have been scanned and catalogued.3 This was the first
step in ensuring their long-term survival and making them available for a wide
1 See Joseph Chila and Samuel Finlak: Two Portrait Photographers in Cameroon, ed. by Ingrid
Swenson (London: Peer, 2005).
2 No glass plate negatives — as used in the 1960s in the camera shown (Fig. 16.1) — have
survived, although a very small number of plastic plates were found and have been
scanned. The archive covers the period from approximately 1970 to 1990.
3 EAP054: Archiving a Cameroonian photographic studio, http://eap.bl.uk/database/
overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP054.
© David Zeitlyn, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.16

range of different research purposes to scholars in Cameroon and elsewhere.

I prepared an application to the EAP after discussing the possibility with
Toussele, who was bleak about the prospects for black-and-white photography.
The archive project gave him and his photographs a new lease of life as well
as the hope of a renewed income. At the time of writing in 2014, the negatives
remain in Toussele’s personal possession, and thus the archival story has not yet
finished. The project is unlike cases of “digital repatriation” in that the images
never left Cameroon; however, most Cameroonians, even in the Mbouda area,
had and have no idea that the negatives survive. Therefore, digitisation will
open the collection to wider access in the longer term, with parallels to some
of the earlier “repatriation” projects such as Digital Himalaya.4
Fig. 16.1 Jacques Toussele with a plate camera in 1965.

4 See the Digital Himalaya website at http://www.digitalhimalaya.com. See also Mark

Turin, “Born Archival: The Ebb and Flow of Digital Documents from the Field”, History
and Anthropology, 22 (2011), 445-60.
Archiving a Cameroonian photographic studio 533
Fig. 16.2 Jacques Toussele in 2001. Photo by author, CC BY-NC-ND.
More than a bare collection of negatives, Toussele’s photographs offer a rare

archive of local photographic practices, now documented with his assistance
(Toussele still lives in the community where these photographs were taken).
In its relative completeness and range of subject matter, the archive provides
a way of contextualising the work of the few internationally famous African
photographers. For all their achievements, we should not let Seydou Keïta,
Malick Sidibé and a few others stand for the whole of Africa.5
Since its pioneering work began in the late 1970s,6 there has been an
explosion of both art historical and anthropological interest in African
photography. Exhibitions such as In/Sight at the Guggenheim, New York in
1996, and similar displays in Paris and the United Kingdom, are the proof.7
5 See Seydou Keïta, ed. by André Magnin (Zurich: Scalo, 1997). For parallels from Togo and
Ivory Coast, see Jean-François Werner, “La photographie de famille en Afrique de l’ouest:
une méthode d’approche ethnographique”, Xoana, 1 (1993), 35-49; and idem, “Twilight
of the Studios in Ivory Coast”, in Anthology of African and Indian Ocean Photography, ed. by
Pascal Martin Saint Léon and N’Goné Fall (Paris: Revue Noire, 1999), pp. 92-103.
6 For example, Stephen Sprague, “Yoruba Photography: How the Yoruba See Themselves”,
African Arts, 12 (1978), 52-59.
7 For more on the Paris exhibition, see Anne-Marie Bouttiaux, Alain D’Hoogue and Jean
Several books published in the 1990s attest to widening interest among

art historians and other researchers in non-western photography. For
example, Christopher Pinney discussed colonial and Indian influences on
image-making in India, while Deborah Poole considered ideas of race and
image in the Andes; Elizabeth Edwards provided an overview of the uses
of anthropological photographs soon after.8 The publications of the 1990s
represent the beginning of a true art history of African photography. This
research continues to examine the social roles that photographs play and
the different ways in which they can be studied.9
The cultural context of photography in Cameroon

Professional black-and-white photography in Cameroon had been under threat
from colour since the 1980s. Following the introduction of new identity cards
in 1998, it has now all but disappeared. The cards were issued complete with
instant photographs, removing the need for black-and-white, 4cm by 4cm
“passport photographs” (Figs. 16.5 and 16.8-16.9). Such black-and-white “wet
photography” had meant that images could be produced easily without much
technology or infrastructure (whereas printing colour images, whether film or
digital, requires more complex and expensive equipment). Rural photographers
could process and print the film without access to electricity. Throughout West
Africa, therefore, a small supporting industry of photographers (whose ranks
included Sidibé, Augustt and Keïta, mentioned above) has effectively been
destroyed by the computerisation of national identity cards and the arrival of
cheaper 35mm colour processing in the cities. Toussele is among many such
photographers to have lost their livelihoods in Cameroon.
Although these photographers were sustained by administrative
requirements (for example, the need for ID photographs), such requirements
did not fully determine the kinds of images they could take. Bureaucratic
Loup Pivin, L’Afrique par elle-même: un siècle de photographie africaine (Paris: Revue Noire,
2003). For the UK exhibition, see Kobena Mercer, Self-Evident (Birmingham: Ikon Gallery,
1995). An overview is presented in Anthology of African and Indian Ocean Photography, ed.
by Saint Léon and Fall.
8 See Christopher Pinney, Camera Indica: The Social Life of Indian Photographs, Envisioning
Asia (London: Reaktion, 1997); Deborah Poole, Vision, Race and Modernity: A Visual
Economy of the Andean Image World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997); and
Elizabeth Edwards, Raw Histories: Photographs, Anthropology and Museums (Oxford: Berg,
2001).
9 See work in collections such as The African Photographic Archive, ed. by Darren Newbury
and Christopher Morton (London: Bloomsbury, forthcoming in 2015); Photography in
Africa: Ethnographic Perspectives, ed. by Richard Vokes (Woodbridge: James Currey,
2012); and Portraiture and Photography in Africa: African Expressive Cultures, ed. by John
Peffer and Elisabeth L. Cameron (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2013).
demands provided a secure economic basis for the studios and rendered
the cost of other photographs affordable for clients (Figs. 16.5 and 16.17).
Fig. 16.3 The studio in 1973 (EAP054/1/123/56).

Fig. 16.4 The studio building in 2006. Photo by author, CC BY-NC-ND.

Fig. 16.5 A street seller (EAP054/1/54/58). © Jacques Toussele, CC BY-NC-ND.
Fig. 16.6 Portrait for an ID card (EAP054/1/94/167). © Jacques Toussele, CC BY-NC-ND.

Fig. 16.7 Portrait of an elderly man with spear and pipe (EAP054/1/68/125).
Fig. 16.8 Portrait for an ID card (EAP054/1/177/24). © Jacques Toussele, CC BY-NC-ND.

Fig. 16.9 Portraits for school ID cards. Double exposure on a single negative
(EAP054/1/52/144). © Jacques Toussele, CC BY-NC-ND.
To give a more concrete idea of the relative frequency of the different kinds
of photographs found in the archive, just over half of the total of 46,504 are
passport-style photographs for national identity cards. Recreational images
include many groups of family or friends (3,522 images contain more than
two people) as well as photographs of babies. I note that there are almost as
many images of road traffic accidents (191) as there are of weddings (212).
There are also a small number of photographs taken in hospital showing
bandaged patients recovering after surgery. I have done other such counts
with Cameroonian contemporaries of Toussele, and the relative percentages
are similar.10
It must also be noted that even identity card photographs are of considerable
research interest, especially when one examines the entire negative and not
just the head and shoulders which were printed for the passport-style image.
This raises a host of problems and issues about representation and analysis
(by whom and of what) which, to my mind, gives this project a dynamic
tension. The analysis of individual photographs or groups of photographs
10 I surveyed the work of Samuel Finlak and Joseph Chila, as well as a smaller sample of
negatives from Photo Royale, Banyo.
are problematic in many different senses. They are transformed by being

archived and viewed as part of “a collection” in, variously, the Cameroon
national archives, the university archives or a photographer’s shop.11 There is
a dynamic of appropriation, not only by the researcher but by the state and the
photographer as well — for older identity card photos, the negatives were left
with commercial photographers or the sitters (see below). Now that identity
cards are digitised, there are no negatives and only government representatives
can make and “own” these important images. There is no longer the possibility
of reusing them for other non-bureaucratic purposes.
Between client and photographer a delicate negotiation, often unspoken, took
place about props, backcloth and pose. The photographers I have interviewed
are insistent that although they made suggestions and delicate adjustments,
the choices of poses and props were made by the clients.12 Many different
conventions become visible when one compares images of similar categories
taken by different photographers. In other papers I discuss some of the tropes
at play, but here I am concerned more with the archival side of the project.13
Uses of photographs
The images had many uses and these often changed over time. If the single
most common reason for commissioning a photograph from one of the studio
photographers was to get a passport-style print for the national identity card
(or school cards for secondary school pupils), then there were also many
casual or recreational uses. Photographs of families, babies, weddings and
friends were taken for display, storage or discussion when albums were
passed around.14 Weddings, funerals, official meetings, hospital treatments
and traffic accidents are among the different sorts of images found in
photographers’ collections of negatives.
In some cases, a single print or image could serve different purposes
over time: the ID photos of the elderly are in many cases the only surviving
11 For further discussion, see David Zeitlyn, “Redeeming Some Cameroonian Photographs:
Reflections on Photographs and Representations”, in The African Photographic Archive, ed.
by Newbury and Morton.
12 The main interviews were with Toussele, Chila and Finlak, but I also spoke with several
other photographers in Adamaoua, Central, Northwest and West Regions of Cameroon.
13 My other papers include David Zeitlyn, “A Dying Art?: Archiving Photographs in
Cameroon”, Anthropology Today, 25/4 (2009), 23-26; and idem, “Photographic Props/The
Photographer as Prop: The Many Faces of Jacques Toussele”, History and Anthropology,
21 (2010), 453-77.
14 For an early description of how albums were used to introduce families to strangers,
see Janheinz Jahn, Durch Afrikanische Türen: Erlebnisse Und Begegnungen in Westafrika
(Frankfurt: Fischer Bücherei, 1967 [1960]), pp. 169-72.
photographs of grandparents. After a death, the identity card may be copied

for an enlarged print to be displayed on the wall. Such photographs are
also on show in funerary celebrations, the so-called “cry-dies” which are
widespread in west Cameroon.15 Photographs were sent by villagers to
relatives in town (e.g. for secondary education). Those at school together
in the towns exchanged photographs before they graduated and scattered,
some returning to their villages of origin, others moving to other cities in
search of employment.
Sometimes prints were brought back to the studio to be copied (in literal
photocopies). Where these were Jacques’ own work, we can sometimes compare
the original negative with the copy of the original print. This comparison
can reveal a great deal about his dark-room practices, and about the ways
in which the negatives (which were scanned full-frame) were actually used
to create prints.
Fig. 16.10 A photocopy of a print of a man standing, showing how the original
negative was cropped (EAP054/1/4/145). © Jacques Toussele, CC BY-NC-ND.
15 See the film Funeral Season (La saison des funérailles): Marking Death in Cameroon, dir. by
Matthew Lancit (2010).
Fig. 16.11 Original negative for the print shown in Fig. 16.10 (EAP054/1/50/562).
Copyrights and permissions

The convention among studio photographers in Cameroon (and elsewhere
in West Africa) was a two-tier pricing structure. Clients paid a certain
amount per print but had to make an additional payment if they wanted the
negative as well. The archiving project is therefore strictly concerned with
the negatives the clients chose not to redeem. Moreover, it is impossible
to get permission from the people who commissioned the photographs:
Toussele did not keep records of his clients, hence we have no means of
contacting them. As is conventional in photographic copyright law, the
assumption is that the owner of the negative holds the copyright, and
this has been reserved by Toussele. He signed a licence with the EAP
allowing the negatives to be scanned and the scans to be distributed for
non-commercial purposes only. All commercial rights are reserved by
him, and the London-based charity, Autograph ABP, are acting as his
commercial agents.
Vulnerability
Until our project began, Toussele’s collection was vulnerable.16 It was stored
in a back room of the studio under a leaking roof. When I opened several
boxes at random they showed signs of deterioration and damage — some
negatives had stuck together (Figs. 16.12 and 16.13). The negatives are of
medium format and mainly high quality (good contrast and well-fixed).
Many were very dusty and had suffered from the damp; it was necessary
to wash them before copying. This work was undertaken by Emmanuel
Noupembong, a former apprentice of Toussele who had recently retired
from service as a photographer for the Cameroonian government.
Toussele is ageing and not in the best of health. He collaborated with the
project team of four people to provide basic documentation. He was also
able to recognise some of the people in the photographs, enabling future
research to be undertaken and thus greatly enhancing the importance of
the archive. However, it should be noted that recognising someone is not
the same as knowing their name — often all we could record was that this
person came from that village.
Nonetheless, it is anticipated that the archive will enable scholars to raise
a wide range of issues about the presentation of self, changing fashions
and global patterns of influence as mediated by local norms of appropriate
behaviour in public. An example might be the influence of magazines such
as Vogue and Paris Match which in the 1970s led some young women to be
photographed in daring mini-dresses, and some men to be pictured parading
in trousers known locally as “patte d’éléphant” (“elephant’s foot”), the widest
of flares. The Toussele archive permits a systematic examination of modes of
displaying “modernity” and of being fashionable. I look forward to a new
generation of African historians and scholars exploring the archive in ways
I cannot imagine.
16 It is very likely that, had I not been in touch with Toussele, the collection of negatives would
have been burnt or discarded when he left his studio. I have met many photographers
from his generation who have not retained their black-and-white negatives. Many
reasons are given, the most common being that “since no one is interested any more,
there is no money in it”.
Fig. 16.12 Baptism. Damaged negative (EAP054/1/44/45).

Fig. 16.13 Negatives before scanning. Photo by author, CC BY-NC-ND.

Archival realities
Originally it was proposed to use digital SLR cameras to copy the negatives,
but further consultation and testing persuaded me that higher quality could
be achieved with dedicated negative scanners. Moreover, during the initial
phase of the project an Epson scanner was available which could scan direct
to a memory card without an intermediary computer. It was originally
planned that Toussele and Chila would copy the collection, but this proved
impossible in practice. Between the application’s submission and its acceptance,
the owner of the studio building in Mbouda decided to redevelop, and so
Toussele was given notice to quit by his landlord. My arrival was fortuitous,
and I was able to help him clear out the studio. In the end, the negatives were
temporarily taken from the studio to the British Council Library in Yaoundé,
where they were scanned by an operator trained specifically for the project.
After scanning, the memory cards were used to make duplicate DVDs in
a standalone burner. Of the DVDs, one went to the British Library where it
was eventually made available online, and the other went back to Toussele
so that he has his own set of the scans. A Cameroonian coordinator made
prints from the DVDs on an ordinary laser printer; these were then sent with
data forms back to Mbouda, where a small team worked with Toussele to
produce basic documentation of the images (Fig. 16.14). The results were
typed up in a database (the basis of the archive’s catalogue).
Fig. 16.14 The documentary team at work in Mbouda.

The project produced a reference digital archive, licensed for free educational
use, based on the surviving negatives and reference prints in Toussele’s
studio.17 Copies on hard drives were deposited at the National Archives in
Yaoundé (which supported the project from the outset), at the University of
Dschang (which is the nearest university to Mbouda), and at the University of
Ngaoundéré (which already has experience of archiving digital photographs
through its collaboration with the University of Tromso on the archives of
the early Norwegian missionaries), as well as at the British Council Library
in Cameroon.
Looking to the future

Now completed, the archive provides raw material for a wide range of
different research projects. An example of what is possible may be found
in the work of Katie McKeown, who made a brief visit to Mbouda when
studying for her master’s degree in 2007.18 Her research led to a small
exhibition of Toussele’s work at the Pitt Rivers Museum, Oxford in 2007-
2008. As this book goes to press in 2015, a documentary film made by Regis
Talla about Toussele and his peers is in production, and a research student
(funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Council in collaboration with
the British Library) has started field research in Cameroon.
I hope Toussele’s collection will inspire other archiving work and
enable many different new research projects. Moreover, as was indicated
at the beginning of this essay, I hope that such archives allow the history of
African photography to be written on the basis of a large and representative
sample rather than a few exemplary cases.19
17 The archive is available at http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP054

18 Katie McKeown, “Studio Photo Jacques: A Professional Legacy in Western Cameroon”,
History of Photography, 34 (2010), 181-92.
19 The project could not have taken place without the generous support of the British
Library’s Endangered Archives Programme. In Cameroon, the Yaoundé office of the
British Council have provided invaluable logistical support to the NGO “AAREF”, which
has dealt with the everyday running of the project. The Cameroon National Archives
have also encouraged the project from its inception. At the University of Kent (where
I was based while the archiving took place), staff in the university’s photographic unit
were extremely helpful in helping me move from theory to practice. An earlier version of
this article appeared as David Zeitlyn, “Archiving a Cameroonian Photographic Studio
with the Help of the British Library ‘Endangered Archives Programme’”, African Research
and Documentation, 165 (2009), 13-26.
References
Bouttiaux, Anne-Marie, Alain D’Hoogue and Jean Loup Pivin, eds., L’Afrique par
elle-même: un siècle de photographie africaine (Paris: Revue Noire, 2003).
Edwards, Elizabeth, Raw Histories: Photographs, Anthropology and Museums (Oxford:
Berg, 2001).
Jahn, Janheinz, Durch afrikanische Türen: Erlebnisse und Begegnungen in Westafrika
(Frankfurt: Fischer Bücherei, 1967 [1960]).
Magnin, André, ed., Seydou Keïta (Zurich: Scalo, 1997).
McKeown, Katie, “Studio Photo Jacques: A Professional Legacy in Western
Cameroon”, History of Photography, 34 (2010), 181-92.
Mercer, Kobena, Self-Evident (Birmingham: Ikon Gallery, 1995).
Newbury, Darren and Christopher Morton, eds., The African Photographic Archive
(London: Bloomsbury, forthcoming in 2015).
Peffer, John, and Elisabeth L. Cameron, eds., Portraiture and Photography in Africa:
African Expressive Cultures (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2013).
Pinney, Christopher, Camera Indica: The Social Life of Indian Photographs (Reaktion:
London, 1997).
Poole, Deborah, Vision, Race and Modernity: A Visual Economy of the Andean Image
World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997).
Saint Léon, Pascal Martin, and N’Goné Fall, eds., Anthology of African and Indian
Ocean Photography (Paris: Revue Noire, 1999).
Sprague, Stephen, “Yoruba Photography: How the Yoruba See Themselves”, African
Arts, 12 (1978), 52-59.
Turin, Mark, “Born Archival: The Ebb and Flow of Digital Documents from the
Field”, History and Anthropology, 22 (2011), 445-60.
Vokes, Richard, ed., Photography in Africa: Ethnographic Perspectives (Woodbridge:
James Currey, 2012).
Werner, Jean-François, “La photographie de famille en Afrique de l’ouest: une
méthode d’approche ethnographique”, Xoana, 1 (1993), 35-49.
—, “Produire des images en Afrique: l’exemple des photographes de studio”,
Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines, 36/141-42 (1996), 81-112.
—, “Twilight of the Studios in Ivory Coast”, in Anthology of African and Indian Ocean
Photography, ed. by Pascal Martin Saint Léon and N’Goné Fall (Paris: Revue
Noire, 1999).
Zeitlyn, David, “A Dying Art?: Archiving Photographs in Cameroon”, Anthropology
Today, 25/4 (2009), 23-26.
—, “Photographic Props/The Photographer as Prop: The Many Faces of Jacques
Toussele”, History and Anthropology, 21 (2010), 453-77.
—, “Redeeming Some Cameroonian Photographs: Reflections on Photographs and
Representations”, in The African Photographic Archive, ed. by Darren Newbury
and Christopher Morton (London: Bloomsbury, forthcoming in 2015).
17. Music for a revolution: the sound
archives of Radio Télévision Guinée
Graeme Counsel
I first travelled to West Africa in 1990. With little money and even less
experience I crossed the Sahara via Morocco and spent a few weeks in
Mauritania before returning home. This brief voyage had given me just a
glimpse of the region, but it was sufficient to drive my determination to
return. I was compelled to go to West Africa because of my interest in the
origins of the Blues, and my research led me on a journey to trace its roots
via the trans-Atlantic slave trade from Africa to the New World.1 Through
my research I had discovered the music of West Africa’s Mandé griots, and
this inspired my broader enquiries into the music of the region.
The Mandé are one of the largest ethnic groups in West Africa.
Descendants from the formation of the Empire of Mali in the thirteenth
century AD, today they number approximately twenty million people with
significant populations in the nations of Mali, Senegal, Guinea Bissau and
The Gambia. In Guinea they are known as Maninka. A griot 2 is a member
of one of the Mandé’s endogamous social groups, the nyamakala, which
includes blacksmiths, weavers and potters. Griots fulfil a multiplicity of
roles in Mandé communities, including that of genealogists, arbiters, and
masters of ceremonies at life events (births, circumcisions, weddings and
1 Graeme Counsel, Mande Popular Music and Cultural Policies in West Africa: Griots and
Government Policy since Independence (Saabrücken: VDM Verlag, 2009).
2 Griot is the French term for these musicians. It denotes a male musician, with griotte
referring to a female musician. In this text it is used in a non-gender specific sense.
Local terms for griots include djely and djelymoussou, for the male and female musician
respectively.
© Graeme Counsel, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.17

funerals). They have been described as “singer-historians”,3 and they

maintain an extensive repertoire of oral histories which are passed from
one generation to the next. These histories are often performed as songs.4
During a trip through Ghana, Burkina Faso, Mali, Senegal, The Gambia,
Guinea Bissau, Guinea and Côte d’Ivoire in 1994, I purchased a wide
variety of local recorded music. The age of vinyl recordings had long since
passed in West Africa, with newer mediums such as the audio cassette
being the format of choice throughout the region at this time. In Guinea,
however, I came across many local vinyl releases produced by a company
called Syliphone, the national recording label of Guinea. I started to collect
Syliphone’s vinyl discs from markets, locals, and wherever I could find
them. The catalogue numbers of the discs indicated that more than 100
recordings had been released.
The Syliphone 33.3 rpm and 45 rpm discs that I was collecting had many
features that set them apart from other African recordings of the era. A
lot of care had gone into their production: the cover art was high quality
glossy colour; the lyrics of the songs were often provided; the musicians
were named; and lengthy annotations providing a musicological analysis
were featured on many of the back covers. Another remarkable feature
was the excellent quality of the audio. The sound engineer’s positioning
of the microphones, the subtle use of echo effects, and the fidelity of the
production were of the most exceptional standard when compared with
recordings of a similar type. Such high quality audio had captured Guinea’s
musicians at their best, and they clearly rivalled, if not surpassed, the great
singers and groups from neighbouring Mali and Senegal.
Upon returning to Australia, I discovered that not only was scholarly
research concerning the music of Guinea almost non-existent, but that of
the few published discographies of West African music none could produce
a complete list of Syliphone recordings.5 It became apparent that the only
way to discover more about Syliphone was to obtain more of its catalogue.
As my Syliphone collection began to grow, so did my efforts to re-create the
3 Debra DeSalvo, The Language of the Blues: From Alcorub to Zuzu (New York: Billboard,
2006), p. 116.
4 Thomas A. Hale, Griots and Griottes: Masters of Words and Music (Gainesville, FL:
University of Florida Press, 1998); Eric Charry, Mande Music: Traditional and Modern
Music of the Maninka and Mandinka of Western Africa (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago
Press, 2000); and Counsel, Mande Popular Music.
5 Ronnie Graham, Stern’s Guide to Contemporary African Music, 2 vols (London: Pluto Press,
1988 and 1992); John Collins, West African Pop Roots (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University
Press, 1992); and Charry, Mande Music.
Music for a revolution 549
complete discography. I returned to West Africa on subsequent occasions

to continue my research, and each time I sought Syliphone recordings. I
began to publish my discographies6 and research,7 and had made contact
with African music collectors and experts, including John Collins, Günter
Gretz, Stefan Werdekker and Flemming Harrev. Of all of Africa’s major
recording labels we held Syliphone in very high regard.
During my doctoral fieldwork in Guinea in 2001, I met with personnel
from the sound archives of the national broadcaster, Radio Télévision Guinée
(RTG). Enquiries concerning Syliphone revealed that a significant section
of the RTG’s audio collection had been destroyed during an attempted
coup in 1985. The building had been bombed by artillery and the collection
of Syliphone discs was lost. I was shown some audio recordings on reel-
to-reel magnetic tape that consisted of unreleased recordings by Guinean
orchestras of the Syliphone era. I surmised that these were the master tapes
for potential Syliphone releases. A handwritten list of some fifty of these
audio reels was produced, which I understood to be the archive’s complete
holdings. The idea of a project to preserve these reels came to mind: a
project that would not only re-create the complete recording catalogue of
Syliphone but preserve its extant master tapes. I had been informed of the
Endangered Archives Programme (EAP) through a colleague, so I began
to formulate a project proposal.
The project context

On 28 September 1958, Guineans voted in a referendum to choose between
total independence from France or autonomy within a confederation of French
administered states. Guineans voted overwhelmingly for independence,
and on 2 October 1958 they became the first of France’s colonies in Africa
to become independent.8 Guinea’s bold demand for freedom defined the
6 In addition to the Syliphone catalogue, I have created discographies of major West

African recording labels including N’Dardisc, Mali Kunkan, Volta Discobel, Safie Deen,
Djima, Club Voltaïque du Disque and Société Ivoirienne du Disque. These are located at
my web site, Radio Africa, http://www.radioafrica.com.au
7 Graeme Counsel, “Popular Music and Politics in Sékou Touré’s Guinea”, Australasian
Review of African Studies, 26/1 (2004), 26-42; and idem, “Music in Guinea’s First Republic”
and “The Return of Mali’s National Arts Festival”, in Mande-Manding: Background Reading
for Ethnographic Research in the Region South of Bamako, ed. by Jan Jansen (Leiden: Leiden
University Department of Cultural Anthropology and Development Sociology, 2004).
8 Ruth Schachter Morgenthau, Political Parties in French-Speaking West Africa (Oxford:
Clarendon, 1964).
nation in the post-colonial era, though it came at a high cost. In a systematic

and calculated process, France withdrew all assistance and support, and
introduced a range of punitive economic measures that both impoverished
and isolated the new nation.9 In a spiteful exercise, medical equipment,
blueprints for the electrical and sewerage systems, electrical wiring, office
fittings, uniforms for the police, rubber stamps, and cutlery, amidst a host
of other items, were also removed or destroyed.10 Guinea had been made
an example of, and though greatly disadvantaged from its inception, the
nation nevertheless entered into independence full of optimism and hope,
energised by its youthful and charismatic leader, President Sékou Touré.
One of the immediate challenges for the new leader of Guinea’s First
Republic was the promotion of national unity.11 Touré was a strong proponent
of the ideology of pan-Africanism, which sought the political union of all
Africans. He believed that regionalism and tribalism had been exploited
by the French in order to divide Guineans, and saw the task of developing
indigenous cultures as fundamental to the challenge of ridding his people
of the vestiges of the colonial mentality.12 Touré sought the “intellectual
decolonization”13 of his nation, with the idea that Guinean culture must
be revitalised, restored and re-asserted:
Marx and Ghandi have not contributed less to the progress of humanity
than Victor Hugo or Pasteur. But while we were learning to appreciate
such a culture and to know the names of its most eminent interpreters,
we were gradually losing the traditional notions of our own culture and
the memory of those who had thrown lustre upon it. How many of our
young schoolchildren who can quote Bossuet are ignorant of the life of El
Hadj Omar? How many African intellectuals have unconsciously deprived
themselves of the wealth of our culture so as to assimilate the philosophic
concepts of a Descartes or a Bergson? How many young men and young
girls have lost the taste for our traditional dances and the cultural value of
9 Claude Rivière, Guinea: The Mobilization of a People, trans. by Virginia Thompson and
Richard Adloff (London: Cornell University Press, 1977).
10 Counsel, Mande Popular Music, p. 73; and Don R. Browne, “Radio Guinea: A Voice of
Independent Africa”, Journal of Broadcasting, 7/2 (1963), 113-22 (pp. 114-15).
11 Victoire du Bois, Guinea: The Decline of the Guinean Revolution (New York: Columbia
12 Elizabeth Schmidt, “Emancipate Your Husbands! Women and Nationalism in Guinea,
1953-1958”, in Women in African Colonial Histories, ed. by Jean Allman, Susan Geiger and
Nakanyike Musisi (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2002), p. 50.
13 Sékou Touré, “The Political Leader Considered as the Representative of a Culture”,
Blackpast.org, 1959, http://www.blackpast.org/1959-sekou-toure-political-leader-
considered-representative-culture
our popular songs; they have all become enthusiasts for the tango or the
waltz or for some singer of charm or realism.14
In the prelude to independence Touré’s political party, the Parti Démocratique

du Guinée (PDG), utilised music as a means of disseminating its policies.
Women were instrumental in this role, and from the local markets to the train
stations, from the public water taps to the taxi stands, songs were the primary
means of communication to the PDG’s non-literate constituencies.15 Upon
independence, music became the focus of the government’s efforts to develop
an indigenous culture, and a few weeks after assuming power, the PDG created
its first orchestra, the Syli Orchestre National.16 The orchestra was composed of
the nation’s best musicians, hand-picked by the government.17 Touré decried
Guinean musicians who played only foreign music, stating “that if one could
not play the music of one’s country, then one should stop playing”.18 He issued
a decree which banned all private orchestras from performing, and foreign
music, in particular French music, was also removed from the government’s
radio broadcasts.19 All spheres of local musical production were targeted, with
the orchestra of the Republican Guard instructed to drop their colonial-era
military marches and adopt the “warlike melodies, epic songs and anthems
of ancient kingdoms and empires in Africa”.20
In the capital, Conakry, the government supported the members of the
Syli Orchestre National to form their own groups, such as Orchestre de la
14 Ibid.
15 Schmidt, “Emancipate Your Husbands!”, p. 287; and idem, Cold War and Decolonization in
Guinea, 1946-1958 (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 2007), p. 74.
16 African “orchestras” of this era should not be confused with concepts of classical music
orchestras. Rather, they should be considered as “dance orchestras” (a widely used local
term) in the vein of jazz-style or Cuban-style groups, first popular in the 1930s, whose
instrumentation includes: a brass section comprising of alto and tenor saxophones, and
trumpets; three to four electric guitars, including bass; timbales; congas; claves; and
a drum kit. Ten or more musicians and singers comprise an average orchestra in the
African context. See Collins, West African Pop Roots; Charry, Mande Music; and Counsel,
Mande Popular Music.
17 Guinean National Commission for UNESCO, “Cultural Policy in the Revolutionary
People’s Republic of Guinea”, in Studies and Documents on Cultural Policies, 51 (Paris:
UNESCO, 1979), p. 80; and Jean-Jacques Mandel, “Guinée: La long marche du blues
Manding”, Taxiville, 1 (1986), 36-38.
18 Sékou Camara, “Sékou Camara dit le Gros, membre-fondateur du Bembeya Jazz
National de Guinée”, interview by Awany Sylla, Africa Online, 20 December 1998.
19 Browne, “Radio Guinea", pp. 114-15; and Gérald Arnaud, “Bembeya se réveille”,
Africultures, 1 November 2002, http://www.africultures.com/php/?nav=article&no=2626
20 Wolibo Dukuré, La festival culturel national de la République Populaire Révolutionnaire de
Guinée (Conakry: Ministère de la Jeunesse des Sports et Arts Populaire, 1983), p. 58
(translation mine).
Bonne Auberge, Camara et ses Tambourinis, and Orchestre du Jardin de

Guinée.21 The government encouraged these new orchestras to compose
songs that befitted the era of independence, as demonstrated by a series of ten
LPs released from 1961 to 1963 by the American label Tempo International.
These discs represent the first commercial recordings of Guinean music of
the independence era, and were titled “Sons nouveau d’une nation nouvelle
[New Sounds from a New Nation]”. Guinea’s musicians were encouraged to
incorporate rhythms and melodies from the traditional musical repertoires
into their new compositions, and thus transpose traditional Guinean music
to a dance-orchestra setting.22
The Guinean government’s proactive approaches to creating orchestras
and directing music broadcasting are early examples of policies of cultural
nationalism. These became formalised when the government adopted
authenticité as its official cultural policy. Authenticité was a philosophy that
promoted a return to the values, ethics and customs found in “authentic”
African traditions. Where its predecessor, négritude, sought “a symbiosis
with other cultures”,23 the proponents of authenticité rejected such overtures
as pandering to the West. Authenticité was entirely Afrocentric, and it called
for “a self-awareness of ancestral values”.24 In Guinea this was achieved
under the catchcry of “regard sur le passé [look at the past]”, a phrase that
gained wide currency in the region following the release of a Syliphone
LP recording of the same title.25 Under authenticité, Guinea’s musicians
were encouraged to research the musical folklore of their regions and
incorporate aspects such as the melodies, lyrics and themes into their new
compositions. In effect, they were being asked to “look at the past” for their
artistic inspiration, and thus re-connect Guinean society to its cultural and
political history. Through this practice, the Guinean nation could advance
21 Interview with Linké Condé, Chef d’orchestre Keletigui et ses Tambourinis, Conakry, 24
December 2013. All interviews were conducted by the author, unless otherwise stated.
22 Bertrand Lavaine, “Independence and Music: Guinea and Authenticity. A Politicised
Music Scene”, RFI Music, 3 May 2010, http://www.rfimusique.com/musiqueen/
articles/125/article_8351.asp; and Mandel, pp. 36-38.
23 Leopold Senghor, cited in Stephen H. Grant, “Léopold Sédar Senghor, Former President
of Senegal”, Africa Report, 28/6 (1983), 61-64 (p. 64).
24 Michael Onyebuchi Eze, The Politics of History in Contemporary Africa (New York: Palgrave
MacMillan, 2010), p. 120.
25 Bembeya Jazz National, Regard sur le passé (Syliphone, SLP 8, c. 1968). See also Lansiné
Kaba, “The Cultural Revolution, Artistic Creativity, and Freedom of Expression in
Guinea’, The Journal of Modern African Studies, 14/2 (1976), 201-18.
because, as Touré declared, “each time we adopt a solution authentically

African in its nature and its design, we will solve our problems easily”.26
Having banned all orchestras, the PDG set about creating new groups.
The Guinean state is divided into more than thirty regions, and in each
regional capital city the government created and sponsored an orchestra.27
Select musicians from the Syli Orchestre National were given the task of
training the musicians of the new orchestras in the basics of composition
and performance. 28 The entire programme was state-sponsored, with
musical instruments and equipment provided free of charge to all musicians
in the orchestras. Those who were members of the national orchestras
were placed on the government payroll, with such investment in culture
coming at a great financial cost. Musical instruments and equipment, such
as saxophones, amplifiers, electric guitars, drum kits, microphones, etc.,
could not be obtained locally, so the government flew a senior musician
to Italy. There he purchased the equipment for all of the orchestras in
Guinea, which by the mid-1960s had grown to over forty.29 In addition
to the creation of orchestras, in each regional capital the government also
created theatrical troupes, traditional music ensembles, and dance groups,
who together formed artistic companies who represented their region.30 To
encourage their endeavours and to showcase their talent, the government
built or redeveloped performance venues in each regional capital.
The creation of troupes and venues was supported by the establishment
of annual arts festivals. The first of these were held in 1960 and were known
as the Compétition Artistique Nationale. The format of the festivals saw
troupes from Guinea’s regions compete against each other in performance
categories, such as ballet or theatre. The competition rounds took place
over several months and culminated in a series of finals which were held
in Conakry. In 1962, orchestras performed at the festivals for the first time,
and the following year the competition expanded into a two-week event,
26 Cited in Ladipo Adamolekun, Sékou Touré’s Guinea: An Experiment in Nation Building

(London: Methuen, 1976), p. 365.
27 Counsel, Mande Popular Music, pp. 281-83; Nomi Dave, “Une Nouvelle Révolution
Permanente: The Making of African Modernity in Sékou Touré’s Guinea”, Forum for
Modern Language Studies, 45/4 (2009), 455-71; and Philip Sweeney, “Concert Review”, Rock
Paper Scissors, 29 June 2003, http://www.rockpaperscissors.biz/index.cfm/fuseaction/
current.articles_detail/project_id/102/article_id/885.cfm
28 Interview with Balla Onivogui, chef d’orchestre Balla et ses Balladins, Conakry, 14 August
2001; and Lavaine, “Independence and Music”.
29 Interview with Onivogui.
30 Dukuré, Le festival culturel national.
thus becoming the Quinzaine Artistique et Culturelle Nationale. Prizes were

awarded in the categories of orchestra, ballet, choir, theatre, ensemble
instrumental, and folklore.31 When Guinea organised its Premier Festival
National des Arts, de la Culture, et du Sport, over 8,000 committees at the
district level sent delegates to compete, resulting in more than 10,000
competitors taking part in the festival. Guinea thus proclaimed its place
as “the uncontested metropolis for the rehabilitation and development of
the African cultural personality in all of its authenticity and its eminent
human riches”.32
On 2 August 1968 the Guinean government announced a “Cultural
Revolution”. This “third and final phase” of the transformation of the Guinean
state33 called for renewed efforts towards modernisation,34 and it saw the
transformation of Guinea’s education system through the establishment
of Centres d’Education Révolutionnaire throughout the country. Coupled
with the 2,500 Pouvoir Révolutionnaire Locales (local committee groups that
formed the basis of the PDG’s pyramidal structure), the government had
extended its influence into almost all aspects of daily life.
The Cultural Revolution further centralised cultural production in
Guinea. All media was monopolised by the government, including the
daily newspaper, Horoya, the radio broadcasts via Radio Guinea, and, from
1977, television via the RTG. The Guinean government had also formed its
own film company, Syli-Cinema; its own photography unit, Syli-Photo; and
Syliart, a regulatory body overseeing the production of literary works.35 The
prevalence of the word “syli” is due to its derivation from the local Susu
word for “elephant”, for the elephant was the party symbol and emblem of
the PDG. Guinea’s currency was re-named the syli, and so pervasive was the
use of the term “syli” that Guineans lit their fires with Syli brand matches.
This merging of the Guinean nation with the syli illustrates the totalitarian
nature of Touré’s regime, an autocracy that was further embedded by the
Cultural Revolution.
31 Interview with Mamouna Touré in Ibrahima Kourouma, “Des productions artistiques a

caractere utilitaire pour le peuple”, Horoya, 14 September 1967, pp. 1-2.
32 Annotations to Disque souvenir du Premier Festival National de la Culture. Conakry – du 9 au
27 mars 1970. Folklores de Guinée (Syliphone, SLP 18, 1970).
33 Anonymous, “De la Révolution Culturelle”, Horoya, 30 August 1968, p. 2.
34 Dave, “Une Nouvelle Révolution Permanente”, p. 465.
35 Mohamed Saliou Camara, His Master’s Voice: Mass Communication and Single Party
Politics in Guinea under Sékou Touré (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, 2005); and Manthia
Diawara, African Cinema: Politics and Culture (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press,
1992).
As with its other industries, Guinea’s recording industry was operated

entirely by the state. In 1968 this was formalised when the government
announced the creation of Syliphone, its national recording company
responsible for the reproduction and distribution of Guinean music.36
Fig. 17.1 The logo of the Syliphone recording company. © Editions Syliphone,
By the late 1960s, Guinea’s cultural policy had successfully created a

network of orchestras and musical groups throughout the nation. Some
of the groups, such as Les Ballets Africains, were gaining international
recognition. Having performed in various guises since 1947, Les Ballets
Africains were nationalised following independence, and under the PDG
they evolved to become the foremost dance troupe in the country, touring
the world to broad acclaim.37 Other Guinean artists also gained international
popularity, such as Kouyaté Sory Kandia, who was promoted as the “voice
of Africa”, and Demba Camara, lead singer of Bembeya Jazz National.
Another star was Miriam Makeba, who was among the most successful
African singers of the 1960s. Exiled from South Africa, Touré had invited
her to Guinea in 1967 to attend a cultural festival. Of Guinea’s authenticité
cultural policy, she “liked the fact that the people were going back to the
roots of their music and their culture”.38 Touré gave Makeba and her husband
Stokely Carmichael a residence, and Makeba lived in Guinea from 1969
until 1986. Touré appointed her one of Guinea’s best modern groups, the
Quintette Guinéenne, with whom she performed Guinean songs.39
36 Anonymous, “Création en Guinée d’une Régie d’édition et d’Exploitation du disque

‘Syliphone’”, Horoya, 16 May 1968, p. 2.
37 Joshua Cohen, “Stages in Transition: Les Ballets Africains and Independence, 1959 to
1960”, Journal of Black Studies, 43/1 (2012), 11-48.
38 Miriam Makeba and Nomsa Mwamuka, Makeba: The Miriam Makeba Story (Johannesburg:
STE, 2010), p. 120.
39 The Quintette Guinéenne was comprised of musicians allocated from the national
orchestra Balla et ses Balladins.
Guinea’s orchestras, too, were also very popular on the international

stage, and many were sent on tours to Eastern Bloc nations, Europe, and the
United States. Their impact was greatest, however, on the African continent,
where they toured extensively and played for dignitaries (as the official
group representing the president) and citizens alike. Their influence was
furthered by Syliphone, who presented their recordings on 33.3 rpm and
45 rpm vinyl discs.
In the 1960s West Africa’s recording industry was in its infancy. Many
nations lacked professional studio facilities and Guinea’s fledgling broadcasting
infrastructure had been sabotaged by the departing French.40 Touré directed
funds towards the improvement of Guinea’s radio network, and by the
mid-1960s Guinea had one of the largest radio transmitters in West Africa.
With the assistance of the West German government, a new building was
constructed which housed four recording studios and was the centre for
radio (and later television) production and broadcasting. It was named the
Voix de la révolution and it was here that Syliphone recordings were made.41
Guinea’s cultural policy of authenticité was thus being broadcast via radio,
concert tours, and commercial recordings. It had a considerable influence
in the region, with Mali and Burkina Faso adopting similar approaches to
national cultural production.42 By the late 1960s it had spread further, with
Zaire43 and then Chad also adopting authenticité as their national cultural
policy. By the mid 1970s, authenticité had blossomed into a movement, and
Syliphone was one of the primary mediums through which it was promoted.
From circa 1967 to 1983 Syliphone released a catalogue of 160 vinyl
discs that were distinctive in content, format and style. The lyrical content
of the music was often overtly political and militant in theme, and featured
songs that critiqued colonialism and neo-colonialism,44 extolled the virtues
of socialism by exhorting citizens to unite and work for their country,45 or
borrowed from themes and legends found in traditional African musical
repertoires.46 Musically, the styles represented on the recordings were eclectic,
40 Browne, “Radio Guinea", pp. 114-15.

41 Ibid., p. 115.
42 Robin Denselow, “Sound Politics”, The Guardian, 3 July 2003, http://www.theguardian.
com/music/2003/jul/03/artsfeatures.popandrock
43 Bureau Politique du Mouvement Populaire de la Révolution, Authenticité, l’Etat et le parti
au Zaïre (Zaïre: Institut Makanda Kabobi, 1977).
44 L’Ensemble Instrumental et Choral de la Radio-diffusion Nationale, Victoire à la révolution
(Syliphone, SLP 29, 1971).
45 Balla et ses Balladins, Fadakuru (Syliphone, SLP 47, 1975).
46 Orchestre de la Garde Républicaine, Tara (Syliphone, SLP 6, c. 1967).
with the musicians adapting elements from Cuban music,47 jazz,48 and African
popular music49 to create new musical forms.50 The label was progressive
in presenting modern music that successfully incorporated traditional
instruments, songs and melodies into an orchestra setting. In the 1960s and
1970s, Guinea’s musicians were at the vanguard of contemporary African
music — they were “the lighthouse to music in Africa”51 — and Syliphone
captured them at the peak of their abilities and recorded their music in state
of the art studios. The influence of the recording label on the development
of African popular music was profound, and felt throughout the region.
Fig. 17.2 Bembeya Jazz National, Regard sur le passé (Syliphone, SLP 10, c. 1969). The photo
depicts Samory Touré, grandfather of President Sékou Touré, who led the insurgency
against French rule in the late nineteenth century. The orchestra’s version of the epic
narrative in honour of his life earned them great acclaim; when it was performed at the
First Pan-African Cultural Festival, held in Algiers in 1969, it won Guinea a silver medal.
© Editions Syliphone, Conakry, under license from Syllart Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
47 Bembeya Jazz National, Sabor de guajira (Syliphone, SYL 503, c. 1968); and Sweeney.
48 Diaré Ibrahima Khalil, annotations to Keletigui et ses Tambourinis, JRDA/Guajira con
tumbao (Syliphone, SLP 519, 1970).
49 Pivi et les Balladins, Manta lokoka (Syliphone, SYL 549, 1972).
50 Quintette Guinéenne, Massané Cissé (Syliphone, SLP 54, c. 1976).
51 Interview with Métoura Traoré, Chef d’orchestre Horoya Band National, Conakry, 21
August 2001.
Fig. 17.3 Ensemble Instrumental de la Radiodiffusion Nationale, Guinée an XI

(Syliphone, SLP 16, 1970). Guinea’s premier traditional ensemble displays the
prominence of the griot musical tradition, with two koras (first and second rows,
centre) and a balafon (second row, far left). © Editions Syliphone, Conakry, under
license from Syllart Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
Fig. 17.4 The verso cover of a box set of four Syliphone LPs (Syliphone, SLP 10-SLP
13, 1970), released in recognition of the performances of Guinea’s artists at the First
Pan-African Cultural Festival, held in Algiers in 1969. © Editions Syliphone, Conakry,
under license from Syllart Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
Fig. 17.5 Bembeya Jazz National/Horoya Band National, Concerts des Orchestres Nationaux
(Syliphone, SLP 27, 1971). Political doctrine was reinforced through Syliphone. Here the
cover depicts an enemy combatant, his boat blasted, surrendering to the JRDA (Jeunesse
de la Révolution Démocratique Africaine, the youth wing of the PDG) and the APRG (Armée
Populaire Révolutionnaire de Guinée). © Editions Syliphone, Conakry, under license from
Syllart Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
Fig. 17.6 Édition spécial de la régie Syliphone. Commémorant le 1eranniversaire de la victoire

du peuple de Guinée sur l’Impérialisme International (Syliphone SLPs 26-29, 1971). A box set
of four LP discs (“Coffret special agression”) released to celebrate Guinea’s victory over
the Portuguese-led forces which invaded the country in 1970. © Editions Syliphone,
Fig. 17.7 Horoya Band National (Syliphone, SLP 41, c. 1973). Many of Guinea’s orchestras
featured the band members wearing traditional cloth. Here, an orchestra from Kankan in
the north of Guinea wears outfits in the bògòlanfini style associated with Mandé culture.
© Editions Syliphone, Conakry, under license from Syllart Records/Sterns Music, CC BY.
Fig. 17.8 Various Artists, Discothèque 70 (Syliphone, SLP 23, 1971). Tradition and
modernity: a compilation of music by Guinean orchestras is promoted by images
from local cultural traditions. Here, a Fulbé woman is depicted. © Editions Syliphone,
From around 1967, Syliphone began to release the first of its 750 songs
recorded on 12-inch (33.3 rpm) and 7-inch (45 rpm) vinyl discs. 52 Many
of the recordings would become classics of African music. Of note is the
1969 recording by Bembeya Jazz National, “Regard sur le passé”,53 which
presents the life of Almami Samory Touré, a national hero who fought
against French rule in the nineteenth century. The orchestra’s version
of his life story, performed in a style closely associated with that of the
traditional griots, extended to over 35 minutes and used both sides of the
LP — a first for a modern African recording. The group’s performance of
the song (as the Syli Orchestre National) at the Premier Festival Cultural
Panafricain held in Algiers in 1969 earned them a silver medal. In 1970 the
Académie Charles Cros awarded its Grand Prix du Disque to a Syliphone LP
by Kouyaté Sory Kandia,54 a recording which featured the mezzo-soprano
performing traditional griot songs on side A of the disc and accompanied
by the modern orchestra Keletigui et ses Tambourinis on side B.
Few other African nations could demonstrate a commitment to musical
culture to the extent of the Guinean government’s. Its national cultural policy of
authenticité and of “looking at the past” had created dozens of state-sponsored
orchestras who released hundreds of songs that were at the cutting edge of
African music. Guinea’s musicians and arts troupes toured Africa and the
world, and were a feature of the nation’s cultural festivals where they were
joined by thousands of other performers. Syliphone was at the centre of this
cultural movement. It was emblematic of Africa’s independence era, and
captured a moment in African history when a new nation asserted its voice
and placed music at the forefront of its cultural identity.55
As the voice of the revolution, Syliphone recordings also served as
a bulwark for Touré’s leadership. There were many hundreds, perhaps
thousands, of songs that were recorded which praised the president,
thus illustrating the personality cult that was being created around the
Le Responsible Suprême et Stratège de la Révolution, as Touré had become
52 Guinea’s national newspaper, Horoya, announced the creation of Syliphone on 16 May

1968, though the vinyl discs went on sale much earlier. Advertisements in foreign
magazines advertised Syliphone LPs for sale in Paris from July 1967 (Bingo, 1967, p. 37),
and in December of that year Merriam noted that they were for sale in Dakar. Alan P.
Merriam, “Music”, Africa Report, 13/2 (1968), 6. Personal correspondence with Geoff Bale
(16 February 2014) indicates an early Syliphone disc (SLP 4) in his collection, with a
handwritten date of 3 December 1966 on the verso cover.
53 Bembeya Jazz National, Regard sur le passé (Syliphone, SLP 10, c. 1969).
54 Kouyaté Sory Kandia (Syliphone, SLP 12, 1970).
55 Graeme Counsel, Annotations to Keletigui et ses Tambourinis: The Syliphone Years (Sterns,
STCD 3031-32, 2009), p. 5.
known. “Kesso”, by Keletigui et ses Tambourinis, is one example.56 The

chef d’orchestre of the group and its lead guitarist, Linké Condé, explained
the meaning of the song:
The title can be translated as “home” and it is dedicated to Sékou Touré.
It says that a person will never be defeated by the words of an enemy. It
compares the Guinean nation to a woman who needs to be married, so in
effect the people of Guinea are married to the President. Many different
praises are used in the song. It names many towns that are ready to receive
the President and welcome him.57
This kind of positive imagery extended beyond praise of the president

to portrayals of a utopian lifestyle. “Soumbouyaya” is a case in point,
whereby a rotund and popular mythological character is associated with
the bounteous wealth that is found in Guinea under the PDG: “Since the
world has been created, I have not seen a country like Guinea […] My
people, the country will flourish thanks to commerce”.58 The annotations
to a Syliphone recording describe it as “a nourishing disc”, with its songs,
such as “Labhanté”, proclaiming “Artisans, peasants, students, workers!
Only work liberates! Transform the world through our work!”,59 while
“M’badenu” on the same disc informs the listener that “nothing is more
beautiful” than to be working for your country.60
The reality of life in Guinea during the First Republic of Touré (1958-
1984) was, however, far removed from that depicted on the Syliphone
recordings. A weakening economy had fed discontent with the PDG and its
leadership as early as 1960, when the so-called “Ibrahima Diallo” plot was
uncovered.61 It was the first in a long series of purported “fifth columnist”
plots and subversions which were used by Touré to quell dissent and
centralise power. Opposition to the president’s authority was not tolerated,
with opponents of the government risking arrest, imprisonment, torture,
or a death sentence in the notorious Camp Boiro prison. Others simply
56 Keletigui et ses Tambourinis, Kesso / Chiquita (Syliphone, SYL 513, c. 1970).

57 Interview with Linké Condé, Conakry, 18 September 2009.
58 Balla et ses Balladins, Soumbouyaya (Syliphone, SLP 2, c. 1967).
59 Justin Morel, Jr., Annotations to Camayenne Sofa, A grand pas (Syliphone, SLP 56, c. 1976)
(translation mine).
60 Ibid.
61 Mohamed Saliou Camara, Thomas O’Toole and Janice E. Baker, Historical Dictionary of
Guinea, 5th edn (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2013), p. 88; Alexis Arieff and Mike
McGovern, “‘History is Stubborn’: Talk about Truth, Justice and National Reconciliation
in the Republic of Guinea”, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 55/1 (2013), 198-225
(p. 201).
disappeared. These efforts to eliminate opponents of the regime were

aided by informants and loyalists who comprised some 26,000 party cells
that were located in Guinea’s villages, towns and cities.62 Although Touré
had entered the presidency with a popular mandate, Guineans were now
unable to dislodge their leader.
On 22 November 1970, a Portuguese-led invasion force attacked Conakry.
Although it was repelled by government and local forces, it provided
the president with the concrete evidence needed to support his claims
of destabilisation. The attempted invasion was followed by a wave of
arrests, and the show trials and public hangings which followed did not
spare members of Touré’s inner circle. As the decade progressed, Guinea’s
economy contracted further. New laws were introduced which banned all
private trade and made the smuggling of goods punishable by death. In
1976 a new plot was announced by the PDG, the “Fulbé plot”, whereby
members of Guinea’s largest ethnic group were accused of being the enemies
of socialism.63 With a history of opposition to the PDG, Fulbé candidates
had stood against Touré in the prelude to independence. The president now
threatened their entire ethnic group with annihilation: “We have respected
them, but as they do not like respect, we present them with what they like:
brute force! […] We will destroy them immediately, not by a racial war,
but by a radical revolutionary war”.64
By the end of the decade, approximately 25% of Guinea’s population
had fled to escape persecution and the rigours of life under the PDG. Such
matters, however, were never referred to on Syliphone recordings. There are
no songs of dissent or any that offer even the mildest of criticisms, with all
broadcast material vetted by censors prior to release to ensure conformity.
There were no private groups in Guinea to voice protest, no private studios
to record them, and no private media to transmit their material.
This lack of political dissent in Guinean music has recently been addressed
by Nomi Dave, who notes the dominance of griot performance practices
and their influence on Guinean music.65 One of the key aspects of jeliya,
as the griots’ artistry is known, is the practice whereby griots sing praise
62 Du Bois, Guinea.
63 Arieff and McGovern, “‘History is Stubborn’”, pp. 200-01.
64 Sékou Touré, “Le racisme Peulh, nous devons lui donner un enterrement de première
classe, un enterrement définitif”, Horoya, 29 August-4 September 1976, p. 34 (translation
mine).
65 Nomi Dave, “The Politics of Silence: Music, Violence and Protest in Guinea”,
Ethnomusicology, 58 (2014), 1-29 (p. 4).
songs to their patrons. For musicians of the First Republic, their patron was
the state, hence their repertoires contained numerous examples of songs
which praised government figures, industries, campaigns and policies.66
This alignment to political doctrine had been embedded by the nationalist
political campaigns of the 1950s, whereby musicians had been mobilised to
disseminate party ideologies.67 Such appropriations stifled creativity and
silenced the voices of protest, particularly in Guinea where performers
operated within the narrowest of political confines.
A further factor that contributed to the “silence” of protest was cultural:
direct criticism in West African society is considered ill-mannered to the
extent of it being a social faux pas. It is also highly unusual for griots to
directly criticise their patrons; any criticism is offered obliquely via analogy
and metaphor. Bembeya Jazz National’s “Doni doni”,68 for example, with
its lyrics “Little by little a bird builds its nest, little by little a bird takes off”,
caused some consternation at the highest levels as to its allusive potential
vis à vis the large numbers of citizens fleeing Guinea.69 The nation’s censors,
however, were in less doubt about the double entendre contained in Fodé
Conté’s song “Bamba toumani”,70 which described a caterpillar, and how its
head eats everything: the song was never released by Syliphone, and Conté
fled Guinea shortly after recording it. Such musical examples are extremely
rare, and few musicians dared to express anything but solidarity with the
Guinean regime. The socio-political situation of the era required the artists’
creativity and conscience to be silenced, less they risk their lives.71
Guinea’s Cultural Revolution came to a close on 26 March 1984 when
Touré died suddenly of a heart attack. A week later a military coup
ousted his regime and set about dismantling the cultural policies of the
First Republic. It was the end of Syliphone, the end of funding for the
orchestras and performance troupes, the end of the cultural festivals,
and the end of authenticité. Colonel Lansané Conté was Guinea’s new
president, and he would rule for a further 24 years. Such were the
demands of allegiance on musicians that, long after Touré’s death, many
66 Counsel, Mande Popular Music, pp. 91-101.

67 Ruth Schachter, “French Guinea’s RDA Folk Songs”, West African Review, 29 (August
1958), pp. 673, 675, 677, 681; Djibril Tamsir Niane, “Some Revolutionary Songs of
Guinea”, Presence Africaine, 29 (1960), 101-15; and Kaba, “The Cultural Revolution”.
68 Syliphone, SLP 24, c. 1971.
69 Mohamed Saliou Camara, His Master’s Voice, pp. 164-66.
70 EAP catalogue number Syliphone4-165-01.
71 Cheick M. Chérif Keita, Outcast to Ambassador: The Musical Odyssey of Salif Keita (Saint
Paul, MN: Mogoya, 2011), p. 64.
who served his government still choose to deflect rather than answer
enquiries related to his rule.72 Although the era of the one-party state and
of Cultural Revolution has passed, the “silence” persists. It is reinforced
by severe and ongoing economic hardships which make it imprudent
for musicians to criticise contemporary figures, for they are tomorrow’s
potential benefactors. As Dave indicates, it is a silence which allows
musicians to accommodate the political regimes and to manage their
lives in highly volatile contexts.73
From 1984 until 2008, under President Conté, the vast majority of the
music of the First Republic was never broadcast on Guinean radio. The
RTG employed censors who vetted recordings prior to broadcasting. It was
a practise initiated by Touré’s regime, and during Conté’s presidency it
rendered large parts of the audio collection to gather dust in the archives.
Songs which praised Touré, the PDG, its leadership, or its policies were taboo,
thus effectively silencing the music of the revolution. Though attempts by
the Conté government to rehabilitate the era and legacy of Touré commenced
in 1998,74 such actions were uncoordinated, low-key and sporadic. Efforts
to reconcile the Guinean nation with its past were far from a priority for
Conté’s government, whose descent into nepotism, corruption and the
drug trade has been well documented.75 Access to the National Archives
was unreliable and limited; its director explained to one researcher: “We
cannot allow the public to go leafing through these documents. Can you
imagine the kinds of social disruption this would cause? For the sake of
peace in Guinea, those documents must not be consulted”.76
As historical documents, the audio recordings of the RTG archives could
have provided a meaningful contribution to the rehabilitation process, but
for 25 years this did not occur. Rather, a silence was imposed whereby it
was politically expedient to erase the recordings from the cultural memory.
Little effort was directed towards the preservation of the audio materials,
which lay dormant in far from suitable conditions. Perhaps the RTG’s audio
archive was regarded by the authorities as a tinderbox, one that was so
72 Interview with Sékou “Bembeya” Diabaté in Banning Eyre, “Bembeya Jazz: Rebirth in
2002”, Rock Paper Scissors, 2002, http://www.rockpaperscissors.biz/index.cfm/fuseaction/
current.articles_detail/project_id/102/article_id/708.cfm
73 Dave, “The Politics of Silence”, p. 18.
74 Tierno Siradiou Bah, “Camp Boiro Internet Memorial”, Camp Boiro Memorial, 2012, http://
www.campboiro.org/cbim-documents/cbim_intro.html
75 Alexis Arieff and Nicolas Cook, “Guinea: Background and relations with the United
States”, Congressional Research Service Report 7-5700/R40703 (Washington, DC:
Congressional Research Service, 2010).
76 M. Coulibaly, cited in Arieff and McGovern, “‘History is Stubborn’”, p. 211.
imbued with a kind of political nyama (a powerful force conjured by griots

during their performances) that it must remain hidden from the public, lest
the revolution takes hold and rises from the ashes. In a political landscape
that had scarred so many, the RTG’s archives contained materials that would
very likely reignite passions and debates. Its capacity for both harm and
good resonates with attitudes to similar documents from Guinea’s First
Republic, insofar as they are seen to have the potential to both cleanse and
destabilise society.77 Whatever the government’s motivation, or lack of it,
the inactivity of the Conté years (1984-2008) resulted in a generation of
young Guineans being denied the music of their nation’s independence
era. If successful, the EAP projects would bring to light that which had
been hidden in the RTG’s archives for decades.
The 2008 EAP project

I arrived in Guinea in August 2008 to commence the project EAP187: Syliphone
– an early African recording label.78 The project worked in partnership with
the Bibliothèque Nationale de Guinée (BNG), and was given excellent support
through its director, Dr Baba Cheick Sylla. During the Touré era, Guinea had
its own press, the Imprimerie Nationale Patrice Lumumba, and the government
had established one of the best-resourced libraries in West Africa. After
Touré’s death, however, many of the official documents and archives were
destroyed, damaged, or left scattered in various locations. Dr Sylla had spent
many years gathering the materials and saving them from destruction.79 The
RTG had not been spared either, and following its bombing in 1985 it was
thought that the collection of Syliphone recordings was permanently lost.
The aim of the EAP project was two-fold: to re-create the complete Syliphone
catalogue of vinyl discs and archive the recordings in digital format; and
then to locate any surviving Syliphone-era studio recordings and archive
and preserve them. The project involved the cooperation of two ministries,
the Ministère de la Culture des Arts et Loisirs, who presided over the BNG, and
the Ministère de la Communication, who administered the RTG.
Over a period of fourteen years, I had gathered many Syliphone vinyl
recordings, but not all of the collection was in good condition. Vinyl
recordings scratch very easily, and Guinea’s climatic extremes produced
annual abundances of mould in the wet season and harmattan dust in the
77 Arieff and McGovern, “‘History is Stubborn’”, p. 209.

79 Aaron Sampson, “Hard Times at the National Library”, Nimba News, 22 August 2002, pp.
1 and 6.
dry, which caused many recordings to be in a far from pristine condition.

Musicians, technicians and government officials were contacted in order
to assist in the search for the best quality discs for the project. A full colour
catalogue was printed, which featured each Syliphone vinyl recording with
its cover both recto and verso, and which was presented to Minister Iffono
and his culture ministry.
Politically, Guinea had been enduring a prolonged period of instability.
Decades of corruption, cronyism and mismanagement in the government had
relegated the country to the lowest reaches of the United Nation’s Human
Development Index. In 2007, nation-wide strikes and related protests had
left dozens dead. President Conté, now in his seventies, was rumoured to
be bed-ridden and close to death. On 2 October 2008, Guinea would achieve
fifty years of independence, yet it was unclear how such a momentous
occasion would be celebrated. Preparations were very low-key, though the
Ministère de la Culture des Arts et Loisirs had organised for the EAP project to
open for a week-long exposition at the National Museum. It remained to be
seen how the project, with its large catalogue of performances by Guinea’s
most acclaimed and revered musicians — who faithfully exalted Touré in
their songs and who lavished praise on his ideals for the nation — would
be integrated into the independence festivities.
The EAP project was due to open on 29 September 2008, and to generate
interest amongst the public, the RTG broadcast a television commercial
for the event.80 All of the Syliphone vinyl recordings had been collected,
archived and catalogued by the opening date, and they were now digitised
and displayed in the National Museum’s exhibition centre. A large media
contingent attended the opening of the exhibition, and the event was well
received. With the first part of the EAP project completed, my attention now
turned to the RTG sound archives. Formal enquiries had failed to deliver access
to the archives, however the success of the Syliphone exposition had helped
to propel the requests, and on 6 October the Ministère de la Communication
agreed that the second stage of the archival project could commence.
Based upon a hand-written catalogue that I was shown in 2001 when
conducting my doctoral research, I estimated that the RTG held approximately
fifty audio reels of Syliphone era recordings. However, when I gained entry
to the sound archive I saw what appeared to be thousands of reels scattered
amongst rows of shelving from floor to ceiling. Many of the reels were in
poor physical condition, and their preservation and digitisation were urgent.
80 Syliphone exposition — RTG commercial (YouTube video), uploaded by Radio Africa, 2

April 2010, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HWTPbY6Lck4
I set to work, transferring the magnetic reels of tape to a digital medium.

Recordings by Guinea’s national and regional orchestras were prioritised,
and with many reels at over seventy minutes, the collection represented a
very large volume of work.
The EAP project was now focused on preserving music from the Syliphone
era that had not been commercially released but which had been broadcast
on its original magnetic tape format on Guinea’s national radio network. As
the archival project continued, the true extent of the authenticité policy was
revealed. Audio recordings by groups and performers from every region
of Guinea were uncovered.81 It was apparent that the archive held great
significance, not only as a resource for musicological research but also for the
social sciences more broadly. Given the extent of the audio archives, however,
it became clear that it would be impossible to complete the project within
its timeline. In December 2008, the project concluded. 69 reels of recordings
had been archived, and these contained 554 songs by Guinean orchestras.
Fig. 17.9 The Radio Télévision Guinée (RTG) offices in Boulbinet, Conakry.
81 A complete catalogue of all archived materials from the RTG sound archive is available
at Radio Africa. http://www.radioafrica.com.au/RTG_catalogue.html
Fig. 17.10 Audio reels stored in the RTG’s “annexe”.

Fig. 17.11 Some of the audio reels were in urgent need of preservation.
Fig. 17.12 Archiving the audio reels and creating digital copies.
Subsequent EAP projects

In order to complete the 2008 archival project, a further application for EAP
funding was made, and I returned to Guinea in July 2009.82 President Conté
had died on 22 December 2008, an event which heralded a military coup led
by Captain Moussa “Dadis” Camara.83 The Ministère de la Culture des Arts et
Loisirs was now combined with the Ministère de la Communication into a single
ministry, which was led by Justin Morel, Jr. This bode extremely well for the
project, as JMJ (as he is colloquially known) was a former journalist who was
responsible for the annotations on many of the Syliphone discs.
I estimated that the RTG held approximately 1,000 reels that required
digitising and preservation. The EAP project commenced in August, under the
82 EAP327: Guinea’s Syliphone archives, http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?

projID=EAP327
83 Following the coup, the RTG continually broadcast the song “Armée Guinéenne” on
the radio. This Syliphone recording was later used by the regime as a theme song, with
the first few bars heralding its radio and television announcements. Graeme Counsel,
“Music for a Coup — ‘Armée Guinéenne’: An Overview of Guinea’s Recent Political
Turmoil”, Australasian Review of African Studies, 31.2 (2010), 94-112.
shadow of a disintegrating security situation. Public discontent with President

Camara had led to street protests which were violently quelled by the military.
The protests culminated on 28 September 2009 with an anti-government rally
held at the national football stadium. Tens of thousands attended, only to be
attacked by several units of fully armed soldiers and presidential guardsmen.
Nearly 200 people were killed and more than 2,000 injured. Witnesses stated
that Fulbé protestors at the rally were singled out and murdered by the
military,84 and there were rumours of a split in the army and of civil war. The
RTG did not report any of these events, but as news of the massacre spread,
people prepared to flee Conakry. It became apparent that conducting research
and working at the RTG in such an environment would be impossible. The
building and office complex lies at the centre of government communications
and it had previously been the focus of military actions. Many governments
were advising their nationals to depart, and with this the EAP project was
abandoned. Before this abrupt end, the project had successfully digitised and
archived 229 reels of music containing 1,373 songs.
The United Nations announced an International Commission of Inquiry
into the “stadium massacre”, as it had become known, with charges of
crimes against humanity to be laid on those responsible. These events caused
considerable internal friction within the Guinean military government, and
on 3 December 2009 an assassination attempt was made on President Camara
in the small army barracks which adjoins the RTG. Camara survived, and
was flown to Morocco to recuperate. After several months of convalescence,
Camara was ready to return to Guinea and reclaim the Presidency, however
Guinea’s interim leader – Gen. Sékouba Konaté – forbade his return. Rather,
Konaté led Guinea towards democracy, and in 2010 the nation held its first
democratic elections. These brought Alpha Condé to the presidency, and with
stability restored, the EAP projects could recommence. Further funding to
complete the archival project was granted, and it resumed in August 2012.85
Due to the uncertainty and volatility of the political situation, the project
focused on preserving and archiving the oldest materials available. These
audio reels required intensive conservation, for the original magnetic tape of
the recordings had become brittle with age. The audio fidelity of the music,
however, was still remarkably good. The EAP project’s scope had also been
84 Anonymous, “Guinea: September 28 Massacre was Premeditated”, Human Rights

Watch, 27 October 2009, http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2009/10/27/guinea-september-28-
massacre-was-premeditated
85 EAP608: Guinea’s Syliphone archives - II, http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.
a4d?projID=EAP608
expanded to include a small building adjacent to the RTG, known as the

“annexe”. Accessing the annexe was problematic, however, for the RTG
authorities had initially denied its existence. I had been inside this small archive
previously and seen hundreds of audio reels, and once this was conveyed it
was confirmed that the archive did in fact exist, but it contained no music, only
speeches. It was only after persistent enquiries that I was permitted access to the
annexe, which was perplexing. Consisting of one large room, with no climate
control and water above one’s ankles when it rained, the annexe contained
numerous shelves of audio reels of music stored in an ad hoc fashion. The
purpose of the annexe, however, appeared to be to house many hundreds of
reels of speeches by Sékou Touré, all stored in neat rows, the preservation of
which was unfortunately outside the parameters of the project.
A further remarkable aspect of the annexe was its unusually high percentage
of audio recordings by Fulbé artists. My research of Syliphone recordings
had indicated a strong bias towards Maninka performers at the expense of
Fulbé artists. It had been my contention that the idea to “look at the past” for
cultural inspiration was in fact an invitation to look at Guinea’s Maninka past,
primarily, and that figures and events associated with Maninka history were
invariably the subject of songs and praise. Moreover, I claimed that Guinea’s
representations of national culture as expressed through Syliphone invariably
depicted a Mandé cultural aesthetic, which over time had come to dominate
the (cultural) politics of the era and which was the façade of nationalism.86 Songs
performed in Maninkakan accounted for over 70% of Syliphone recordings,
while those sung in Fulfulde (the language of the Fulbé, Guinea’s largest ethnic
group) accounted for just 3%. In the RTG’s annexe, however, approximately
20% of the recordings were performed in Fulfulde.
In January 2013 the archiving of the audio reels held at the RTG and its
annexe was completed. The EAP project had preserved, digitised, archived
and catalogued 827 audio reels containing 5,240 songs. Together, the three
EAP projects archived a total of 1,125 reels which contained 9,410 songs, or
some 53,000 minutes of material. The RTG’s collection frameworks the entire
development of Guinean music following independence, from the birth of a
new style in the early 1960s to the year 2000. 90% of the material dates to the
era of the First Republic of Sékou Touré. The earliest recordings archived were
two reels from 1960, both of which featured griots (Mory and Madina Kouyaté87
86 Graeme Counsel, “The Music Archives of Guinea: Nationalism and its Representation
Under Sékou Touré”, paper presented at the 36th Conference of the African Studies
Association of Australasia and the Pacific, Perth, 26-28 November 2013, http://afsaap.org.
au/assets/graeme_counsel.pdf; and idem, Mande Popular Music and “Music for a Coup”.
87 EAP catalogue numbers Syliphone4-681-01 to Syliphone4-681-04.
and Ismaila Diabaté88). The earliest recordings by an orchestra presented the

Orchestre Honoré Coppet from 2 February 1963,89 a recording which presaged
the musical styles which would later define Guinean music. Pre-Syliphone
recordings of the Syli Orchestre National,90 Balla et ses Balladins,91 Orchestre
de la Paillote,92 the 1ère Formation de la Garde Républicaine,93 and Kébendo
Jazz94 are also in evidence.
17.1 Orchestre Honoré Coppet, “no title” (1963), 4’40”. Syliphone2-068-02.
To listen to this piece online scan the QR code or follow this link:
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/no-title
17.2 Syli Orchestre National, “Syli” (c. 1962), 4’33”. Syliphone3-248-3.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Syli
17.3 Balla et ses Balladins, “PDG” (c. 1970), 5’22”. Syliphone2-089-08.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/PDG
These early orchestra recordings reveal the strong influence of Cuban and
Caribbean music, with songs performed as mambos, meringues, pachangas,

89 Catalogue numbers Syliphone2-068-01 to Syliphone2-068-07. Linké Condé suggested
that the orchestra’s name had been mislabelled and was actually the Orchestre Mamadi
Kourouma. Interview, 21 September 2012.
92 EAP catalogue numbers Syliphone2-060-01 to Syliphone2-060-06; Syliphone4-739-01 to
Syliphone4-739-07.
93 EAP catalogue numbers Syliphone2-067-01 to Syliphone2-067-06; Syliphone4-007-01 to
Syliphone4-007-06; and Syliphone4-105-01 to Syliphone4-105-06.
94 EAP catalogue numbers Syliphone2-052-01 to Syliphone2-052-04; and Syliphone2-064-02
to Syliphone2-064-03.
boleros, beguines, rumbas and boogaloos,95 many of which were sung in

less-than-fluent Spanish. Of particular interest are two reels, recorded by the
Orchestre de la Brigade Féminin on 8 November 196396 and 7 November 1964.97
This group was Africa’s first all-female orchestra,98 who would later gain
worldwide fame as Les Amazones de Guinée. These, their first recordings,
predated their commercial releases by twenty years.
17.4 Orchestre de la Paillote, “Dia” (1967), 3’48”. Syliphone4-358-10.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Dia
17.5 Orchestre de la Garde Républicaine 1ère formation,

“Sabougnouma” (1964), 4’25”. Syliphone2-067-02.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Sabougnouma
17.6 Kébendo Jazz, “Kankan diaraby” (1964), 3’20”. Syliphone2-052-03.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Kankan-diaraby
17.7 Orchestre Féminin Gendarmerie Nationale,

“La bibeta” (1963), 3’41”. Syliphone4-382-08.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/La-bibeta
95 Orchestre de la Garde Républicaine perform many of these on EAP catalogue number

Syliphone4-354-01 to Syliphone4-354-11.
98 Also archived were recordings by a hitherto unknown all-female orchestra, Orchestre
Féminin de Mamou. EAP catalogue number Syliphone3-213-06 to Syliphone3-213-10.
The greater part of the music archived by the EAP projects was recorded
at the Voix de la Révolution studios at the RTG, although a significant
number of live concert recordings were also archived. Of particular interest
are recordings of concert performances by Guinean orchestras, few of
which appeared on Syliphone discs due to the length of the performances
exceeding the practicalities of the vinyl medium. Among the concerts are
performances by the legendary Demba Camara, the lead singer of Bembeya
Jazz National, who died in 1973.99 Live concerts by Myriam Makeba are
also in evidence.100 All of Guinea’s 36 regional orchestras and eight national
orchestras are represented in the archive, with many recorded between
1967 and 1968.101 Recordings of orchestras of the post-Touré era are also
present, with numerous examples from groups such as Atlantic Mélodie,
Super Flambeau and Koubia Jazz.
17.8 Syli Authentic, “Aguibou” (c. 1976), 7’04”. Syliphone2-077-01.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Aguibou
17.9 Koubia Jazz, “Commissaire minuit” (1987), 5’40”. Syliphone4-022-03.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Commissaire-minuit
17.10 Bembeya Jazz National, “Ballaké” (c. 1972), 8’02”. Syliphone2-091-01.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Ballake

101 Graeme Counsel, “Guinea’s Orchestras of the 1st Republic”, Radio Africa, 2006, http://
www.radioafrica.com.au/Discographies/Origin.html
Performances in the modern styles, however, are not restricted to the large-scale
orchestras, with a wealth of material by smaller groups and popular artists present
in the collection. Of note are unreleased recordings by Kouyaté Sory Kandia,
recorded with a traditional ensemble.102 Mama Kanté, the powerful lead singer
of l’Ensemble Instrumental de Kissidougou, is known internationally by just one
track which appeared on Syliphone,103 yet the RTG archive contains dozens of
her recordings. One of Guinea’s most popular singers was Fodé Conté, an artist
who did not appear on a single Syliphone release. The RTG archive contains
over 100 of his recordings, including his last sessions before fleeing Guinea.104
17.11 Kouyaté Sory Kandia, “Miniyamba” (c. 1968), 2’24”. Syliphone4-380-05.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Miniyamba
17.12 Kouyaté Sory Kandia, “Sakhodougou” (c. 1973), 8’26”. Syliphone3-168-4.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Sakhodougou
17.13 Mama Kanté avec l’Ensemble Instrumental de Kissidougou,

“JRDA” (1970), 4’37”. Syliphone4-251-12.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/JRDA
17.14 Fodé Conté, “Bamba toumani” (c. 1978), 3’33”. Syliphone4-165-01.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Bamba-toumani
102 EAP catalogue numbers Syliphone3-042-01 to Syliphone3-042-05; and Syliphone4-202-01

to Syliphone4-202-03.
103 “Simika”, Victoire de la révolution (Syliphone, SLP 29, 1971).
The acoustic guitar tradition for which Guinea is well-known is also

represented through a number of excellent recordings by Manfila Kanté
(of Les Ambassadeurs) and Manfila “Dabadou” Kanté (of Keletigui et ses
Tambourinis). Kemo Kouyaté also presents several instrumental recordings
(some of which feature a zither accompaniment),105 while Les Virtuoses
Diabaté provide further material which augments their Syliphone vinyl
recordings.106 The audio collection also features several versions of popular
Guinean songs, with multiple examples of “Diaraby”, “Malamini”, “Kaira”,
“Soundiata”, “Wéré wéré”, “Kemé bouréma”, “56”, “Armée Guinéenne”,
“Toubaka”, “Tara”, “Douga”, “Nina”, “Minuit”, “Mariama”, “Lannaya” and
“Malisadio” performed by solo artists and orchestras alike, thus providing
significant resource materials for comparative analyses.
17.15 Les Virtuoses Diabaté, “Toubaka” (c. 1971), 4’22”. Syliphone4-047-04.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Toubaka
17.16 Kadé Diawara, “Banankoro”(c. 1976), 4’25”. Syliphone4-446-10.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Banankoro
17.17 M’Bady Kouyaté, “Djandjon” (c. 1974), 7’35”. Syliphone4-322-03.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Djandjon
More than half of the recordings in the collection are examples of traditional
Guinean music. Many of these feature artists performing within the Maninka
griot tradition, such as Kadé Diawara and Tö Kouyaté, who were the lead
singers of the Ensemble Instrumental National. Instrumentalists such

as M’Bady Kouyaté, one of Guinea’s foremost kora players, are also well
represented. The Maninka material is augmented, however, by hundreds
of recordings from Guinea’s other ethnic groups, including music by Susu,
Guerzé, Kissi, Toma, Sankaran, Baga, Diakhankhé, Kônô, Wamey, Landouma,
Manon, Lokko, Lélé, Onëyan and Bassari performers. The archive contains
many unique recordings by these, and other, ethnic groups.
17.18 Femmes du Comité Landreah, “Révolution” (1964), 2’54”.

Syliphone3-068-3. Sung in the Susu language.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Revolution
17.19 Musique Folklorique du Comité de Guèlémata, “Noau bo kui kpe la

Guinée ma” (1968), 2’33”. Syliphone3-088-3. Sung in the Guerzé language.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Noau-bo-kui
17.20 Sergent Ourékaba, “Alla wata kohana” (c. 1986), 2’10”.

Syliphone4-755-06. Sung in the Fulfuldé language.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Alla-wata-kohana
It is also important to note the quantity of Fulbé music. Marginalised politically

and under-represented culturally, the RTG archive contained over 1,000
songs sung in Fulfuldé by popular singers such as Binta Laaly Sow, Binta
Laaly Saran, Ilou Diohèrè, Doura Barry, Amadou Barry and Sory Lariya
Bah. Perhaps the most popular of all Fulbé artists was Farba Tela (real name
Oumar Seck), who was an influence on Ali Farka Touré. No commercial
recordings of his music were released, with the 45 songs recorded at the
RTG representing his complete catalogue to date.
17.21 Binta Laaly Sow, “56” (c. 1986), 5’01”. Syliphone4-581-09.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/56
17.22 Farba Téla, “Niina” (1979), 7’52”. Syliphone3-097-2.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Niina
This breadth of diverse recordings from Guinea’s ethnic groups spans

forty years and underscores the significance of the RTG audio collection.
At the conclusion of the EAP project the Ministère de la Culture, des Arts et
du Patrimoine Historique organised a ceremony held at La Paillote, one of
Guinea’s oldest music venues. All of the surviving chefs d’orchestre of the
national orchestras attended, and Les Amazones de Guinée and Keletigui
et ses Tambourinis, two of Guinea’s grands orchestres, performed.107 A large
media presence documented the event.
Conclusion
The archiving of the audio collection held at Radio Télévision Guinée
represents one of the largest sound archival projects conducted in Africa. For
a generation, most of its 9,410 songs were considered too politically sensitive
to be broadcast and were hidden from public view. Interest in the recordings,
however, especially in the international market, had been growing, led by
a renewed awareness of the importance of the Syliphone recording label in
the development of African music, and of its symbolic role as the voice of
the Guinean revolution. To date, over fifty CDs of Syliphone material have
been released.108
107 Les Amazones de Guinée — Live at La Paillote (YouTube video), uploaded by Radio Africa,
29 January 2013, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHIDKJqS57c
108 Graeme Counsel, “Syliphone Discography”, Radio Africa, 1999, http://www.radioafrica.
com.au/Discographies/Syliphone.html
It is germane that the RTG’s audio collection is now available for the
Guinean public to access and for Guinean radio to broadcast, for it comes
at a time when Guinea is implementing democratic reforms and multi-party
government for the first time. The success of the EAP projects through
the cooperation of several Guinean ministries signals a willingness by the
government to engage with Guinea’s past, and to reconcile the political
aspirations and motivations of its leaders with those policies and practices
which had failed its citizens.
It is within this spirit of national reconciliation that the sound archive will
greatly contribute to our understanding of Guinea’s journey. For Guineans
it will demonstrate the tremendous value that their first government placed
on rejuvenating and promoting indigenous culture. It will also indicate the
extraordinary depth of talent of Guinea’s musicians, and it will remind us
all of the concerted efforts of a young nation to develop culture, to restore
pride and dignity to culture, and to promote African identity.
In recognition of his Endangered Archive Programme projects and his contribution

to culture, the Guinean government bestowed on the author Guinea’s highest honour
for academic achievement, the gold medal of the Palme Académique en Or, and a
Diplôme d’Honneur.
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58 (2014), 1-29.
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Niane, Djibril Tamsir, “Some Revolutionary Songs of Guinea”, Presence Africaine, 29
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Archival materials
Syliphone2-028-01 – Syliphone2-028-07. Bembeya Jazz National, 1973.
Syliphone2-038-01 – Syliphone2-038-04. Ismaila Diabaté, 1960.
Syliphone2-052-01 – Syliphone2-052-04. Kébendo Jazz, 1964.
Syliphone2-053-01 – Syliphone2-053-05. Orchestre de la Brigade Féminine, 1964.
Syliphone2-060-01 – Syliphone2-060-06. Orchestre de la Paillote, 1963.
Syliphone2-064-02 – Syliphone2-064-03. Kébendo Jazz, 1964.
Syliphone2-067-01 – Syliphone2-067-06. Orchestre de la Garde Républicaine - 1ère
Formation, 1964.
Syliphone2-068-01 – Syliphone2-068-07. Orchestre Honoré Coppet, 1963.
Syliphone3-042-01 – Syliphone3-042-05. Kouyaté Sory Kandia, c. 1973.
Syliphone3-091-01 – Syliphone3-091-05. Kemo Kouyaté, 1977.
Syliphone3-213-06 – Syliphone3-213-10. Orchestre Féminin de Mamou, 1970.
Syliphone3-248-01 – Syliphone3-248-11. Syli Orchestre National, c. 1962.
Syliphone4-007-01 – Syliphone4-007-06. Orchestre de la Garde Républicaine, 1964.
Syliphone4-047-01 – Syliphone4-047-04. Virtuoses Diabaté, c. 1973.
Syliphone4-105-01 – Syliphone4-105-06. Orchestre de la Garde Républicaine - 1ère
Formation, 1963.
Syliphone4-165-01 – Syliphone4-165-10. Fodé Conté (“Kini Bangaly”), c. 1978.

Syliphone4-202-01 – Syliphone4-202-03. Kouyaté Sory Kandia, c. 1971.
Syliphone4-354-01 – Syliphone4-354-11. Orchestre de la Garde Républicaine, 1970.
Syliphone4-382-01 – Syliphone4-382-13. Orchestre Féminin Gendarmerie
Nationale, 1963.
Syliphone4-681-01 – Syliphone4-681-04. Mory and Madina Kouyaté, 1960.
Syliphone4-698-01 – Syliphone4-698-06. Miriam Makeba, c. 1973.
Syliphone4-717-01 – Syliphone4-717-05. Orchestre du Jardin de Guinée, c. 1963.
Syliphone4-739-01 – Syliphone4-739-07. Orchestre de la Paillote, 1963.
Discography
African Journey: A Search for the Roots of the Blues. Volumes 1 and 2 (Sonet, SNTF
666/7, 1974).
Authenticité: The Syliphone Years. Guinea’s Orchestres Nationaux and Fédéraux 1965-
1980 (Sterns, STCD 3025-26, 2007).
Balla et ses Balladins, Fadakuru (Syliphone, SLP 47, 1975).
Balla et ses Balladins, Soumbouyaya (Syliphone, SLP 2, c. 1967).
Balla et ses Balladins: The Syliphone Years (Sterns, STCD 3035-36, 2008).
Bembeya Jazz National, Sabor de guajira (Syliphone, SYL 503, c. 1968).
Bembeya Jazz National, Regard sur le passé (Syliphone, SLP 10, c. 1969).
Bembeya Jazz National: The Syliphone Years. Hits and Rare Recordings (Sterns, STCD
3029-30, 2007)
Keletigui et ses Tambourinis, Kesso/Chiquita (Syliphone, SYL 513, c. 1970).
Keletigui et ses Tambourinis: The Syliphone Years (Sterns, STCD 3031-32, 2009).
Kouyaté Sory Kandia (Syliphone, SLP 12, 1970).
Mama Kanté and l’Ensemble Instrumental et Vocal de Kissidougou, Simika
(Syliphone, SLP 29, 1971).
Orchestre de la Garde Républicaine, Tara (Syliphone, SLP 6, c. 1967).
Pivi et les Balladins, Manta lokoka (Syliphone, SYL 549, 1972).
Quintette Guinéenne, Massané Cissé (Syliphone, SLP 54, c. 1976).

Linké Condé, Chef d’orchestre Keletigui et ses Tambourinis, Conakry, 18 September
2009 and 24 December 2013.
Balla Onivogui, Chef d’orchestre Balla et ses Balladins, Conakry, 14 August 2001.
Métoura Traoré, Chef d’orchestre Horoya Band National, Conakry, 21 August 2001.
18. Conservation of the Iranian Golha
radio programmes and the heritage
of Persian classical poetry and music1
Jane Lewisohn
The Golha (“Flowers of Persian Song and Music”) radio programmes broadcast
on Iranian National Radio for 23 years from 1956 through 1979 comprised
approximately 850 hours of programmes. They were made up of literary
commentary with the declamation of poetry, and featured singing with musical
accompaniment interspersed with solo musical pieces. The programmes
were the brainchild of Davud Pirnia, a one-time Assistant Prime Minister,
enthusiastic patriot and scholar who harboured a deep love for Persian
culture and its rich literary and musical traditions.2
The foremost literary, academic and musical talents of the day offered
Pirnia their collaboration and support, and the greatest Iranian vocalists of
the twentieth century saw their careers launched on his radio programmes.3
1 The transliteration in this chapter is based on a modified version of the LOC transliteration
system for Persian, without diacritical marks, combined with the system for Persian used
by the third edition of the Encyclopaedia of Islam. Please refer to http://www.golha.
co.uk/en/about/transliteration#.VLT1Wt7hWqM
2 Davud Pirnia was the son of Mushir al-Dawla (d. 1935), a very popular Prime Minister
who flourished during the constitutional period in Iran. He retired from political life in
1955, and for the next eleven years devoted himself to producing the Golha programmes.
Pirnia received his early education at home from some of the most eminent intellectuals
of the day. He went on to study at the French École St. Louis in Tehran, later going to
Switzerland to study Law. Personal communication from Bizhan Pirnia (son of Davud
Pirnia), Tehran, 12 September 2005. See also Mansura Pirnia, Ardashir Zahidi, farzand-i
khanadan-i Zahidi va Pirnia: afkar va andisha, ravayat-i Ardashir Zahidi (North Potomac,
MD: Mehr Iran, 2004), pp. 36-38. For an overview of Pirnia’s life and times, see Jane
Lewisohn, “Flowers of Persian Song and Music: Davud Pirniā and the Genesis of the
Golhā Programs”, Journal of Persianate Studies, 1 (2008), 79-101.
3 Scholars and poets such as ‘Ali Dashti, Badi‘ al-Zaman Furuzanfar, Jalal-al-Din Huma’i,
Lutf-‘Ali Suratgar, Zia’-al-Din Sajjadi and Rahi Mu‘ayyiri provided commentaries for the
© Jane Lewisohn, CC BY-NC http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.18

Fig. 18.1 Davud Pirnia (on the right) and Rahi Mu’ayyiri (on the left) at the radio in
Tehran, c. 1950. Courtesy of Forugh Bahmanpour, Public Domain.
programmes. Composers and songwriters such as Habibu’llah Badi‘i, Ghulam-Husayn

Darvish, Maḥmud Dhu’l-Funun, Farhad Fakhradini, Mihdi Khalidi, Ruhullah Khaliqi,
Humayun Khurram, Murtaza Mahjubi, Jahangir Murad (Husam al-Sultana), Murtaza
Nay-Dawud, Faramarz Payvar, ‘Arif Qazvini, Anushir Ruhani, Abu’l-Hasan Saba, ‘Ali
Akbar Shayda, ‘Ali Tajvidi, ‘Ali-Naghi Vaziri and Parviz Yahaqqi featured in the Golha
programmes, along with the finest singers of classical singing (avaz) and popular ballads
(tarana) vocalists such as ‘Abbas ‘Afifi, Darvish Amir-Hayati, Iqbal Azar (Iqbal-al-Sultan),
Marziya, ‘Ahdiya Badi‘i, Sima Bina, Vigan Dirdirian, Ilahi (Bahara Ghulam-Husayni),
Nadir Gulchin, Husayn Khwaja-Amiri (Iraj), Nahid Da‘i-javad, Hayida, Mahasti, Nasir
Mas‘udi, Parvin, Puran, ‘Izzat Ruhbakhsh, ‘Abd al-Wahhab Shahidi, Muhammad-Riza
Shajarian (Siyavush) and Kurush Sarhangzada. Likewise, some of the most talented
contemporary lyricists wrote songs for the Golha programmes, including the likes of
Jamshid Arjumand, ‘Ali Ashtari, Muhammad-Taqi Bahar (Malik-al-Shu‘ara), Hushang
Ibtihaj, Parviz Natil-Khanlari, Rahi Mu‘ayyiri, Manuchihr Mu‘in-Afshar, Rahim Mu‘ini-
Kirmanshahi, ‘Imad Khurasani, Isma‘il Nawwab-i Ṣafa, Muhammad-Husayn Shahriyar,
Munira Taha, Bijan Taraqqi, Abu’l-Hasan Varzi, Kayumars Vusuqi, Bahadur Yagana
and Zuhra (Mansura Atabaki). See Bizhan Taraqqi, Az pusht-i divarha-yi khatira, 2nd
edn. (Tehran: Badraqa-yi javidan, 1386 A.Hsh./2007), pp. 146-47; Habibu’llah Nasirifar,
Gulbang-i Golha: shi‘r va musiqi, 2 vols (Tehran: [n. pub.], 1377 A.Hsh./1998).
Conservation of the Iranian Golha radio programmes 589
Fig. 18.2 Parviz Yahaqqi (on the right) and Bijan Taraqqi (on the left)
composing a song for the Golha programmes. Tehran, late 1950s.
Fig. 18.3 Rahim Moini-Kermanshahi (on the right) and ‘Ali Tajvidi (on the left)
composing a song for the Golha programmes. Tehran, mid-1950s.
Besides having such a rich pool of talent at his fingertips, Pirnia had the
support of the Director of the Iranian National Radio (1950-1960s), Nusratu’llah
Mu‘iniyan, who transformed the radio from a commercial advertising platform
for entertainers and a parking place for relatives of political elites into a respected
and influential vehicle for the preservation and promotion of Persian culture.4 The
Golha programmes became bywords of excellence in the sphere of Persian music
and literature, setting standards that are still looked up to in Iran today; scholars
and musicians often refer to them as being an encyclopaedia of Persian music
and poetry.5 Most of the great ballads and classic songs in contemporary Persian
poetry were commissioned and composed specifically for these programmes.6
Pirnia produced five different radio programmes: “Perennial Flowers”
(Golha-yi javidan, up to 157), “Particoloured Flowers” (Golha-yi rangarang, 481),
“A Green Leaf” (Barg-i sabz, 312), “A Single Rose” (Yik shakh-i gol, 465) and
“Desert Flowers” (Golha-yi sahra’i, 64).7 Each featured choice selections from
4 On the basis of interviews that I conducted with the nay-player Hasan Nahid, the poet and
radio producer Hushang Ibtehaj, the female vocalist Sima Bina, as well as information
gleaned from the personal archive of Mahmud Zulfunun, it is clear that all the participants
in the Golha programmes — whether singers, composers, musicians, conductors, poets
or lyricists — were under contract to the National Radio. Their contracts varied between
being commissioned to perform in a set number of programmes, or present a certain
number of programmes monthly. Participants and performers were paid either upon the
delivery or performance of a certain song or poem, or, in the case of a monthly contracts,
at the end of the period. The notes and lyrics for the songs along with a copy of the
programme were then deposited and preserved in the central Radio Tehran archive.
For further information on this, see Anonymous, “Yek tahavvul dar tarikh-i Radio ya
pardakht fi al-majlis”, Majalla-i Radio – Radio-yi Tihran: Nashriyya-i idara-i kull-i intisharat-i
Radio, 2 (Mehr 1335 A.Hsh./1956), 3-4.
5 Humayun Khurram, “Ghugha-yi sitaragan”, Farhang u pazhuhish, Vizha-yi hunar
(Musiqi), [Culture and Research Magazine: Special Issue on Art (Music)], 198 (13 Murdad
1384 A.Hsh./4 August 2005), 20-21.
6 We’ll mention here only a few such famous “hit” songs: Raftam (lyrics: Navab Safa;
composer: ‘Ali Tajvidi; singer: Hayida), http://www.golha.co.uk/en/programme/1485#.
VBq2n0vxaqM; May-i nab (lyrics: Hafiz; composer: Ruhu’llah Khaliqi; singer: Banan and
Puran), http://www.golha.co.uk/en/programme/1269#.VBq3I0vxaqM; Nava-yi nay or
Bang-i nay (lyrics: Rahi Mu’ayyiri; composer: Murtaza Mahjubi; arrangement Ruhu’llah
Khaliqi singer: Banan), http://www.golha.co.uk/en/programme/1338#.VBq3fkvxaqM;
Sang-i khara (lyrics: Mu’ini Kirmanshahi; composer: ‘Ali Tajvidi; singer: Marziya),
http://www.golha.co.uk/en/programme/1264#.VBq3uUvxaqM; Sariban (lyrics:
Sa’di, composer: Javad Ma’rufi; singer: ‘Abdul-Wahab Shahidi), http://www.golha.
co.uk/en/programme/1272#.VBq4CkvxaqM; Baz-amad (lyrics: Mu’ini Kirmanshahi;
composer: Javad Ma’rufi; singer: Ilahi), http://www.golha.co.uk/en/programme/1316#.
VBq4RUvxaqM; Ghurub-i kuhistan (lyrics: Jahanbakhsh Pazuki; arrangement: Javad
Ma’rufi; singer: Nahid Da’i-javad), http://www.golha.co.uk/en/programme/399#.
VBq4kkvxaqM ; Man-i bidil (lyrics: Rahi Mu’ayyiri; composer: Murtaza Mahjubi singer:
Marziya). See Habibu’llah Nasirifar, Golha-yi javidan va Golha-yi rangarang (Tehran:
Intisharat-i Nigar, 1982 A.Hsh./2003), 15-17.
7 The Golha programmes are available at http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?
projID=EAP088
the lyrics of the great classical and contemporary Persian poets, combining
song and declamation with musical accompaniment, learned commentary
and Persian folk music.
18.1 Golha-yi javidan 85, broadcast between 1956 and 1959.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Golha-yi-javidan
18.2 Golha-yi rangarang 158, broadcast between 1956 and 1972.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Golha-yi-rangarang
18.3 Barg-i sabz 23, broadcast between 1956 and 1972.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Barg-i-sabz
18.4 Yik shakh-i gol 196, broadcast between 1956 and 1972.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Yik-shakh-i-gol
18.5 Golha-yi sahra’i 14, broadcast between 1960 and 1972.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Golha-yi-sahrai
There were three main aesthetic purposes underlying Pirnia’s establishment

of the Golha programmes: to make classical Persian poetry available to the
general public; to demonstrate the intimate, inextricable association of classical
Persian poetry with music; and to demonstrate that aesthetic appreciation of

music combined with poetry can allow one to better savour and appreciate
both art forms.8 The inspiration for establishing a radio programme combining
poetry and music came from the private gatherings held in the early 1950s at
the homes of some of the leading members of the Sufi Order founded by Safi
Ali Shah (d. 1898), which was known as the “Fraternal Society” (Anjuman-i
ukkhuwwat),9 and included ‘Abdu’llah Intizam, Nizam al-Soltan Khwajanuri
and Pirnia himself.
Fig. 18.4 Vigin Derderian, one of the most popular pop singers from the 1950s.
He sang several Armenian tunes for the Golha programmes.
8 Ibid., pp. 15-17.

9 Interview with Daryush Pirnia (son of Davud Pirnia), Maryland, U.S., 17 August 2005.
Unless otherwise stated, all interviews mentioned herein were conducted by the author.
Davud Pirnia also began producing a “Children’s Programme” (Barnama-i kudak) on
Tehran Radio in 1956, which had an immensely important artistic and cultural impact.
See Isma‘il Navabsafa, Qissa-yi sham: khatirat-i hunari (Tehran: Nashr-i Paykan, 1384
A.Hsh./2005), p. 586.
The socio-cultural impact of the Golha

programmes in Iran
The Golha programmes were a product of the peculiar cultural and political
atmosphere in Iran in the early twentieth century. During the reign of the
first Pahlavi monarch, Reza Shah (1921-1941), music, cinema and western-
style theatre were viewed favourably as having a modernising influence on
Iranian society.10 Although the Shah himself did not directly support these
activities, his modernist political policies created a suitable atmosphere in
which they could flourish. In 1932, Reza Shah banned the performance of
the traditional Shiite passion plays (ta‘ziyeh),11 which had previously been a
major source of entertainment for the general public. Their removal from the
artistic and religious scene left a vacuum that was quickly filled by cinema,
theatre and musical concerts. Another significant event was the decree issued
in 1936 by Reza Shah prohibiting women from wearing the chador — an all
encompassing black garment which also included a mask-like cloth (ruband)
covering their face — in public spaces. This paved the way for women to
participate in the public sphere physically, intellectually and artistically.12
Another significant occurrence took place on 14 April 1940 when Iranian
National Radio initiated its very first broadcasts,13 which soon became the
major source of information and entertainment for the general public. Many
10 One typical example of this attitude appears in a letter (dated 11 July 1931) written by
the director of the Tehran branch of His Master’s Voice record company to their head
office in London, encouraging them to expand their operations in Iran, which states:
“the Persian Government considers that the two great factors for the popularisation of
modern education are the cinema and the phonograph” (His Master’s Voice’s Archives
for Persia, housed in EMI Group Archive Trust, Hayes, Middlesex, UK). Abbas Milani
likewise describes how “the government [of Iran under Reza Shah] was firmly supportive
of Vaziri’s efforts [at modernising Persian music]. Some of his songs became a mandatory
part of the curriculum in all schools, and the government paid for the publication of his
three-volume magnum opus, The Theory of Music. Abbas Milani, Eminent Persians: the
Men and Women Who Made Modern Iran, 1941-1979, 2 (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University
Press, 2008), p. 1032. See also Keivan Aghamohseni, “Modernisation of Iranian Music
During the Reign of Reza Shah”, in Culture and Cultural Politics Under Reza Shah: The
Pahlavi State, New Bourgeoisie and the Creation of a Modern Society in Iran, ed. by Bianca
Devos and Christoph Werner (London: Routledge, 2014), 73-94.
11 Willem Floor, The History of Theater in Iran (Washington, DC: Mage, 2005), 197; M. Ali
Issari, Cinema in Iran, 1900-1979 (Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press, 1989), pp. 63-64.
12 “Emancipation of women was one of Reza Shah’s most effective weapons in diminishing
the power of the clergy who had traditionally exerted a great deal of power over women’s
lives and their freedoms”. Hamideh Sedghi, Women and Politics in Iran: Veiling, Unveiling,
and Reveiling (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), p. 66.
13 Sipihri, “Radiyu dar 20 sal [20 Years of Radio]”, Radio-yi Iran, 32 (1338 A.Hsh./1959), 3-5.
of these broadcasts featured both male and female vocal and performing
artists.14 Certain events in the external political sphere also had a huge
impact on the artistic scene in Iran at this time. At the height of World War
II, after refusing to break his ties with Nazi Germany, Reza Shah abdicated
in September 1941 in favour of his young son Muhammad Reza Pahlavi.
On the pretext of defending and supplying the Russian front against the
German invasion, the Allies took complete control of Iran.15 Although this
was a period of great economic hardship for the general public in Iran,16 new
theatres were opened and musical concerts thrived due to a general lack of
censorship and the fact that the Allies supported this kind of entertainment
in order to win favour with the Persian people.17
During World War II and its aftermath, popular foreign styles began to
exert their influence on Persian music and performance art in general. Western,
Arabic, Turkish and Indian influences began to affect the development of
Persian music. As a result, the native classical “art music” of Iran came
under threat of disappearing or becoming so distorted as to be no longer
recognisable.18 Compounding this crisis of survival of Persian classical
music was the taboo against the performance of serious art music in public,
since “the predominant trend in Islamic culture was anti-musical … When
music was practiced at all it was directly in the face of social and religious
disapproval”.19
14 Tooka Maliki, Zanan-i musiqi-yi Iran: az ustura ta imruz (Tehran: Kitab-i Khurshid, 1381
A.Hsh./2002), p. 227.
15 Donald N. Wilber, Iran: Past and Present (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967),
pp. 105-06.
16 Interview with Iranian historian Bastani Parizi, Tehran, 13 December 2007.
17 Floor observes that “during World War II, theater and concerts thrived as the young
Shah was weak and the Allies didn’t mind criticism if it was not directed at them. The
Allies also supported local cultural activities in order to gain the support of the people.”
Floor, The History of Theater in Iran, p. 263.
18 Ella Zonis’s description of the situation a decade later in Iran is applicable to this period as
well: “Once again, as in the time of her contact with ancient Greece, Persia is undergoing
heavy cultural pressure from the West. This has greatly stimulated musical activity,
and the long quiescence that preserved Persia’s centuries old music has come to an end.
However the danger exists here, as it does all over Asia, that native art music either will
be replaced by Western Music or will be so westernized as to lose all connection with the
native tradition”. Ella Zonis, “Contemporary Art Music in Persia”, The Musical Quarterly,
51 (1965), 636-48 (p. 647).
19 Zonis points out that “the most devout [Iranian Muslims] rejected music […] The effect of
the religious prohibition has considerable impact on musical life. On religious holidays
(most of which are days of mourning for the death of martyrs such as Ali, Hasan and
Hussein, early Imams of Islam), there is no music on the radio and no public musical
events or rehearsals, even if these are days on which other sorts of business take place.
There appears to be a strong feeling on the part of the populace that even rehearsals
In this respect, it should be underlined that musicians in Iranian society in

general occupied the lowest rung of the social ladder. Even Colonel ‘Ali-Naghi
Vaziri (known as the “Father of modern Iranian Music”)20 had to constantly
move his music club from one premise to another, as the landlords would
evict him on various pretexts. He explained that the real reason behind their
persecution was that music in general was frowned upon as religiously
forbidden (haram) by the conservative elements of society. Whether music
was taught or performed by men or women, the neighbours, prodded by
angry local mullahs, would make trouble for any landlord who allowed
musicians access to their premises.21
During the period of the Allies’ occupation of Iran in the 1940s and its
immediate aftermath, down to the Musaddiq crisis of 1953, Iran was virtually
free of any serious censorship.22 Vigorous debates flourished in the field of
literature. Radical modernist thinkers like Ahmad Kasravi and poets such
as Nima Yushij viewed many of the classical traditions in Persian literature
as exemplifying apathy, fatalism and impediments to modernisation and
social progress. They championed new forms of Persian prose and poetry
and advocated for a politically engaged literature. The majority of the Iranian
intellectuals of this period were strongly influenced by Soviet communist
ideology and dogmatically stressed the need for a new kind of Persian
literature that was socially committed.23 They despised and rejected the
introspective and meditative classical tradition of Persian poetry as socially
irresponsible and politically irrelevant to modern society. They denounced
and jettisoned the classical tradition as an idle, outdated romanticism of
no use to their modern progressive, rationalist worldview. In the opposing
should not be held; for example, some musicians (of Western music) have told me that
while they themselves had no objection to rehearsing on at least minor holidays, they did
not like to be seen carrying a musical instrument in public. Similarly, on such holidays
the music department of the University of Tehran is closed, while other departments
hold classes” (ibid., 637). See also similar comments in Bruno Nettl, “Attitudes Towards
Persian Music in Tehran, 1969”, The Musical Quarterly, 56/2 (1970), 183-97.
20 Hamid Raja’i, “Ali Naghi Vaziri: pidar-i musiqi-yi nuvin-i Iran”, in Guzarish-i musiqi
[Music Report], I/6-7 (Tehran 1386 /A.Hsh.2007), 64-68. See also Milani, 2, p. 1033.
21 Sasan Sapanta, Chishmandaz-i musiqi-yi Iran (Tehran: Mahur, 2004), p. 185; and Floor, p. 239.
22 By “Musaddiq crisis”, I refer to the events of the summer of 1953 during which an oil
embargo on Iran was imposed by the British. In a coup orchestrated by Britain and the
U.S. intelligence services, Prime Minister Muhammad Musaddiq (who had nationalised
the Iranian oil industry) was overthrown and deposed, and Muhammad Reza Pahlavi
returned to the throne. See Homa Katouzian, The Persians: Ancient, Medieval and Modern
Iran (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009), pp. 245-52.
23 Iraj Parsinejad, A History of Literary Criticism in Iran (1866-1951) (Bethesda, MD: Ibex,
2003), pp. 41 and 59.
camp stood traditionalist writers such as Muhammad Ali Furughi, Badi‘

al-Zaman Furuzanfar, Muhammad Taqi Bahar and others, who defended the
importance and relevance of classical Persian literary traditions to modern
Iranian society.24
Although Pirnia belonged largely to the latter camp, he was well acquainted
with all the major modernist intellectuals and writers. His family mansion
was situated just off Lalihzar Avenue, where all the theatres, music halls and
fashionable coffee houses were located – in its day it was Tehran’s equivalent
to New York’s Times Square or London’s Leicester Square. He would have
heard and seen all these new and foreign forms of entertainment performed
in the immediate vicinity of his home. This caused him great alarm as it did
to most of the classical Persian musicians.25 During this same postwar period,
one finds many articles appearing in various Iranian music journals written
by prominent musicians expressing their concern for the future of Persian
art music. They not only bemoaned its decadence and decline, but also
complained of the Ministry of Culture’s apathy towards the situation, lack
of support and involvement in the development of national music (musiqi-yi
milli).26 Mushir Humayun Shahrdar, who served as Director of Music at
Iranian National Radio during the early 1950s, described the lamentable
situation of Iranian music during this period:
Persian Music was not only being impacted by influences coming from vulgar
pop music from abroad, but the influence of Arabic music had caused Persian
music to decline as well. Singers and musicians on the radio were largely
imitating international music styles, performing songs and tunes that not
only had nothing to do with authentic Persian music, but did not follow the
norms of world music either.27
On the public institutional level, there were several organisations that had
a lasting impact on the development of Persian music in the nineteenth and
24 See M. A. Jazayery, “Ahmad Kasravi and the Controversy Over Persian Poetry. Part 2:
The Debate on Persian Poetry between Kasravi and His Opponents”, International Journal
of Middle Eastern Studies, 13/3 (1981), 311-27.
25 Davud Pirnia’s son, Bijan Pirnia, told me a story that on returning from a visit to the
home of his friend Mr. Vusuqi, his father decided that he had to do something to combat
the ongoing corruption of Persian music and literary traditions. Shortly after that, he
inaugurated the Golha-yi Javidan series of radio programmes. Interview with Bijan Pirnia,
Tehran, Iran, 12 September 2005.
26 See Ruhu’llah Khaleqi, “Hadaf va ravesh-i majalla”, Majalla-yi chang, 1 (1325 A.Hsh./1946),
3; and idem, “Yek pishnehad-i mofid”, Majalla-yi chang, 2 (1325 A.Hsh./1946), 3. See also
Majalla-yi musiq and Majalla-yi musiqi (Tehran: 1956-1966), passim; and Nettl, “Attitudes”,
pp. 183-97.
27 Mushir Humayun Shahrdar, “Qadamha-i kih barayi bihbud-i musiqi-yi Irani Radio
bardashta shuda-ast”, Majala-yi Radio, 1 (Shahrivar 1335 A.Hsh./1956), 13.
early twentieth centuries. The first of these was the Dar al-Funun (Technical
College) in Tehran, founded in 1868, in which Alfred Jean-Baptiste Lemaire
taught music classes that were largely devoted to providing the Iranian army
with a grounding in military music.28 Secondly, there was the Advanced
School for Music Studies (Madrasa-yi ‘ali-yi musiqi), founded by Colonel
‘Ali-Naghi Vaziri in 1923. Thirdly came the National Conservatory of Music
(Hunarestan-i musiqi-yi milli), founded by Ruhu’llah Khaliqi in 1949, and
fourthly the Centre for the Preservation and Promotion of Music (Markaz-i
hifz va ashaya-yi musiqi), founded by Daryush Safwat in 1968.29
Fig. 18.5 Ali Akbar Shanazi teaching his pupil Pirayeh Pourafar
at the Centre for the Preservation and Promotion of Music in Tehran, in 1977.
Courtesy of Pirayeh Pourafar, Public Domain.
28 Even before Lemaire, wax cylinder recordings and phonograph records had made it
possible for people to listen to quality professional music, whether western or Persian.
However, these were luxury items only to be found in well-to-do households. A
phonograph player would have cost about £1,500 in today’s money and each record
would have cost the equivalent of £20. See Sasan Sapanta, Tarikh-i tahavvul-i zabt-i musiqi
dar Iran (Tehran: Mahur, 1998), p. 67.
29 Owen Wright, Touraj Kiaras and Persian Classical Music: An Analytical Perspective (London:
Ashgate, 2009), pp. 3-4.
All of these institutions made important contributions to the shaping of

modern Persian music, but their audience was limited and mostly composed
of music specialists. No one but a few members of the urban elite could
afford the price of tickets to their occasional concerts.30 In this context, the
institution that had the most far-reaching and inclusive effect on Persian
music and music appreciation was the Iranian National Radio. Broadcast for
free throughout the whole nation, music on the radio was avidly followed.
Even if at first radios were expensive, people gathered to listen to them in
each other’s homes or in coffee houses.
Unfortunately, influence-peddling, favouritism and nepotism eventually
led to a chronic decline in the standards of music broadcast. In an interview
given on Iranian radio in the 1950s, Mushir Humayun Shahrdar explains that
the radio effectively became an advertising platform for certain performers,
enabling them to hawk their artistic wares and benefit from their fame
financially by performing at private functions and weddings.31 In the period
directly after the Musaddiq crisis of 1953,32 a radio station belonging to the
Air Force began broadcasting popular tunes (ahang-i kucha-bazar) with weak
lyrics set to fast Arabic dance beats. These lyrics — sung by pop singers like
Mahvash, Affat and Jibili, who were not formally trained in classical Persian
singing — soon became very popular among the general public. Seeing that
he was losing his listeners to the Air Force radio station, Mr. Khudayar, who
was the assistant to Parviz Adl, the Director of National Iranian Radio, invited
these singers to perform on the National Iranian Radio.
Khudayar’s disastrous bias towards cheap popular music was coupled
with a nepotistic managerial policy that freely handed over all the important
jobs and programmes to close family members, and put on the payroll names
of people who had never ever set foot in the radio station. This, along with
the above-mentioned philistine commercial attitudes and conduct of some
of the National Radio’s singers, alienated many of its serious musicians such
as Abu’l-Hasan Saba, Banan, Khaliqi, Adib Khwansari and ‘Ali Tajvidi. Not
wanting to have their names associated with this kind of tawdry music and
30 During the Reza Shah period, censorship was tightened and cultural activities that
did not support the drive towards modernisation were banned. Satire was tolerated,
but only if it was directed towards the discredited Qajar regime. Armenian theatrical
performances were banned in 1927. As Floor argues, “The majority of the population
was poor and could not afford the luxury of the price of a ticket to benefit the football
club and other elite institutions” (pp. 258-59).
31 Interview with Shahrdar that was re-broadcast on Islamic Rebublic of Iran Broadcasting
(IRIB) on 25 August 1999.
32 On these events, see Katouzian, pp. 245-52.
unbecoming behaviour,33 they resigned their positions at the National Radio

and returned to pursue private teaching duties.34
Fig. 18.6 Ghulam Hosain Banan (on the left) and Navab-Safa (on the right)
working on a song for the Golha programmes. Tehran, late 1950s.
It is at this juncture that Pirnia began his work with the radio and inaugurated
the Golha programmes. Around the same time, Nusratu’llah Mu‘iniyan was
33 The following description by Nettl of the situation a decade or so later was by and
large typical of the 1940s-1950s as well: “Western popular music is performed both by
Iranian and foreign performers in nightclubs in Tehran of the same sort that one finds in
large European and American cities. The language of the singing was normally English,
French, or Italian. Popular music in the various Persian styles ... is most typically heard
in large music halls which in Tehran are concentrated in one district whose center is
Lalezar Avenue. These music halls, in contrast to the modern night clubs, are patronized
almost exclusively by men and each of them has a cliental by an occupation”. Bruno
Nettl, “Persian Popular Music in Iran 1969”, Ethnomusicology, 16/2 (1972), 218-39.
34 Interview with Nikukar, Los Angeles, U.S., 25 July 2010. Nikukar was one of the original
sound technicians employed by the National Radio from the 1940s down to the early
1980s.
appointed Director of the Radio. A man with refined tastes in classical Persian
music and literature, he completely overhauled the whole organisation,
changing it from a chaotic, shady institution into a highly disciplined,
efficient and respectable one that even began to generate income through
advertising.35 With the help of President Harry Truman’s “Point Four
Program”, designed to give technical assistance to developing countries
recovering from the devastating effects of World War II, the Iranian National
Radio, better known as “Radio Tehran”, was able to make much-needed
technological improvements like the building of professional sound studios
and the installation of modern recording and broadcasting equipment.36
Pirnia’s personal prestige as a scion of a famous former Prime Minister,
and his literary and musical genius in designing these high quality radio
programmes, combined with Mu‘iniyan’s disciplined restructuring of the radio
organisation and brilliant managerial talents, proved immediately effective.
When the major artists and great maestros, virtuosos and divas who left in
disillusionment a few years earlier were invited back to perform, they gladly
accepted.37 Soon the radio became a favourite medium for introducing serious
Persian music to the nation. In the words of Farhad Fakhradini, composer,
conductor and founder of the Iranian National Orchestra:
The Golha programmes were the most successful radio programmes produced
in Iran those days […] The programmes made people appreciate music much
35 Mu‘iniyyan’s efforts are described in detail in Shahrdar, “Qadamha”.

36 Interview with Bijan Farazi, Tehran, Iran, 7 September 2005. Farazi was a friend and
colleague of Davud Pirnia. Thomas Ricks notes, “On September 22, 1949, Secretary of
State Dean Acheson wrote the Iranian Ambassador to the United States, Hussein Ala,
that Iran would receive both economic and military assistance including technical
advisors in agriculture, public health, education, and industrial training under the
Smith-Mundt and Point Four programs”. Thomas Ricks, “U.S. Military Missions to
Iran, 1943-1978: The Political Economy of Military Assistance”, Iranian Studies, 12/3-4
(1979), 163-93 (p. 176). The “Point Four Program” provided 7,000,000 rials for a purpose-
built building to house the offices and studios of Radio Tehran and a further $55,000 for
recording and other technical equipment. This money also paid for the training of Iranian
technicians in the U.S. See Anon, “Istudiyu-yi jadid-i radio-yi Tihran [A New Studio
for Radio Tehran]”, in Majala-yi Radio, 1 (Shahrivar 1335 A.Hsh./1956), 15. The “Point
Four Program” also provided a fifty-kilowatt radio transmitter for Iran that enabled the
radio broadcasts to be heard even in the most far-flung hamlets of Iran, and $18,000
for American experts to train the Iranian radio engineers. For further details about the
history of the development of Radio Tehran, see Anonymous, “Suda-yi Tihran: Bih zudi
ba bih-kar uftadan-i dastgah-i jadid-i panjah-kiluvati bih-tawr-i vuzuh dar sarasar-i Iran
shinidih khwahad shud [The Voice of (Radio) Tehran: How Shortly a New Fifty-Kilowatt
Plant for Radio Tehran Will be Established and Broadcast Loud and Clear Throughout
Iran]”, Majala-yi Radio, 1 (Shahrivar 1335 A.Hsh./1956), 8 and 22.
37 Ruhu’llah Khaliqi, “Ba in ‘ilal dar Radio-yi Iran qabul-i mas’uliyat kardam [An
Explanation of Why I Accepted [a Post of] Responsibility at Radio Iran]”, Majalla-yi
Musik-i Iran, Year 7, 4/76 (Shahriyar 1337 A.Hsh./1958), 18.
more and attracted people to good music, and developed the populace’s taste
and appreciation for classical Persian music. All the artists who participated
in the creation of the Golha programmes, such as Abu’l-Hasan Saba, Murtaza
Mahjubi, Tajvidi, Davud Pirnia and Rahi Mu‘ayyeri, were people of high
culture and extraordinary individuals. It should be emphasised that we
didn’t have any other entertainment besides the radio in those days. One
might go to the movies once a week, but there was no TV for us to watch. We
would turn on the radio, and the best programme of all at the time was the
programme of “Perennial Flowers” (Golha-yi javidan), after which came that
of “Particoloured Flowers” (Golha-yi rangarang). At the start, Messrs. Tajvidi,
Mahjubi, and Saba worked on these programmes. They were soon followed
by Ruhu’llah Khaliqi, who had a good-sized ensemble, and who was, in fact,
himself the founder-director of the Golha Orchestra.38
Akbar Gulpayagani, one of the most colourful and beloved vocalists in

Persian music, who sang in all the different Golha programmes from a very
early age,39 describes the educational effect of the programmes on Iranian
culture at large as follows:
38 Interview with Farhad Fakhradini, Tehran, Iran, 3 October 2005.

39 Ali Akbar Gulpayigani was born in 1933 into a religious family of preachers and Quran-
reciters who sang the praises of the Prophet and the Shi‘ite Imams. He was educated as
a professional surveyor. He studied the modal system of classical Persian singing with
Nur ‘Ali Khan Burumand (1905-1974) and later sang in various Golha radio programmes
with the support of Pirnia. He created a new style in Persian classical vocals that attracted
the general public to Persian classical singing. His method was to strip off the intricate
and complex sophistication of the Persian vocal art, transforming classical singing into
something simple, appealing, and easy for music lovers to commit to memory; in this
manner, he filled the glaring gap that lay between the solemnity of classical Persian vocal
art and popular lyrical singing, forming a bridge between the two. He taught classical
singing (avaz), became a popular singer on Iranian television, a celebrated performer in
concerts abroad, the founder of the earliest cassette recording companies, and a cabaret
and nightclub owner and performer, where he showed a clever knack for administrative
management. He had an eye for commercial profitability and a genius at introducing
a kind of Hollywood-like attractiveness into the music scene in Iran. He even enjoyed
a brief acting career in Iranian commercial films between 1967-1974. His performances
were geared to suit each occasion, such that he performed on the Golha programmes in
one way, in another manner on television, in still other ways in private gatherings, in
public concerts, in cabarets and nightclubs, etc. Gulpayigani trod his own way and has
thus enjoyed the warm welcome of Persian society over the past fifty years. Nonetheless,
it is noteworthy that over the past thirty years (since the Iranian revolution of 1979), he
has been banned from holding public concerts in Iran and from performing or having
his songs played on Iranian radio and TV. From 1980 onwards, his activities have been
limited to either private teaching at home, performance in concerts abroad, or releasing
cassettes, albums and CDs that have enjoyed a wide circulation. He himself considers
that he owed the illustriousness of his career in the Golha programmes largely to Davud
Pirnia’s expert directorship and refined tastes in music. During his travels abroad, he
obtained many decorations, medals, an honorary Ph.D. degree, as well as other honours
and titles. Musicologists today regard him as the Frank Sinatra of Persian music. For
more on Gulpayigani’s career and influence, see ‘Ali Riza Mir‘ali Naqi’s account of the
singer at http://www.golha.co.uk
One of the biggest effects of the Golha was to immortalise the names of any
artist who performed in them. […] Ask anyone today involved in Persian
music in any capacity what the best exemplar of Persian music is – they will
invariably reply: “the Golha programmes”. The Golha had their own particular
inimitable fragrance which makes their place in the history of Persian music
irreplaceable. … In Persian literature, we have grandees such as Hafez, Sa‘di
and Rumi, but the Golha programmes introduced the public to poets of all the
ages. Anyone who bothered to assemble a collection the Golha programmes in
their home also necessarily collected the works of most of the Persian poets.40
Fig. 18.7 Akbar Golpaygani (on the left) and Farhang Sharif (on the right)
in the late 1960s. Courtesy of Alireza Mirnaghabi, Public Domain.
Iran’s greatest living classical vocalist, Muhammad-Reza Shajarian, had this

to say about the legacy and significance to the Golha programmes:
Persian music owes a huge debt to Davud Pirnia in my opinion. At a crucial
moment in the history of Iran he effectively rescued our music from perdition.
If it were not for his efforts, Arab music, Turkish music, or Western pop music
would have all but drowned out and obliterated Persian music. In establishing
the Golha programmes, Mr Pirnia created a sanctuary where Persian music
could survive and flourish amongst all these debilitating and corrupting
40 Interview with Akbar Gulpayagani, Tehran, Iran, 2 October 2005.

influences, so that even today the Golha programmes are still cherished among
the populace at large.41
In short, the effect of the Golha programmes on Persian literature and

literary appreciation cannot be underestimated. However, we should
also consider the effect of the Golha programmes within the context of
the entertainment and education industries in mid-twentieth-century
Iran. According to studies carried out by UNESCO, the official illiteracy
rate in Iran was somewhere around 85-90% in the 1950s.42 For the largely
rural population of Iran, the only form of mass media available was the
National Radio. The modernisation programmes launched earlier in
the century by Reza Shah had discouraged most of the other traditional
pastimes such as coffee-house recitation (Qahva-khana naqqali) and town-
square (maydan) entertainments like theatrical storytelling (pardihdari),
juggling and puppet shows (shu‘bada-bazi, khaymih-shabbazi) and magic
tricks (ma‘rikigiri) as being backward and old-fashioned.43 A few of the
larger towns had cinemas, but for the majority of the rural population of
Iran, radio was one of the only form of entertainment and information
at their disposal.44
With the introduction of battery-powered transistor radios in the 1960s,
even the most remote villages and tribal areas — many of which did not
have electricity at the time — began listening to the radio.45 The Golha
programmes suddenly became a national fad. Families would arrange
their schedules to make sure they were home in time to listen to the Golha
programmes on the radio, while those who did not have radios — either
because they could not afford them or because of the religious convictions
41 Interview with Mohammad-Reza Shajarian, London, United Kingdom, 5 November

2005.
42 See World Illiteracy at Mid-Century: A Statistical Study, UNESCO Monographs on
Fundamental Education, 11 (Paris: UNESCO, 1957), p. 39.
43 Peter Chelkowski, “Islam in Modern Drama and Theatre”, Die Welt des Islams, 23/4
(1984), 45-69.
44 Amin Banani, “The Role of the Mass Media”, in Iran Faces the Seventies, ed. by Ehsan
Yarshater (New York: Praeger, 1971), pp. 325-28.
45 Mohammad Ali Issari refers to the spread of cinema entertainment throughout Iran
during this period. However, the backward socio-cultural situation also led to the
prominence and importance of the radio in peoples’ lives. Two events occurred in Iran
that made cinema the foremost source of mass entertainment for the people. The royal
decree prohibiting Ta’ziyih and a decree banning chador contributed to the growing role of
cinema as a source of mass entertainment. From 1936 until 1978, men and women could
sit next to each other in cinemas, a freedom denied them even during such religious
ritualistic gatherings as Rawzih and Ta‘ziyih. See Issari, pp. 63-64 and 71.
and opposition of their elders — would go to their neighbours’ and relatives’

houses to listen to them.46
The Golha programmes introduced to the general public approximately 700
Persian poets from the Samanid dynasty (819-999) down through the Pahlavi
monarchy (1925-1979). The programmes combined literary commentary
with singing and declamation of their poetry, all accompanied by the finest
Persian music. Because the radio was freely accessible to all, whether literate
or not, this had a very positive effect of raising the awareness and literary
appreciation of both the intelligentsia and the general public:
The Golha programmes served to preserve the classical tradition of Persian
music and poetry which was under threat from forces that wished to modernise,
and — in some cases — eradicate the love and cultivation of traditional Persian
music and poetry in Iran. However, because of the airing of these programmes,
interest in classical Persian literature was revived so that the Divans of poets
that had been out of print for years, or never properly edited and published
before, suddenly became in high demand and booksellers were astounded
at the demand for and sale of these classics.47
The quality and sophistication of the Golha raised the bar for all other radio
programmes, and helped to bring about what many refer to as the “Golden
Age of Iranian Radio”, a period that lasted a little over a decade from 1954
to 1967. After this time, public radio and television merged into a single
organisation: the National Iranian Radio and Television (NIRT).
18.6 Golha-yi taza 200, broadcast between 1972 and 1979.
http://www.openbookpublishers.com/media/978-1-78374-062-8/Golha-yi-taza
46 In my interviews with Fakhradini and Shajarian (London, 4 November 2006), both

described how, despite not having radios in their own homes during their youth,
they would go daily to their cousins’ and neighbours’ houses to listen to the Golha
programmes. Both told me that Golha programmes constituted the chief inspiration for
them to pursue careers in music.
47 Interview with Prof. Shah-Husayni, Tehran, Iran, 6 November 2007. Shah-Husayni
served as Director of the Literary Committee under Davud Pirnia at the Iranian National
Radio during the production and broadcasting of the Golha programmes. He was also
editor of the journal Radio-yi Iran from 1956 to 1967.
Fig. 18.8 Left to right: Shaf’i Kadkani, Hushang Ebtehaj and Bastani Parizi.
They were all poets whose work was featured in the Golha programmes, c. 1970.
Courtesy of Alireza Mirnaghibi, Public Domain.
In the words of Hushang Ibtehaj, one of the most important contemporary

Persian poets and the producer of the “Fresh Flowers” (Golha-yi taza)
programmes:
Davud Pirnia was extremely successful in promoting both Persian music
and poetry. He did something very important, which was by combining
poetry with music, he made people pay closer attention to poetry itself. At
that time, there was nobody else except for him who was thinking about or
paying attention to these matters. The National Radio pervaded Iranian social
life in an all-inclusive manner. With the turn of a knob on the dial one could
broadcast music throughout the whole country. With his attention to detail,
his enthusiasm, dedication and passion for the subject, Mr Pirnia tried to select
the very best repertoire of poems and to choose the very best musicians for
participation in the Golha programmes.
In both respects he was quite successful, gathering all the best musicians
around him to produce the Golha programmes. Beyond these programmes, we
didn’t hear much other music of high quality. There was some popular music
being broadcast, but since it started at a level suitable to the masses, it soon
degenerated into cheap music of the lowest quality. The Golha programmes
played a very important role in the development of the musical and literary
culture of Iran during the particular historical moment that they appeared.
The Golha programmes were not without faults – faults that we can see plainly
now with hindsight. That is to say, there were some things missing and other
things that could have been added to or improved on – but at that time there
was nothing better around. One could say that the Golha programmes were
the very best our culture had to offer the world. In his day, Mr Pirnia made
the best possible imaginable contribution to Persian music.
After experiencing the impact of the Golha programmes, looking back now
in retrospect, we can recognise their faults and shortcomings in light of what
subsequently came after them. But at the time when the Golha programmes
were broadcast, all the participants were of the highest calibre and they enjoyed
a very high place and were held in high esteem by the greater public.48
I have given such a long quotation from Ibtehaj because he was one of the
main advocates of the neoclassical movement (bazgasht) in Persian music. In
his capacity as the producer of the Golha-yi Taza programmes in the 1970s,
this great modern Persian poet had aimed to revive styles of Persian music
performed before the introduction of western musical notation by Colonel
Vaziri. Despite the fact that many followers of the bazgasht movement
criticised the Golha programmes for including western elements of harmony,
polyphony and counterpoint, as well as other “innovations” in some of its
ballads and orchestral pieces, Ibtehaj’s remarks clearly indicate that the Golha
programmes were nonetheless still largely understood as a force for the
preservation of traditionally “native Iranian” values and “classical Persian”
music in all their authenticity.
Fig. 18.9 Mohammad Reza Lutfi (on the left) and Hushang Ebtehaj (on the right)
in the mid-1970s. Courtesy of Forugh Bahmanpour, Public Domain.
In an interview, Nasir al-Din Shah-Husayni, who directed the Literary

Committee that vetted the contents of the Golha programmes at the Iranian
48 Interview with Hushang Ibtehaj, Tehran, Iran, 19 November 2009.

National Radio, related how popular the Golha became throughout Iran. His
office typically received thousands of letters from Golha fans every week,
many of whom requested copies of various poems they had heard on a
particular programme. Although it was impossible to answer them all, the
committee devoted two centre pages of the Radio-yi Iran monthly journal to
publishing the transcripts of the Golha-yi Javidan and the Golha-yi Rangarang
programmes.49
Fig. 18.10 Text of the Golha-yi javidan and Golha-yi rangarang programmes printed in
the Radio-yi Iran journal. Majala-yi Radio, 16-17 (1335 A.Hsh./1956), Public Domain.
The standards of the Golha were so high that all the musicians and singers
wanted to participate in them,50 and many of them became famous due to
49 Interview with Shah-Husayni. My own research indicates that no copies of these

journals are currently available in any public library in Iran, although stray copies of
various issues can be found in the British Library, the Library of Congress and Princeton
University Library. Complete copies of all numbers of these journals are currently
housed in my own private collection.
50 In my interview with Shajarian (2006), he informed me that the reason he came to
Tehran from his birthplace of Mashhad, was that “there were no musicians to speak of in
their participation.51 Everyone knew that Pirnia did not invite just anybody
to participate in the Golha, and that he chose the participants according to
their artistic merits, not because of the strings they could pull for him or in
return for favours.52 Due to Pirnia’s personal integrity, reputation and the
quality and sophistication of the programmes, the musicians and singers in
the Golha programmes soon acquired a social “star” status and respect that
helped in turn to elevate the status of musicians and singers in the eyes of
the general public in Iran. ‘Abd al-Hamid Ishraq, one of the editors of the
journal Musik-i Iran (Iran Music Magazine),53 explained to me that in 1953,
when he was a young man, he was quite an accomplished musician who
played the tar in the National Radio’s orchestra with well-known performers
like Dardashti, Muluk Zarrabi and Bahram Siyah. This was a few years
before the inauguration of the Golha programmes. Despite his talent, he was
discouraged from playing music by the merciless taunting and mockery of
passers-by: when they saw him waiting for the bus with his tar in hand, they
would ridicule him so much that he abandoned playing music altogether.
However, once the Golha programmes hit the airwaves, public attitudes
shifted dramatically, such that music suddenly became a respectable, even
envied profession to pursue.54
Mashhad at that time. I actually wanted to come and participate in the Golha programmes
and to work with their musicians. I was a high school teacher at that time. I struggled to
get myself transferred to work in Tehran. However, my main aim was to work with the
Golha musicians – artists such as Mr. ‘Ibadi, Mr. Shahnaz, Mr. Badi‘i and Majd. So with
great difficulty, I got myself transferred to Tehran. I was still teaching in high school
when I began singing in the Golha programmes”.
51 Interview with Gulpayagani.
52 Parviz Yahaqqi notes that “Mr. Pirnia never allowed himself to be influenced by anyone
when it came to the Golha. It wouldn’t matter if his father, mother or even the Shah
recommended someone for participation in the Golha. If he did not think their talents
were up to the standard of the Golha, he would not accept them”. Interview with Parviz
Yahaqqi Tehran, Iran, 9 September 2005. Yahaqqi, who died in 2012, was one of Iran’s
major violin virtuosos and a composer for the Golha programmes.
53 This was a monthly journal published between 1952-1963, produced by Bahman Hirbud,
and edited by ‘Ali Reza Rashidi and ‘Abd al-Hamid Ishraq.
54 ‘Abd al-Hamid Ishraq notes that “Everyone in the Radio was jealous of the popularity
of Mr. Pirnia and the Golha programmes. Everyone wanted to be in them. Yet he insisted
on focusing on the general quality of the Golha programmes and hardly gave the time of
day to anyone who did not have talent. There were some singers like Bahram Siyah who,
although had a good number of fans, were disappointed not to be chosen for the Golha.
There were many other singers who tried to gain admittance among the performers on
the Golha programmes, but Pirnia, who placed great emphasis on a singer’s ability to
convey both the poetic meaning and the rhythmical ambience of the poems, wouldn’t
accept them. And he was right—not everyone was up to that”. Interview with ‘Abd
al-Hamid Ishraq, Paris, France, 30 May 2008. Ishraq is an architect and historian of
Iranian music.
Conservation of the Golha programmes

through the British Library’s Endangered
Archives Programme
I first became aware of the socio-cultural and artistic significance of the
Golha programmes during my undergraduate studies at Pahlavi University
in Shiraz in the early 1970s. I lived with a well-educated and cosmopolitan
Iranian family who were regular weekly listeners to these programmes, and
we constantly discussed and debated their contents and merits during our
conversations about Persian literature and poetry. I had to leave Iran in 1979,
and I took with me a substantial collection of cassette recordings of the Golha.
In 2004, I began exploring the possibility of collecting and digitising the
Golha programmes. Much to my surprise, I found that almost no information
about them was available, and no in-depth studies had been undertaken.55
Given the ambiguous social and religious position of music and musicians
in Iran after the 1979 Islamic revolution,56 it was unclear how much of the
archive of the Golha programmes held at the Iranian National Radio had
survived. It seemed highly likely that, due to the enormous popularity of
the programmes, good copies of them might have been preserved in private
collections in Iran and abroad.
In the Autumn of 2005, I began a pilot project sponsored by the British
Institute of Persian Studies (BIPS) and the Iran Heritage Foundation (IHF)
in London. My goal was to investigate the whereabouts of the Golha recordings
in private or public collections both in Iran and the west, in an effort to find out
whether or not it might be possible to reassemble the whole archive. During
an initial trip to Iran in 2005, I managed to establish contact with almost all
the leading musicians, vocalists and participants who had starred in the Golha
programmes — at least those still living in Iran. Among them were Farhad
Fakhradini, Farhang-i Sharif, Firidun Hafizi, Giti Vaziritabar, Akbar Gulpayigani,
Hushang-i Zarif, Muhammad Isma‘ili, Muhammad Zarif, Javad Lashgari,
Humayun Khurram, Hasan Nahid, Mansur Narimun, Ophelia Partaw, Parviz
Yahaqqi, Muhammad Zulfunnun, Farimarz Paywar, ‘Ali Tajvidi, ‘Alireza Izadi,
Ravin Salih (Zarif), Simin Behbehani, Darvish Amir-Hayati and Husayn Dehlavi.
55 All that existed was the article by Daryush Pirnia and Erik Nakjavani, “Golhā,
Barnāma-yi”, in Encyclopaedia Iranica, 16 vols (New York: Encyclopaedia Iranica
Foundation, 2003), 11, pp. 92-95.
56 Ameneh Youssefzadeh, “The Situation of Music in Iran since the Revolution: The Role of
Official Organizations”, British Journal of Ethnomusicology, 9/2 (2000), 35-61 (p. 39).
Fig. 18.11 Faramarz Payvar (on the left) and Hosain Tehrani (on the right),
at the Tomb of Hafiz, Shiraz Arts Festival, c. 1970.
During the same trip, I established contacts with several of Davud Pirnia’s sons,
and some of his closest collaborators and friends, including Bijan Faraz and
Mu‘in Afshar. I also contacted — and in many cases interviewed — eminent
Iranian musicologists and leading figures in the field of Persian music, such
as Daryush Safwat, Shahin Farhat, Habibu’llah Nasirifar, Shahrukh Nadiri,
Muhammad Sarir, Sa‘id Mir-‘Ali Naqi, Fatima Va‘izi (Parisa), Khatim Asghari
and Pari Banan.57 Out of these conversations emerged some 28 hours of taped
interviews, from which I learned that many private individuals as well as
several institutions possessed substantial collections of the Golha programmes.
Collecting and digitising the entire archive of the Golha programmes
now became a distinct possibility. I also discovered that there were four
private collectors with major collections of Persian music including the
Golha programmes, as well as phonograph records and recordings of private
performances. Four of these collectors had had a personal or professional
relationship with Pirnia. It was Pirnia’s custom to supply recordings to
57 The wife of Ghulum Husayn Banan, one of the original singers in the Golha programmes.
friends who admired a certain Golha programme and provided their own
blank tapes.58
Fig. 18.12 Left to right: Turaj Nigahban, Gulshan Ibrahimi and Humayun Khuram.
In July 2006, I received a grant from the Endangered Archives Programme

(EAP) to collect and digitise the Golha programmes and to deposit a copy of
all materials in the British Library’s World Sound Archive, where they would
be preserved and made available to all.59 Through the generous support of
the EAP and the backing of the Music Department of the School of Oriental
and African Studies at the University of London, I made several more trips to
Iran and also travelled to Germany, France, the United States and Canada to
consult with collectors and exchange Golha programmes with them.
I was able to hire the necessary research assistants, technicians and
secretarial support to properly collect, research, record, digitise and index
the entire vast Golha archive. I managed to collaborate with three of the major
surviving collections of Persian music, as well as with the archive housed at
the Iran National Radio.60 In addition, many private collectors of Persian music
58 Interview with Mu‘in Afshar, Tehran, Iran, 28 September 2005. Afshar was a colleague
and personal friend of Pirnia, who had produced the Barnama-yi kudak [“Children’s
Programme”] at Tehran Radio.
59 EAP088: The Golha radio programmes (Flowers of Persian Song and Poetry), http://eap.
60 Three major collections in Tehran have been digitised. One, the collection of Gulshan
in Iran, France, Germany, Canada and the United States (whose names are
unfortunately too many to mention here) generously shared the recordings
held in their personal archives with the project. In May 2008, the entire digital
archive accompanied by a complete index of the Golha programmes was
delivered to and deposited in the British Library’s World Sound Archive.
The Golha Project Website

All the programmes in the Golha archive were numbered consecutively.
However, some numbers were skipped due to a singer or musician not
appearing in the studio for a performance.61 Enthusiastic collectors of the
Golha programmes would then sometimes take the initiative of piecing
together various parts of other programmes and present these as a missing
programme corresponding to one of the blank numbers. In order to discern
whether each and every newly discovered programme was in fact genuine,
I compiled a detailed searchable index of the whole archive against which
I could check any new programmes that resurfaced.62
My index of the Golha programmes proved to be a very useful tool for
putting this vast archive in order. The need to compile a large searchable digital
index of the archive soon became evident. In this fashion, the concept of a Golha
website was born. In 2008, a generous grant from the Iran Heritage Foundation
in London (the largest and most effective organisation in the western world
Ibrahimi, an amateur musician who enjoyed collegial relationships with all the leading
musicians of his time is preserved in the Museum of Music. The other, the collection of
Murtaza ‘Abdu’l-Rasuli, a master calligrapher, a friend of Pirinia and all the major musicians
and literary figures of the day, is preserved in the House of Music. The third major
collection was compiled at the same time as the broadcasting of the Golha programmes by
Mr Mahmudi, a railroad employee with a passion for music collecting. He was a friend of
Pirnia and would receive from him copies of the Golha programmes. His archive remains in
private hands. There was also a fourth collection belonged to Ahmad Mihran whose house
was a favourite gathering place for all the musicians and singers as well as the poets. It
contained not only recordings from the radio, but also recordings of private performances
of his friends, recorded in his home. Unfortunately, his archive did not survive his death.
Concerning the Mihran Archive, see Furugh Bahmanpur, Cheraha-yi mundagar-i taranaha va
musiqi, 1 (Tehran: Javidan, 1382 A.Hsh./2003), 108-11.
61 Occasionally, due to sickness or accident, a performing artist did not appear in studio.
Consequently, numbered programmes whose recording had been pre-planned were
postponed to a later date. If such a programme was never rescheduled and recorded by
the producer, its number remained blank.
62 In this task I was graciously assisted by many lovers of the Golha programmes. I remain
in the debt of Sayyid ‘Ali Reza Darbandi’s research, both published and unpublished,
as well as his many private communications. See his Golha-yi taza: pazhuhishi dar siri-yi
barnamaha-yi Golha-yi taza (Tehran: Nashr-i Paykan, 1384 A.Hsh./2005).
sponsoring Iran-related subjects) allowed me to begin the project. In early 2009,

together with a team of research associates (mostly based in Iran), we began
working with computer programmers and technicians in the west to construct
an online platform. The construction of the website took three full years of
constant work. Over these years (2009-2012), the project generated a great deal
of media interest, as a result of which it has been featured countless times on
television, radio, and in the print media in Iran, Europe and North America.
The upshot of this project was the creation of a dedicated portal, the Golha
Project Website,63 that has made not only the audio files for the complete Golha
archive freely available over the Internet, but has also provided a searchable,
relational database for all the Golha programmes. The sound files of each and
every programme are searchable, and the website is completely bilingual
(Persian and English). The site also includes biographical data for all 700 poets
from the tenth to the twentieth centuries mentioned in the Golha programmes,
biographies in both Persian and English of all the performers in the Golha
programmes, transcriptions of all the songs and poetry, as well as the sheet music
for the popular ballads (tarana) stored in the archive. The archive is searchable
by eighteen different rubrics: programme name; number; singer of the avaz and
tarana; song writer; poet of the avaz; first line of the song or poem sung; name of
the song; instrument; musician; composer; name of poet whose poetry is sung
or declaimed; poetic genre; musical mode (dastgah or avaz) and musical melody
(gusha) of the music performed; name of the commentators and announcers;
and names of the sound technicians. It is also equipped with a radio player that
allows the compilation of bespoke playlists of chosen programmes.
Since its launch in 2012, the Golha Project Website has received over three
and a half million visitors; as of 2014 it has over 29,000 registered users. In
2012 it was awarded the prize for the best Persian music website by the House
of Music (Khana-yi musiq). From the launch of the pilot in 2005, people from
all over the world have been sending in their precious archives of Persian
music produced in Iran prior to the Revolution, with the hope that they can
be preserved and made publicly accessible to future generations.
63 http://www.golha.co.uk
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Nettl, Bruno, “Attitudes Towards Persian Music in Tehran, 1969”, The Musical
Quarterly, 56 (1970), 183-97.
—, “Persian Popular Music in Iran 1969”, Ethnomusicology, 16/2 (1972), 218-39.
Parsinejad, Iraj, A History of Literary Criticism in Iran (1866-1951) (Bethesda, MD:
Ibex, 2003).
Pirnia, Daryush, and Erik Nakjavani, “Golhā, Barnāma-yi”, in Encyclopaedia Iranica,
16 vols (New York: Encyclopaedia Iranica Foundation, 2003), 11, pp. 92-95.
Pirnia, Mansura, Ardashir Zahidi, farzand-i khanadan-i Zahidi va Pirnia: afkar va andisha,
ravayat-i Ardashir Zahidi (North Potomac, MD: Mehr Iran, 2004).
Raja’i, Hamid, “Ali Naghi Vaziri: pidar-i musiqi-yi nuvin-i Iran”, in Guzarish-i
musiqi [Music Report], 1/6-7 (1386 A.Hsh./2007), 64-68.
Ricks, Thomas, “U.S. Military Missions to Iran, 1943-1978: The Political Economy of
Military Assistance”, Iranian Studies, 12 (1979), 163-93.
Sapanta, Sasan, Tarikh-i tahavvul-i zabt-i musiqi dar Iran (Tehran: Mahur, 1377
A.Hsh./1998).
—, Chishmandaz-i musiqi-yi Iran (Tehran: Mahur, 1383 A.Hsh./2004).
Sedghi, Hamideh, Women and Politics in Iran: Veiling, Unveiling, and Reveiling
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).
Shahrdar, Mushir Humayun, “Qadamha-i kih barayi bihbud-i musiqi-yi Irani
Radio bardashta shuda-ast”, Majala-yi Radio, 1 (1335 A.Hsh./1956).
Sipihri, “20 Years of Radio”, Radio-yi Iran, 32 (1338 A.Hsh./1939), 3-5.
Taraqqi, Bizhan, Az pusht-i divarha-yi khatira, 2nd edn. (Tehran: Badraqa-yi javidan,
1386 A.Hsh./2007).
Wilber, Donald N., Iran: Past and Present (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
1967).
World Illiteracy at Mid-Century: A Statistical Study, UNESCO Monographs on
Fundamental Education, 11 (Paris: UNESCO, 1957).
Wright, Owen, Touraj Kiaras and Persian Classical Music: An Analytical Perspective
(London: Ashgate, 2009).
Youssefzadeh, Ameneh, “The Situation of Music in Iran since the Revolution: The
Role of Official Organizations”, British Journal of Ethnomusicology, 9 (2000), 35-61.
Zonis, Ella, “Contemporary Art Music in Persia”, The Musical Quarterly, 51 (1965),
636-48.

Mu‘in Afshar, Tehran, Iran, 28 September 2005.
Farhad Fakhradini, Tehran, Iran, 3 October 2005.
Bijan Farazi, Tehran, Iran, 7 September 2005.
Akbar Gulpayagani, Tehran, Iran 2 October 2005.
Hushang Ibtehaj, Tehran, Iran, 19 November 2009.

‘Abd al-Hamid Ishraq, Paris, France, 30 May 2008.
Mr Nikukar, Los Angeles, U.S., 25 July 2010.
Bastani Parizi, Tehran, Iran, 13 December 2007.
Bijan Pirnia, Tehran, Iran, 12 September 2005.
Daryush Pirnia, Maryland, U.S., 17 August 2005.
Professor Shah-Husayni, Tehran, Iran, 6 November 2007.
Mohammad-Reza Shajarian, London, United Kingdom, 5 November 2005; and
London, 4 November 2006.
19. The use of sound archives for
the investigation, teaching and
safeguarding of endangered
languages in Russia
Tjeerd de Graaf and Victor Denisov
In Russia many old sound recordings remain hidden in archives and in private
collections where the quality of preservation is not guaranteed. This chapter
presents the results of two projects concerning the safeguarding and preservation
of endangered-language sound recordings in Russia, and discusses several
other endeavours relating to these historical materials. We focus on the activities
and outcomes of our Endangered Archives Projects, EAP089: Reconstruction
of sound materials of endangered languages in the Russian Federation for
sound archives in Saint Petersburg, and EAP347: Vanishing voices from the
Uralic world: sound recordings for archives in Russia (in particular Udmurtia),
Estonia, Finland and Hungary.1 We place these activities in the context of earlier
initiatives, such as the research programme “Voices from Tundra and Taiga”
(2002-2005), which facilitated the safeguarding of other sound recordings
and made these materials available to indigenous communities, helping
them preserve their native tongues. After reporting the results of the EAP089
and EAP347 projects, we illustrate the importance of this work for the study
of historical events in Russia and the possible revitalisation of disappearing
languages. Finally, our discussion emphasises the need to safeguard languages
and to modernise the Russian Federation’s archiving activities.
1 See http://eap.bl.uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP089 and http://eap.bl.

uk/database/overview_project.a4d?projID=EAP347 respectively.
© Tjeerd de Graaf and Victor Denisov, CC BY http://dx.doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0052.19

Language endangerment and the use of

historical data
We are presently experiencing a dramatic loss of linguistic diversity around
the globe. Linguists estimate that by the end of this century at least half of
the 7,000 languages spoken today will have fallen silent. Speakers all over the
world are giving up their languages and shifting to more prestigious dominant
languages. A number of factors are responsible for this development, including
globalisation, urbanisation and climate change. Migration, national unification
and economic advantages — such as access to education and employment
— lead speakers to adopt a dominant language and to relinquish their own.
While language shifts and changes are normal, the modern developments of
globalisation and urbanisation have sped up the process dramatically. In the
same way that humanity is losing the Earth’s biological diversity, its linguistic
diversity is also diminishing. Estimates place the loss of bio-cultural diversity
on the order of the mass extinction of the dinosaurs.2
There is a pressing need to document endangered languages before they
disappear over the next few decades. Language loss leads to the irrevocable
loss of our cultural heritage, against which we must safeguard the world’s
remaining cultural diversity as expressed in the continued existence and use
of many different languages. Some linguists estimate that in most regions
around 90% of local languages may be replaced by dominant languages by the
end of the twenty-first century.3 What makes this dramatic loss worse is that
the majority of these dying languages have never been recorded or described:
they are vanishing without a trace. Humankind is not only losing its diversity
but also a record of the unique human ability for language.
Several vanishing languages were recorded in the twentieth century, but
the recordings are buried in private collections, inaccessible archives or on
forgotten shelves in universities. These are invaluable historical records of
languages as they were once spoken. For languages of which all the speakers
2 Jonathan Loh and David Harmon, “Biocultural Diversity: Threatened Species,

Endangered Languages”, report commissioned by WWF-Netherlands, Zeist, June 2014,
http://d2ouvy59p0dg6k.cloudfront.net/downloads/biocultural_report__june_2014.pdf
3 For details of the problems relating to this loss of languages, see Peter Austin and Julia
Sallabank, The Cambridge Handbook of Endangered Languages (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2011); Nicholas Evans, Dying Words: Endangered Languages and What
They Have to Tell Us (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010); Lenore A. Grenoble and Lindsay
J. Whaley, Endangered Languages: Language Loss and Community Response (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1998); and Mark Janse and Sijmen Tol, eds., Language Death
and Language Maintenance: Theoretical, Practical and Descriptive Approaches (Amsterdam:
Benjamins, 2003).
The use of sound archives for the safeguarding of endangered languages 619
have died, or only few elderly speakers remain, these recordings provide our
only window into the language. For speech communities, such records can
provide a source of pride in their cultural heritage; for linguists, they help
document and explain processes of language contact, shift and change. Finding,
preserving and making these records digitally accessible is an important
measure in stemming the tide of language loss.
A language is in danger when its speakers no longer use it, employ it in
fewer communicative domains, or cease to pass it on from one generation to the
next. The process of endangerment is determined by a number of factors, which
have been described in a report by an expert group assembled by UNESCO.4
According to the report, the major factors that affect whether a language
survives include: 1) intergenerational language transmission; 2) absolute
number of speakers; 3) proportion of speakers within the total population; 4)
trends in existing language domains; 5) response to new domains and media;
and 6) materials for language education and literacy. The last factor is key to
the central theme of this article: languages should be well documented, and the
documentation resulting from linguistic fieldwork of earlier times — which is
often hidden in endangered archives — should be uncovered and preserved.5
At the time when the first sound recordings of language and folklore
were made in Europe, it became obvious that central facilities were needed to
preserve the valuable data which had been collected. Around the beginning
of the twentieth century, this led to the establishment of sound archives
(called phonogram archives), the earliest and the most important of which
was founded in Vienna in 1899. Soon similar institutions started their own
collections of sound recordings in Berlin (1900) and St Petersburg (1908).
At the beginning of the twentieth century, the phonogram archives of three
important European empires (Austria, Germany and Russia) were in regular
contact with each other and with institutions elsewhere.6 For example, during
the Jesup North Pacific Expedition in 1900, data on the peoples of northeast
Siberia were collected, and advanced equipment for speech recording was
introduced to Russian researchers of northern languages and cultures. In the
4 UNESCO, Language Vitality and Endangerment, a document adopted by the International

Expert Meeting on the UNESCO programme “Safeguarding of Endangered
Languages”, Paris, 10-12 March 2003, http://www.unesco.org/new/en/culture/themes/
endangered-languages/language-vitality
5 Jost Gippert, Nikolaus P. Himmelmann and Ulrike Mosel, eds., Essentials of Language
Documentation (Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 2006); Eva A. Csató and David Nathan,
“Multimedia and Documentation of Endangered Languages”, in Language Documentation
and Description, ed. by Peter K. Austin, 1 (London: SOAS, 2003), pp. 73-84.
6 Suzanne Ziegler, Die Wachszylinder des Berliner Phonogramm-Archivs (Berlin: Staatliche
Museen zu Berlin, 2006).
course of this expedition, Waldemar Bogoraz, Waldemar Jochelson and other

Russian scholars received guidance from western experts such as Franz Boas
concerning methods of fieldwork. Copies of the recordings and fieldwork notes
from this expedition are stored in St Petersburg. In the 1980s they provided the
basis for a joint publication on the cultures of Siberia and Alaska by Russian
and American scholars.7
This cooperation was one of the first international joint projects that involved
Russian scholars following their half-century of isolation after the Revolution.
Further instances include the participation of the Phonogrammarchiv of the
Austrian Academy of Sciences in various joint European projects initiated
jointly with St Petersburg University and the Russian Academy of Sciences.
Fig. 19.1 The Pushkinskii Dom in St Petersburg. Photo by V. Denisov, CC BY.
The sound archive of the Russian Academy of Sciences, located nowadays

in the Institute of Russian Literature (the Pushkinskii Dom) in St Petersburg,
contains more than 6,000 wax cylinders made for the Edison phonograph
and 350 old wax discs (Fig. 19.1). In addition, it holds an extensive fund of
gramophone records and one of the largest collections of tape-recorded
7 William W. Fitzhugh and Aron Crowell, Crossroads of Continents: Cultures of Siberia and
Alaska (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Scholarly Press, 1988).
Russian folklore (Fig. 19.2). Collectively, these recordings represent the

history of Russian ethnography and contain a wide range of materials
gathered by well-known Russian ethnographers and linguists, such as
W. I. Jochelson, S. M. Shirokogorov, L. Ya. Shternberg, V. K. Shteinitz, A.
V. Anokhin, V. I. Anuchin, N. K. Karger, Z. V. Evald, Y. V. Gippius, S. D.
Magid, B. M. Dobrovolsky and V. V. Korguzalov.8 These materials preserve
the folklore of the peoples of the north in Siberia and the far east of Russia.
They were recorded on phonograph cylinders (1900-1940) and magnetic
tapes (1950-1990). The sound archive is further supplemented by metadata
and by dictionaries in Russian and the national languages. This material is
particularly rich in the Finno-Ugric, Samoyed, Turkic, Tungus-Manchu and
Paleo-Siberian languages of the Russian Federation.
Fig. 19.2 The phonogram collection in St Petersburg. Photo by V. Denisov, CC BY.
8 See Tjeerd de Graaf, “The Use of Sound Archives in the Study of Endangered Languages”,
in Music Archiving in the World: Papers Presented at the Conference on the Occasion of the 100th
Anniversary of the Berlin Phonogramm-Archiv (Berlin: VWB, 2002), pp. 101-07; and idem,
“Voices from Tundra and Taiga: Endangered Languages of Russia on the Internet”, in
Lectures on Endangered Languages 5: Endangered Languages of the Pacific Rim C005, ed. by
Osamu Sakiyama and Fubito Endo (Osaka: Osaka Gakuin University, 2004), pp. 143-69.
New sound collections for the Pushkinskii Dom

Between 1995 and 2005, we participated in a series of collaborative projects
to explore, digitise and publish online the collections of the Pushkinskii Dom
(Pushkin House).9 During this period we realised that there are many important
private collections which are even more endangered than the material stored in
official archives. Our first project, EAP089: Reconstruction of sound materials
of endangered languages in the Russian Federation for sound archives in
Saint Petersburg (2006-2008), aimed at addressing this urgent problem. We
have digitised seven collections of endangered-language recordings made
between the 1960s and 1980s.10 These include three collections of endangered
Siberian languages: Udeghe, Samoyed and Kerek.11 We have also digitised
a collection of recorded Russian Siberian folklore, resulting from research
work done in the 1970s and 1980s by students of linguistics and ethnology
at Krasnoyarsk State Pedagogical University.12 In addition to the Siberian
collections, we have digitised Yevsei I. Peisakh’s collection of the folklore of
his native Krymchak people in Crimea,13 a collection of the Tajik and Wakhi
9 The projects “The Use of Acoustic Databases in the Study of Language Change” (1995-
1998) and “St Petersburg Sound Archives on the World Wide Web” (1998-2001) were
financially supported by the International Association for the Promotion of Cooperation
with Scientists from the Independent States of the Former Soviet Union (INTAS). A third
project, “Voices form Tundra and Taiga” (2002-2005), was supported by The Netherlands
Organisation for Scientific Research (NWO). This last project resulted in the publication
of a catalogue: Aleksei Burykin, Albina Girfanova, Aleksandr Kastrov, Yuri Marchenko
and Natalia Svetozarova, Kollektsii Narodov Severa v Fonogrammarkhive Pushkinskogo Doma
[Collections on the Peoples of the North in the Phonogram Archive of the Pushkinskii Dom] (St
Petersburg: University of St Petersburg, 2005). For more information on these projects,
see De Graaf, “Voices from Tundra and Taiga”.
10 For a complete list of materials, see http://eap.bl.uk/database/results.a4d?projID=EAP089
11 These are the collections of 1) Albina Kh. Girfanova, who between 1983-1984 recorded
eighteen speakers of Udeghe; her collection includes fairy-tales, folk-tales, legends, life
stories and songs (improvisations, “personal” songs, imitations of “personal” songs by
other individuals as well as shamanistic incantations, and also phonetics and syntax
questionnaires); 2) Marina D. Lyublinskaya’s collection of recordings made between
1985 and 2000, most of them in northern Russia; and 3) Peter Y. Skorik’s collection
entitled Fairy Tale of the Kereks, which contains unique 1960s sound recordings of the
Kerek people in the Bering region of the Chukotka Autonomous District of the Russian
Federation.
12 This collection includes unique sound recordings from 35 Russian villagers of East
Siberia, living in areas together with the native peoples. They consist of stories,
personal memories and songs in local Russian dialects, in which the code switching and
interference with other languages are notable.
13 Fifteen people were recorded in Crimea and Abkhazia between 1963 and 1974; through
lyrical songs, wedding performances, comic songs and folk tunes they provide specimens
of their language (belonging to the Turkic language family) and culture (based on
Judaism).
languages,14 and a collection of languages and dialects from Afghanistan.15

Importantly, our EAP project was the first initiative in the Russian Federation
to take into account the recommendations of the International Association
of Sound Archives, made in the reports IASA-TC 03 and IASA-TC 04.16 In
addition to the copies deposited with the EAP, we have provided digital
materials to the phonogram archive of the Pushkinskii Dom, the St Petersburg
Institute for Linguistic Studies and the Austrian Phonogrammarchiv. These
collections, amounting to around 111 hours of sound, provide invaluable
documentation of the earlier life of endangered languages.17
Sound archives of Udmurt and other Finno-Ugric

languages
Our engagement with Russian archives made us aware that the phonogram
archive of the Pushkinskii Dom held a number of historical recordings of the
Finno-Ugric languages of the Russian Federation, most of which are now
severely endangered.18
14 Recordings made by Ivan M. Steblin-Kamensky during his archeological and

ethnolinguistic expeditions in Tajikistan, in Pamir and in the south of the Ural Mountains.
The 25 recordings on open reel tapes contain stories and songs in Tajik and Vakhan
(Wakhi), recorded between 1966 and 1970.
15 Recordings of Dari, Pashto, Vakhi, Balochi, Mendzon, Shughni, Tadjik, Parachi, Vaygali,
Pashtai, Kati, Colonial German and Russian made by Аlexander L. Grünberg between
1966 and 1992. The collection also includes sound recordings of traditional Afghan and
Indian music, and fragments of scientific seminars and conferences. The materials in
this collection were used by the collector in scientific publications: A. Grünberg and I.
M. Steblin-Kamensky, The Languages of East-Hindukush (Moscow: Nauka, 1976); and A.
Grünberg, A Sketch of the Afghan Language (Pashto) (Leningrad: Nauka, 1987).
16 Dietrich Schüller, “The Safeguarding of the Audio Heritage: Ethics, Principles and
Preservation Strategy”, IASA Technical Committee, IASA-TC 03, 3 December 2005.
17 See the catalogue resulting from EAP089: Victor Denisov, Tjeerd de Graaf and Natalia
Svetozarova, New Sound Collections in the Phonogram Archive of the Institute of Russian
Literature (Pushkinskii Dom) in Saint Petersburg (St Petersburg: Institute for Linguistic
Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences, 2009).
18 See Victor Denisov, “K voprosu o sozdanii edinoi fonoteki Udmurtskikh arkhivnykh
zapisei: printsipi, metody i tekhnologii [On the Creation of a United Record Library of
Udmurt Archival Records: Principles, Methods and Technologies]”, Yearbook of Finno-
Ugric Studies, ed. by N. I. Leonov, 1 (Izhevsk: Udmurt University, 2010), pp. 109-17; Tjeerd
de Graaf and Victor Denisov, “Sokhranenie zvukovogo naslediia narodov Udmurtskoi
Respubliki: opyt vedushchikh zvukovykh arkhivov mira [Preservation of the Sound
Heritage of the Peoples of the Udmurt Republic: The Experience of the World’s Leading
Archives]”, in Rossiia i Udmurtiia: istoriia i sovremennost [Russia and Udmurtia: Past and
Present] (Izhevsk: Udmurt University, 2008), pp. 866-78; and György Nanovfszky, ed.,
The Finno-Ugric World (Budapest: Teleki László Foundation, 2004).
Fig. 19.3 The catalogue of sound recordings in the Pushkinskii Dom.
As a result, in 2010, we began EAP347: Vanishing voices from the Uralic world:
sound recordings for archives in Russia (in particular Udmurtia), Estonia,
Finland and Hungary. Within the framework of this project, we prepared
a preliminary description of all other Udmurt sound collections kept in the
Pushkinskii Dom,19 in the Folklore Archive of the Estonian Literary Museum
(Tartu) and in the Berlin and Vienna phonogram archives.20 We have also
19 Victor Denisov, “Zapisi Udmurtskogo iazyka i folklora v Fonogrammarkhive Instituta

Russkoi Literatury (Pushkinskii Dom) [Recordings of the Udmurt Language and Folklore
in the Phonogram Archive of the Institute of Russian literature (Pushkinskii Dom)]”, in
Rossiia i Udmurtiia: istoriia i sovremennost [Russia and Udmurtia: Past and Present] (Izhevsk:
2008), pp. 879-84. It is worth mentioning the Udmurt collections recorded between
1929 and 1940 during a series of linguistic and ethnological expeditions by well-known
researchers such as Kuzebai Gerd, J. A. Eshpai, M. P. Petrov, V. A. Pchelnikov, Z. V.
Evald, V. Y. Vladykin and L. S. Khristolybova: V. Y. Vladykin and L. S. Khristolybova,
Istoriia etnografii Udmurtov: kratkii istoriograficheskii ocherk bibliografiei [History of
Ethnography of the Udmurts: A Short Historiographic Sketch with Bibliography] (Izhevsk:
Udmurtiia, 1984); V. S. Churakov, “Obzor folklorno-lingvisticheskikh i arkheologo-
etnograficheskikh ekspeditsii, rabotavshikh sredi Udmurtov v 20-30-e gody XX veka
[Review of the Folklore, Linguistic, Archeological and Ethnographic Expeditions among
the Udmurts in the 1920s and 1930s]”, in Yearbook of Finno-Ugric Studies, ed. by N. I.
Leonov, 2 (Izhevsk: Udmurt University, 2010), pp. 102-15.
20 The Udmurt recordings in the Phonogramarchiv in Berlin were made in 1917 by German
digitised important recordings of the Udmurt language and folklore held in

Izhevsk, the capital of the Republic of Udmurtia (Fig. 19.4).21 As a result, the
sound recordings in the Udmurt archives are now accessible for research and
teaching. Specimens on CD or DVD are available to scholars; they can also
be used for educational purposes, which might stimulate the revitalisation
of the Udmurt language.
Fig. 19.4 The sound laboratory in Izhevsk. Photo by V. Denisov, CC BY.
researchers who worked with prisoners of war from Russia. See Robert Lach, Gesänge
russischer Kriegsgefangener (Vienna: Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1926).
21 These collections are mainly located in two leading scientific and educational institutions:
the Udmurt State University and the Udmurt Institute for History, Language and
Literature of the Russian Academy of Sciences (Ural Branch). During this project, 657
sound collections in the Udmurt Institute were digitised. The total volume of digitised
recordings amounts to 600 hours, 20 minutes and 53 seconds. They include songs,
narrations, prayers and incantations. In total they feature 2,560 performers representing
nine regions of the Russian Federation: the Udmurt Republic, the Republic of Tatarstan
(formerly the Tatar Republic), the Republic of Bashkortostan (formerly the Bashkir
Republic), the Republic of Mari-El (formerly the Mari Republic), the Kirovsky Region,
Permsky Krai (formerly the Permsky Region), Krasnoyarsky Krai, the Tomsky Region
and the Tyumensky Region. 143 collectors, mainly from the Udmurt Institute and the
Udmurt State University, participated in the expeditions.
One of the most important conditions for this preservation and revitalisation
of the Udmurt language has been the attitude of the Udmurt people towards
their native culture. From our experience, the availability of numerous
publications and the widespread public accessibility of historical recordings
(via radio and television) inspire great interest and even pride.22 We hope that
the revitalisation of the Udmurt language will contribute to the safeguarding
of the broader cultural heritage of the Russian Federation.
Wolfgang Steinitz’s historical sound recordings

of Khanty
While working in the Pushkinskii Dom, we discovered recordings of an
endangered Siberian language that provide insight into some historical
events of the Soviet period. This collection was made by Wolfgang Steinitz,
a German scholar who in 1935 was working at the Institute for the Peoples
of the North in Leningrad. In that year he undertook a field trip to Siberia
in order to investigate the language and folklore of the Khanty (Ostyak)
people. Their language belongs to the Ugric branch of the Finno-Ugric family
and is related to Hungarian.23 The scientific results of this expedition were
published in Steinitz’s report Bericht an das Institut für Nordvölker (INS) über
eine Studienreise in den Kreis der Ostjaken und Wogulen im Jahre 1935, and in
his diary.24 In these documents, Steinitz describes his use of a phonograph
and the material he recorded, including the number of wax cylinders, the
location of the recordings and their contents.25
In 1937, during the Stalinist repression, Steinitz was forced to leave the
Soviet Union and move to Sweden. Although he was allowed to take most
22 De Graaf and Denisov, “Sokhranenie Zvukovogo”; Victor Denisov, “Istoricheskie

zvukovie kollektsii fonogrammarkhivov Evropy kak istochnik dlia issledovaniia iazyka
i folklora Finno-Ugorskikh narodov [Historical Sound Collections in the European
Phonogram Archives as a Resource for the Study of the Language and Folklore of
Finno-Ugric Peoples]”, in Language and Language Behavior 2010-2011, 11 (St Petersburg: St
Petersburg University, 2011), pp. 78-80.
23 See Andrew Wiget and Olga Balalaeva, Khanty, People of the Taiga: Surviving the Twentieth
Century (Fairbanks, AK: University of Alaska Press, 2011).
24 Wolfgang Steinitz, Ostjakologische Arbeiten, Band 4: Beiträge zur Sprachwissenschaft und
Ethnographie (Den Haag: Mouthon, 1980), pp. 397-435.
25 Natalia D. Swetosarowa, “Verschollen geglaubte Feldforschungsaufnahmen: Zur
Sammlung Wolfgang Steinitz im Phonogrammarchiv St. Petersburg”, in Die Entdeckung
des Sozialkritischen Liedes, ed. by John Eckhard (Münster: Waxmann, 2006), pp. 49-60.
of his fieldwork data and other scientific material with him, he had to leave
the phonographic cylinders.26 Until recently, western scholars studying the
Finno-Ugric languages assumed that these early recordings of the Khanty
language had been lost, possibly destroyed in Leningrad during the war.27
However, over the course of our project, we learnt that Steinitz’s recordings
were kept as a separate collection within the archive at the Pushkinskii Dom.
There are thirty wax cylinders in this collection, though Steinitz mentions
31 items in his written account of the expedition. These recordings were
documented and copied onto analogue tapes, but somehow the collection slided
into oblivion. This can be explained by the fact that, since its establishment, very
little information about the rich collections of the St Petersburg phonogram
archive has been accessible.28 The only complete inventory of the archive was
published by Sophia Magid in 1936.29 Magid’s inventory, however, does not
mention Steinitz’s collection, probably because these materials were initially
stored at the Institute for the Peoples of the North and later in the Folklore
Section of the Institute for Anthropology and Ethnography.30
In 2005, within the framework of the international research programme
“Voices from Tundra and Taiga”, the complete catalogue of the recorded
materials was finally published (Fig. 19.3).31 Here, the Steinitz recordings
are described under number 127 as “phonographic cylinders with sound
material from the Khanty (Ostyaks) in Siberia, which were made in 1935 by
Wolfgang Steinitz (1905-1967) and obtained from the Institute of the Peoples
of the North in Leningrad”. These thirty wax cylinders contain 44 sound
recordings altogether, mostly of songs, such as bear songs, but also of two
fairy tales and four shaman performances.
A document from the collection of manuscripts in the phonogram archive
provides a description of the material from the expedition. This list, which was
probably produced by Steinitz himself, allows a more precise identification
26 Steinitz, Ostjakologische Arbeiten; and Swetosarowa, “Verschollen geglaubte

Feldforschungsaufnahmen”.
27 Ibid.
28 Burykin et al., Kollektsii Narodov Severa; and Swetosarowa, “Verschollen geglaubte
Feldforschungsaufnahmen”.
29 Sofia Magid, “Spisok sobranii Fonogramarkhiva Folklornoi sektsii IAE Akademii Nauk
SSSR [List of the Collections in the Phonogram Archive of the Folklore Section of the
Institute for Anthropology and Ethnographics, Academy of Sciences of the USSR]”,
Sovetskii folklor, 4-5 (1936), 415-28.
30 Swetosarowa, “Verschollen geglaubte Feldforschungsaufnahmen”.
31 Burykin et al., Kollektsii Narodov Severa.
of the sound recordings and their contents. One of the tasks of “Voices from
Tundra and Taiga” has been the addition of metadata such as descriptions of
the title, kind, size, place and time of recordings, as well as the tone quality
and duration of the separate sound documents. In this way, the catalogue
was completed with a database on CD-ROM containing copies of the original
recordings together with all the relevant data.32
From the available data we were able to reconstruct some of Steinitz’s
experiences during his fieldwork in the Soviet Union. He started recording
on the day after his arrival in the Khanty village of Lokhtotkurt in July 1935.
He made the following note in his diary:
Abends kommt Matvej Kitvurov, Musikant […] Er bringt sein Instrument […]
Spielt “Programmusik” […] ich will Aufnahme machen: Wir schicken die Kinder
raus, ich stelle den Phonographen genau ein (100 Drehungen). [In the evening
Matvej Kitvurov arrives, a musician …he brings his instrument and … plays
“programme music”. … I want to make recordings: We send the children
outside, I switch on the phonograph at exactly (100 rotations)].33
The expedition to the Khanty people was originally planned to last for a
period of six months but, probably as a result of the political situation in the
Soviet Union, it was shortened to fewer than three. At the end of his stay,
Steinitz had to hurry to catch the last boat:
Kann leider Arbeit nicht beenden […] Bis ¾ 8 Uhr gearbeitet, dann alles liegen
lassen, zu einer Sitzung im Pedtechnikum gelaufen […] Los, über den Berg nach
Samarov, zum letzten Dampfer. [Unfortunately I cannot finish the job … Until
7:45 I was working, then I left everything behind, hurried to a session of the
pedagogical technical college … Then, over the mountain to Samarov, to the
last steamboat].34
The results of our reconstruction work will allow further comparisons

of the acoustic database with the text of his diary. They will allow us to
learn more about the way Steinitz worked with Khanty informants in that
difficult period of Soviet history, and to understand the significance of his
contributions to the field of Finno-Ugric studies.35 At present there are few
speakers of Khanty left and the historical data of the Steinitz collection are
important for the reconstruction of the language in its earlier form and for
its chances of being passed on.
32 Ibid.
33 In collection 127, this recording of 31 July 1935 has the cylinder number 4080.
34 Steinitz, Ostjakologische Arbeiten, 431, quoted after Swetozarova, 52.
35 Swetosarowa, “Verschollen geglaubte Feldforschungsaufnahmen”.
The use of data from sound archives and

fieldwork for language revitalisation
In recent years, the relationship between the documentation of endangered
languages, pedagogy and revitalisation has become an important issue.36 A
good illustration of the connection between historical collections and language
revitalisation is provided by the historical recordings of Nivkh, a critically
endangered language native to the island of Sakhalin (eastern Russia).
One of the collections digitised by the EAP089 project is Lev Yakovlevich
Sternberg’s 1910 recordings of Nivkh, Nanai, Negidal and Evenki in eastern
Russia, preserved in the Pushkinskii Dom.37 Sternberg collected his material
at a time when most speakers of Nivkh spoke only their own language; it
exhibits the language in its original form without interference from Russian.
Since then, the Nivkh language has been drastically diminished, as
illustrated by a historical population shift. In the first all-Russian census
in 1897, the total number of people belonging to the Nivkh ethnic group
on Sakhalin was listed as 1,969, all of whom named Nivkh as their mother
tongue — most of them were probably monolingual.38 In the second census
of 1926, which was the first organised in the Soviet Union, the total number
of Nivkh people shrank due to the fact that the inhabitants of the Japanese
south of Sakhalin — which was not a part of the Soviet Union — were not
counted. Practically all of them still identified Nivkh as their mother tongue.39
Since that year, however, there has been a decrease in the percentage of
Nivkh speakers, even while the total number of Nivkh people on Sakhalin
has remained more or less stable. In 1989, more than 80% of Nivkh people
named Russian as their first language.40 The most recent census, in 2010,
shows that many minority groups have moved from being monolingual
36 Mari C. Jones and Sarah Ogilvie, Keeping Languages Alive: Documentation, Pedagogy and
Revitalisation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013).
37 Lev Sternberg was an important Russian figure in the field of anthropology. With
the help of Vladimir Bogoraz, he established the first Russian ethnographic centre at
St Petersburg State University after the Russian Revolution of 1917. See “Pamjati L‘va
Jakovlevicha Sternberga [In Memory of Lev Yakovlevich Sternberg]”, in Sbornik Museja
Antropologii i Etnografii, ed. Y. F. Karsky. Band 7 (Leningrad: Nauka, 1928) pp. 1-70.
38 N. B. Vakhtin, Iazyki narodov severa v XX veke: ocherki iazykovogo sdviga [Languages of
the Northern Peoples in the Twentieth Century: Outline of a Language Shift] (St Petersburg:
Dmitrii Bulanin, 2001).
39 Ibid.
40 Tjeerd de Graaf, “The Languages of Sakhalin”, International Journal on the Sociology of
Languages, 94 (1992), 185-200.
in their local language to monolingual in Russian.41 This has led to several

northern languages becoming extinct.
The transition from Sakhalin Nivkh to Russian can be explained in a
number of ways. After the capitulation of Japan in 1945, the southern half
of Sakhalin was conquered by the Red Army and the whole island became
Soviet territory. This had enormous consequences for its ethnographic and
linguistic situation: practically every Japanese inhabitant left Sakhalin for
Japan, together with many of the Sakhalin Ainu and Nivkh.42 At the same
time, many new immigrants arrived from all parts of the Soviet Union in order
to exploit the natural resources (oil, coal, wood, fish, caviar). These people
were not only Russians, but also sprang from other ethnic groups — such as
Ukrainians, Estonians and Tatars — and most of the time spoke Russian.43
Previously, the Nivkh people had lived as fishermen and hunters in their
small villages, but from that time onwards they increasingly came into contact
with the immigrants, who also started an active policy of Russification of the
aboriginal inhabitants of the eastern parts of the Soviet Union.44
More recently, since 1990 in particular, efforts have been made to protect
and preserve the native languages and cultures of small minorities in the
Russian Federation such as the Nivkh.45 There have been several attempts to
revive the Nivkh language, for example by introducing Nivkh language classes
in the villages of Chir-Unvd, Nekrasovka and Nogliki. Sounds recordings
are very useful for the preparation of the necessary learning methods and
materials, in particular when — as in the case of Nivkh — very few native
speakers are left.46 The historical recordings of Nivkh which present the
41 Preliminary data of the 2010 census in the Russian Federation, http://www.gks.ru/free_

doc/new_site/perepis2010/croc/perepis_itogi1612.htm
42 John J. Stephan, Sakhalin: A History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971).
43 Tjeerd de Graaf, “The Languages of Sakhalin”.
44 Tjeerd de Graaf, “The Status of Endangered Languages in the Border Areas of Japan and
Russia”, in On the Margins of Nations: Endangered Languages and Linguistic Rights, ed. by
Joan A. Argenter and R. McKenna Brown (Bath: Foundation for Endangered Languages,
2008), pp. 153-59.
45 Tjeerd de Graaf and Hidetoshi Shiraishi, “Capacity Building for Some Endangered
Languages of Russia: Voices from Tundra and Taiga”, in Language Documentation and
Description, ed. by Peter K. Austin, 2 (London: Hans Rausing Endangered Languages
Project, 2004), pp. 15-26.
46 Tjeerd de Graaf, “Data on the Languages of Russia from Historical Documents, Sound
Archives and Fieldwork Expeditions”, in Recording and Restoration of Minority Languages,
Sakhalin Ainu and Nivkh, ed. by Kyoko Murasaki (Kyoto: ELPR, 2001), pp. 13-37.
language in its original form, without interference from Russian, provide

important data for this revitalisation process.
The support of the EAP has been of great importance for our work with
sound archives and with the documentation and revitalisation of endangered
languages in the Russian Federation. We hope to continue this work and
apply our results to teaching methods and to further efforts of safeguarding
these languages. At present, the main problems for most Russian sound
archives stem from a lack of financial support and technical specialists for
preserving and describing the collections. Moreover, there are neither good
local standards for this work, nor sufficient levels of international exchange
and support. Access to the collections still needs to be improved, and it is vital
to develop a national programme for supporting these important archives.
Finally, to ensure compatibility with other archives worldwide the work
in Russian archives should take into consideration IASA requirements and
UNESCO recommendations.47
47 Schüller, “The Safeguarding of the Audio Heritage”. UNESCO, Language Vitality and
Endangerment.
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report__june_2014.pdf
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Index
Acre 377-416 Ai Seng Lau (Tai Ahom) prayer 53-57

al-Jazzār Mosque 378 Ajami 179, 331-376. See also Wolof:
al-Jazzār Mosque Library 377-379, Ajami (Wolofal) and Swahili: Ajami
381-382, 396-403 advertising 365-366, 368
Addis Ababa 92 art 364, 364-365
Adl, Parviz 598 caractères arabes harmonisés 356-357,
administration 368
colonial genealogy texts 363, 363-364
Andean 227-231, 231-232, 246-247. letters and diacritics 46, 356-358
See also parishes (Andean) literacy 332-337, 344, 346, 353-354
Brazil 280-282 manuscripts 139, 153, 156, 167, 169,
Colombia 261-264, 270-271 171, 179, 343, 346, 352
Guinea 549-550 modified Arabic script 356
India 456-457, 461-462 poetry 339-340, 344-345, 348, 350-354,
Northern Nigeria 294-325, 322 360, 361-362
Palestine 382-387 public announcements 369, 369-370
Senegal 336 scholars (Ajamists) 345-350, 352, 354
indigenous 227, 246 Aksum 122
advertising 334, 346, 365-366, 368, 561, al-Aqṣá Mosque Library 377, 379-381,
600 382-383, 387, 396, 403-412
African identity 561, 580 Alexandria 382
African Muslim identity 136, 348. See Alexandria, Library of lvii
also Murid communities al-Jazzār Mosque Library 377-379,
African photography 531-545 381-382, 396-403
African Rock Art Digital Archive 15 Amharic 332
Afrikaans 332 amulets 342-343
afterlife 74, 79, 83-84 Anderson, Clare 324
agriculture Andes 225-258
Andes 227 anthroponymy 16
Northern Nigeria aqbas (passageways) 7, 17, 20, 21, 24-25
cash crops 308-312 Arabic
convict food crops 319 manuscripts 138-161, 164-172, 173-
prison experimental centres 185, 396-412
309-310 numerals 342-344
Tadrart Acacus 22, 24-25 script 342. See also Ajami
aguardente (liquor) 279 Arabisation 349, 356
Ahom Kingdom 35, 43 Aramaic 349
Ahom Lexicography project 32, 60. See archaeology
also Tai Ahom Africa lvii, 3-4, 23
Aijal (Aizawl) 449 South America 429, 433-434
architecture Asiatic Order of Universal Morality

missionary 466-467, 477 426. See also Bennati, Guido
Mizo 451-452 Assam. See Tai Ahom
photography of 518-521 Assemani, Elias l-li
archives xlix Assemani, Joseph li
accessibility of xxxvii-xxxviii, xliii- astrology 80, 81-83, 82, 84
xliv, xlix, l, liv-lv, lvi, lviii-lix, 32-33, Asunción 429
183-185, 280, 288, 382, 566, 613 Atrato River 263-264, 266, 269
colonial 264, 271-272, 294-305, 454, Australia, aboriginal records lviii-lix
456, 461 authenticité (cultural policy) 552-564,
contested ownership lvii 568
cultural bias 300 avaz (Persian classical singing) 601, 613
ecclesiastical 225, 272-276, 279-280,
Badawi, Ahmad (Aḥmad b. Ṣāliḥ Jamal
286-287
al-Layl) 144
Islamic 138-142, 174-180, 378-380,
Badi‘i, Habibu’llah 588
399-403, 406-412
Bā Kathīr, ʿAbd Allāh 140, 143, 169,
monastic 89-90, 93
171
national and state lviii, 200, 205, 295
Balfour Declaration 388
objectivity of records lv-lvi
Ballets Africains, Les 555
periodicals 380, 382-383, 394 Baluev, Ivan Ivanovich 487-526, 492
photographic 425, 489, 524, 526, Diary of the Northern Expedition
531-533, 542 489, 503-504, 508
private collections 36, 73, 174, 175, Northern Expedition 496-505
181-182, 456, 610-611, 618
personal history 491-496
sound 549, 565-566, 567-568, 579-580,
photographic collection 509-523
611-613, 623, 631
photographic techniques 505-508
phonogram 619, 621, 623-631
publication and exhibitions of
threats to xlvi
images 524-526
civil unrest 174, 264
Bamba (Cheikh Ahmadou Bamba
environmental 95, 178, 264, 279- Mbacké) 332, 338-342, 345, 350, 363
280, 381, 542
Banan, Ghulam Hosain 598, 599
polically motivated destruction
Baol 353
380
Bā Ṣafar, b. Yusallim b. ʿAwaḍ 156-158,
vandalism xlvi, 25, 26 165, 166, 169, 170, 172
wear and tear 71, 381 Baudo valley 266
Argentina 417-444 Baye Fall 367
Buenos Aires 420, 422, 437, 439 Beirut 149, 383
Medical-Chirurgical Scientific Italian Bembeya Jazz National 555, 557, 559,
Commission 418, 427-428. See 561, 575
also Bennati, Guido Bennati, Guido 418-422, 426-439. See
Mendoza 418, 427 also Medical-Chirurgical Scientific
Museum of La Plata 417, 420, 422- Italian Commission
426, 438, 439-440 itineraries 420-421
Arquivo Histórico Waldemar Bispo Berlin phonogram archives 619, 624
Duarte, João Pessoa 279-280, 283 Bernal, Natalio 418, 433, 438
Index 637
Bernault, Florence 324 ubiquity of 448

Ber, Théodore 433, 436 Cameroon
Bethlehem 384 identity cards 534, 539
Bhutan lx, 67-88 photographic studio archive project
Bible 531-545
Codex Sinaiticus li Canta 226, 237, 240, 242-254
Gospel of John 218, 467, 473 Carcas 247, 250
Mizo Bible Women 469 Carhua 246
New Testament 467, 469 Carirí Indians 277
Old Testament 194 Cartagena 260-261, 270, 272
Polyglot Bibles l cartes-de-visite 417-419, 420-422, 427-
bilingual texts 7, 42, 139, 335, 339, 613 429, 430, 431, 433, 438, 440
Bloch, Marc lvi Caruavilca, don Francisco Pizarro 252
Bolivia 261, 417-444 Cavalcantes Indians 286
Cochabamba 420, 430, 431 Ceará 276
La Paz 431-432, 438 censorship 201, 382-386, 563, 564-565,
Medical-Chirurgical Scientific Italian 594, 595, 598
Commission 430-433 çeribaşi (Roma chiefs) 191, 192
Santa Cruz de la Sierra 430-431 Challiana 462-464
Tiahuanaco ruins, La Paz 433-440 Champhai 462
bóngthíngs (shamans) 73, 74 chanting 346, 351, 353, 354
bozales (African slaves) 263 Lepcha 70, 76, 83
Brazil lxii, 185, 259-292, 420. See chicken bone augury 35, 42, 44-45
also parishes (Andean) Chippindale, Christopher 17
Corumbá 429 Chocó, Colombia, slavery in 262-269
Paraíba 276-283, 286-287 Christ
Portuguese colonists and slavery Isua Krista 453
276-288 Jesus 109, 217, 453, 456, 467
British colonists. See Northern Nigeria Lal Isua 456
and India Christelow, Alan 293
British Library xl, xliii-xlvi Christianity. See also missionaries
Lepcha manuscripts 72 Baptism records 275, 276, 286-287
sound archives 611 Catholic Church in South America
Buddhism 43-44, 56 227-228, 230, 274-275
and Lepcha 68, 74, 83-84 church building 233-234
Buenaventura (Notary of) 264 communion 280, 454-455
Buenos Aires 420, 422, 437, 439 conversion to 227, 230, 232, 233
Bulgaria 189-224. See also Roma Eastern Christianity l-liii
State Archives 200, 205 Roma evangelical churches 217-218
Buraq Uprising 384, 388, 389 Chuksung Lepcha 73
church archives. See ecclesiastical
Cairo 145, 146, 149, 382 archives
Camel phase (rock art) 24 Chwaka 138
cameras Cochabamba 420, 430, 431
for digitising 33, 73, 403, 544 Codex Sinaiticus li
Cole, H. W. G. 462 in pre-colonial Sokoto Caliphate

Colombia lxii, 259-292, 420. See 305-308
also parishes (Andean) under colonial rule 308-312, 319-323
Cartagena 260-261, 270, 272 Cook, Allen 294
Chocó 262-269 Coptic manuscripts 109, 118, 120
Córdoba 264, 272, 274-276 copyists. See scribes
ecclesiastical archives 272-276 copyright 541
Montería 274 Córdoba
notary records 264-268, 271-272 San Jerónimo (earlier Gerónimo) de
Quibdó 263-268 Buenavista 272, 274-276
Riohacha 269-270, 272 Santa Cruz de Lorica 272
slavery 260, 261, 263, 265, 266, 268, Universidad Tecnológica del Chocó
269-272, 274 “Diego Luis Córdoba” 264
Spanish colonists 260-265, 270-271, Corrège, Clemente E. 418
274, 276 corruption 212-213, 461-462, 565, 567
colonialism Iranian National Radio 598
administration Corumbá 429
Andean 227-232, 246-247. See Cultural Revolution (Guinea) 554-564
also parishes (Andean)
Däbrä Libanos Monastery 90
Brazil 280-282
dance
Colombia 261-264, 270-271
Les Ballets Africains (Guinea) 555
Guinea 549-550
Mizo 476
India 456-457, 461-462
Danish National Archives lviii
Northern Nigeria 294-325
Dar-es-Salaam 138
Palestine 382-387
Darjeeling 67
Senegal 336
dastgah (Persian musical mode) 613
bureaucracy 456-457
Deir al-Surian Monastery l-li, lii-liii
“civilising mission” 335
Dendrúp Adyenmú Lepcha 73
colour, saturated 447-448
Diakhaté, Mbaye 342, 345, 350, 351,
commerce 352, 360
Ajami business records 333, 344 dictionaries 33, 41, 60-62, 75, 471, 474,
Bennati’s pamphlets 431 621
Colombia and Caribbean 264, digitisation 32-34, 36-39, 105, 544
270-271 benefits xxxvii-xxxviii, lvii, 184, 280,
India 454-455 288, 381-382
trade routes 25, 119, 148, 180 digital repatriation 532
trans-Saharan trade 173, 180 digital unification liii
Comoro Islands 135, 142 early efforts liii
compadrazgo (godparentage) 275 equipment 92-93, 181, 403
Conakry 551, 553, 563, 571 location challenges 91-94
convict labour methodologies 95-96, 181, 396
colonial public works 312-319 opposition to 32-33, 91-92
colonial records project 293-300, selection criteria 295, 298, 387
324-325 Diourbel 333, 354, 365-366, 368
information recorded 299-304 discrimination 203-204
Index 639
Djenné lxi, 173-188 EAP207 417-440

manuscript ownership 175-176 EAP255 264-268
Djenné Manuscript Library 173-185, EAP265 1-26
175 EAP281 67-88
doctrinas (Indian parishes) 228. See EAP285 189-220, 224
also parishes (Andean) EAP327 570-571
dogarai (native police) 315 EAP333 225-255
Dolgikh, Boris Osipovich (Iosovich) EAP334 331-370, 375
496, 497, 499, 500, 502-503 EAP347 617-631
Dome of the Rock 379
EAP373 31-64
Ecclesiastical and Secular Sources for EAP399 377, 396-412
Slave Societies Digital Archive 288 EAP454 456
ecclesiastical archives 225. See EAP466 135-161, 164-172
also parishes (Andean) EAP488 173-185
Colombia 272-276 EAP503 271-272
Paraíba, Brazil 279-280, 286-287 EAP521 377, 382-396
Edison phonograph 620 EAP526 89-131
education. See also schools EAP535 293-325, 328-329
Christian 218, 473-474. See EAP608 571-579
also missionaries EAP627 279-288
Guinean music 553 EAP640 272-276
Islamic 137, 138, 142, 331-332, 350. EAP690 184
See also talibés (Quranic school Endangered Languages
students) Documentation Programme
Persian music 601-602 xxxix-xli
Egypt Eritrea 90
Alexandria 382 Escalante y Mendoza, don Juan de
Cairo 145, 146, 149, 382 242-243, 250
Deir al-Surian Monastery l-li, lii-liii Estigarribia, Juan Vicente 430
Oxyrhynchus lvii Estonian Literary Museum 624
Embera-Wounaan Indians 266 etaghas (post-flood farmland) 7, 20, 22,
encomiendas (colonial legal authority) 23, 25
229-231, 233-235, 249 Ethiopia xliii, liii, lx, lxi, 89-134. See
Endangered Archives Programme also May Wäyni Monastery
(EAP) Addis Ababa 92
focus xxxix-xli Däbrä Libanos Monastery 90
projects Mekelle 89, 91
EAP016 487-526 Ethiopian Manuscript Microfilm
EAP054 531-545 Library (EMML) 92
EAP067 189-220, 224 Ethiopian manuscripts 89-131
EAP088 609-613 ethnoarchaeology 4, 25
EAP089 617-631 ethnography 5, 503, 621
EAP095 417-440 ethnolinguistics 617-631
EAP119 377 ethnomusicology 547-580, 594, 596-597,
EAP187 566-568 601-602, 606, 613
Evenki Fulbé musicians 572, 578

language 629 Fundação Cultural Palmares (FCP) 288
people 496 Fuuta Jalon 337
Evenki National District 494, 495 Fuuta Tooro 333, 337
photographs 511-526
Gabon 340-341, 348, 350
exile
Gait, E. A. 462
Baluev, Ivan Ivanovich 493, 502
Gambia 335, 547. See also Senegambia
Bamba (Cheikh Ahmadou Bamba
Garamantian kingdom 1, 3, 24, 25
Mbacké) 340-341
Gaza 381, 384
Dolgikh, Boris Osipovich (Iosovich)
502 genealogy 16, 142, 143, 179, 286, 363
Perillán y Buxó, Eloy 434 indigenous Siberians 499-500
geomorphology 7
Fakhradini, Farhad 600-601, 604, 609 Gergyovden (St George’s day) 194
famines 457, 461, 468 Ghat 3, 7
Fanisau 308 Giyorgis, Qäsäla 90
al-Faruqi, Shaykh Sulayman al-Taji 387 Global Dimensions of Scholarship and
Fazzan, Libya. See Tadrart Acacus Research Libraries xlv
Febvre, Lucien lvi Golha radio programmes 587-613
Flores, Diego 247 archive project and website 609-613
folklore Barg-i sabz 590, 591
Krymchak people 622 Golha-yi javidan 590, 591, 596
Lepcha 70 Golha-yi rangarang 590, 591, 601, 607
musical 552 Golha-yi sahra’i 590, 591
Russian 499, 621, 622, 624-626 Golha-yi taza 604, 606
Udmurtia 624-627 socio-cultural impact 599-608
Foning, Arthur 71, 73, 77 Yik shakh-i gol 590, 591
forasteros (foreigners) 247-249, 252 Greeves, J. A. Ley 320, 321
forced labour griots 547-548, 558, 561, 563-564, 566-
colonial public works 312-319 567, 572
colonial records project 293-300, Grumbkow, Georges B. von 436-437,
324-325 438
information recorded 299-304 gueltas (rock pools) 7, 20, 22, 25
in pre-colonial Sokoto Caliphate Guinea 333, 337, 547-586
305-308 authenticité (cultural policy) 552-564,
mita (draft labour) 251, 252 568
under colonial rule 308-312, 319-323 Bibliothèque Nationale de Guinée
France 566
Gambian treaty negotiation (French Conakry 551, 553, 563, 571
and Ajami text) 335 Cultural Revolution 554-564
Imperial Archives xlix Fulbé plot 563
withdrawal from Guinea 549-550 independence from France 549-551
Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Labé 333
Colombia (FARC) 264 Radio Télévision Guinée (RTG) 549,
Fulani 332, 338-339, 363 554, 565-566, 567, 568, 571-572,
578-580
Index 641
Gujarati traders 119 Khasi Hills 447-448, 449

Gulpayagani, Akbar 601, 602 Lushai Hills 447-448, 455, 456-457
Gypsy. See Roma Mizoram 446-447, 456
Northeast India 445-486. See
Habib Saleh (Ṣāliḥ b. ʿAlawī Jamal
also Mizo; Tai Ahom
al-Layl) 135-138, 144, 156, 159
Serkawn 449, 463
al-Ḥaddād, ʿAbd Allāh b. ʿAlawī 141
Sikkim 67, 69, 74. See also Lepcha
hadith (accounts of the Prophet) 347-
Indian Ocean 120, 137, 141
348, 406, 407, 409, 410, 412
indigenous people 270, 272, 277, 279,
Ḥaḍramawt 136, 138, 142, 147-148
288, 417
hagiography 75, 340, 345, 348, 353
administration 227, 246
Hague Convention for the Preservation
of Cultural Property 380 Christianity 286, 449-477
Hajj Amin al-Husseini 379 conversion to 227, 230, 232, 233
Harriet Tubman Institute 305 culture 5, 74, 513-514, 550-551, 580
Hausa 179, 180, 332, 333, 336-337, faith 74, 85
338-339 photography of 417, 487-526, 509
Hausaland 337 Soviet ethnographic studies 496-497,
Haussonville, Joseph d’ lv 503
ḥDas-log 79 Institute for Anthropology and
health 191, 268, 300, 514. See also Mizo: Ethnography 627
healing customs Institute of Russian Literature
notary records in Colombia 266-269 (Pushkinskii Dom) 620, 622-623,
627
Hebrew 349
Instituto Histórico e Geográfico
Hebrew University of Jerusalem
Paraibano (IHGP) 279-280
380-381
International Association of Sound
al-Ḥibshī, ʿAlī b. Muḥammad 136-138,
Archives (IASA) 623, 631
144
Iran xl, lxiv, 587-616. See also Golha
Hinduism 35, 43
radio programmes and Persian
Hogendorn, Jan S. 293, 310 music
Huacho diocese, Peru 225, 237
radio listening 603-604
al-Husayni, Munif 384, 387
twentieth-century cultural politics
Ibn Battuta 355-356 593-599
Ibn Khaldun 355-356 Iran Heritage Foundation 612
Ibra Fall 367 Iranian National Orchestra 600
Ibtehaj, Hushang 590, 605-606 Iranian National Radio 587, 590, 593-
illiteracy 332-334 594, 598-600
Imperial Archives of France xlix ISESCO 356
impressed labour. See forced labour Ishraq, ‘Abd al-Hamid 608
indexes (in manuscripts) 156 Islam
India 445-486 conversion to 337
Assam 35 importance of books and book
collections 377-378
British Raj 446-447, 449
Islamic sciences 339, 350
Darjeeling 67
Islamisation 332, 356
Kalimpong 73
Islamic education 137, 138, 142, 331- Krasnoyarsk Territory (Krai) 489, 494,
332, 350. See also talibés 625
Islamic jurisprudence (fiqh) 148, 152, Krasnoyarsk Territory Regional
164, 165, 167, 334, 404, 406, 407, 408, Museum (KKKM) 488, 493-496, 526
409, 410, 411, 412 Krymchak people 622
Islamic manuscripts 138-161, 164-172,
173-185, 343, 346, 352, 396-412 Labé 333
Israel, National Library of 380-381 Laborde, Léon de xlix, lv
labour
Jabre, Adel 379 coolie (kuli) 457, 461, 462
Jakarta (Batavia) 149, 150 forced
al-Jazzar, Ahmad 378 colonial public works 312-319
Jerusalem 377-416 colonial records project 293-300,
al-Aqṣá Mosque Library 377, 379-381, 324-325
381-382, 387, 403-412 information recorded 299-304
Haram al-Sharif 379 in pre-colonial Sokoto Caliphate
Hebrew University of Jerusalem 305-308
380-381 mita (draft labour) 247, 251, 252
National Library of Israel 380-381 under colonial rule 308-312,
Jesup North Pacific Expedition (1900) 319-323
619-620 La Guajira Peninsula 270-271
Jihad 337 Lakni cycle (calendar) 39-40, 41
João Pessoa 277, 278, 279-280 Lamu lxi, 135-172. See Riyadha
Mosque
Kairé, Mor 342, 345, 350-351
landscape
Kalimpong 73
Baluev’s photography 500, 509-510
Ka, Moussa 331, 339, 340, 342, 345, 347,
349, 350, 351-352, 353, 355, 356 geomorphology 7
Kano Emirate 293, 300, 306-307, 308 human relationship 24-25, 227, 234
Kasravi, Ahmad 595 photography 500, 510
Kel Tadrart Tuareg 5, 19-23, 25 rock inscriptions 17, 20
Kenya lx, lxi, 135-172. See Riyadha languages. See also translations
Mosque Afghanistan languages and dialects
Khaliqi, Ruhu’llah 590, 597, 598-599, 623
601 dominant 618, 629-630
Khaly Madiakhaté Kala 339 endangered 35, 52, 67-68, 617,
Khamliana 455 618-621
Khanty people 626-628 Evenki 629
Khasi Hills 447-448, 449 Finno-Ugric 621, 623, 626-628
Khasi Hills, India 449 holy 342-343, 349
Khudayar 598 Kerek 622
Khurram, Humayun 609 Nivkh 629-631
Kijuma, Muhammad 159-160 Paleo-Siberian 621
King of Bar 335 revitalisation 625-626, 629-631
Koran. See Quran Samoyed 621, 622
Krasnoyarsk 493 Shan 47-48, 49, 51-52, 62
Krasnoyarsk State Pedagogical Tai 34-35, 46-47
University 622 Tajik 622-623
Index 643
Tungus-Manchu 621 British Library xl, xliii-xlvi, 72, 611

Turkic 621 Djenné Manuscript Library 173-185
Udeghe 622 Ethiopian Manuscript Microfilm
Udmurtia 624-626 Library (EMML) 92
Wakhi 622-623 National Library of Israel 380-381
La Paz 431-433, 438 philosophy and policies 182
Lat Dior Ngoné Latyr Diop 339 Libyan-Italian Archaeological Mission
Latin American newspapers 433-434 4
Layène 338 Lima 252
al-Layl, Aḥmad b. Ṣāliḥ Jamal (Ahmad Lima Church Council 233, 235, 242,
Badawi) 144 249
al-Layl, Ḥasan b. Muḥammad Jamal Limbu script 69
140-141, 143 linguistics. See also languages
al-Layl, Ṣāliḥ b. ʿAlawī Jamal (Habib documentation 618, 629-631
Saleh) 135-138, 144, 156, 159 Tai Ahom 46-47
Lazóng (Lepcha orthography) 69-70 literacy
Leibniz Institut für Landeskunde (IFL) Ajami script 332-333, 344, 346,
436 353-354
Leiden University, Netherlands 72 Latin script 332-333
Lemaire, Albert Jean Baptist 597 Mizo, India 468-469
Lepcha 67 music-derived 354
archive project 67-88 Soviet-era Siberia 498, 501
astrological texts and horoscopes statistics 332, 603
81-83 teaching 334, 350
folklore 76-78 Loccha 246
funerary texts 83-84 Lorrain, J. H. (Pu Buanga) 458-460, 463,
geographical distribution of 474
manuscripts 72-73 Louis XVIII 335
language 67-68 Lovejoy, Paul E. 293
manuscripts 71-74 Lugard, Frederick 294-295, 320
orthography 69-71 Lungleh (Lunglei) 457, 470, 478
popular texts and genres 70-71, Lushai Hills 447-448, 455, 456-457
74-79 Lybia 1-30
prayer and ritual ceremonies 74, 76
religious beliefs 68, 74 al-Maddī, Aḥmad b.ʿAbd Allāh b.
Yūsuf 158-159
resurrection texts 79-80
Magdalena River 260
leprosy 266, 268-269
Màggal 341, 369, 370
Lewin, T. H. 471
Maghrib/Maghribī 338, 364, 365, 368,
lexicon. See dictionaries
370
libraries
Mahjubi, Murtaza 590, 601
al-Aqṣá Mosque Library 377, 379-381,
Makeba, Miriam 555, 575
382-383, 387, 396, 403-412
Mali lx, lxi, 6, 16, 173-188, 547, 548, 556.
al-Jazzār Mosque Library 377-379,
See also Djenné Manuscript Library
381-382, 396-403
Mallo 252
as a mark of prestige 377
Mandé 332, 547, 560, 572. See
Bibliothèque Nationale de Guinée
also Maninka
566
Mandinka 335, 338, 358
Maninka 547, 572, 577-578. See Mbaye Diakhaté. See Diakhaté, Mbaye
also Mandé Mbaye Nguirane. See Nguirane, Mbaye
Manó, Joseph Charles 429-430, 431, 434, Mbaye, Samba Diarra 342, 345, 350, 351
440 McKeown, Katie 545
manuscripts. See also Ajami: Mecca 16, 138, 142, 143, 146, 147-148,
manuscripts; Arabic: 148, 149
manuscripts; Codex Sinaiticus; Medical-Chirurgical Scientific Italian
Coptic manuscripts; Ethiopian Commission 418, 426-427. See
manuscripts; Islamic manuscripts; also Bennati, Guido
Lepcha: manuscripts; Oriental medicine 81, 179, 342-343, 346, 454. See
Christian manuscripts; Syriac also Mizo: healing customs
manuscripts; Tai Ahom:
Bennati, Guido 430-431
manuscripts
Mekelle (Tigray) 89, 91
bindings 97, 101, 109-120, 121, 126
Mendizábal, Bernabé 418, 419, 426
tools and tooling 120-130
Mendoza 418, 427
colophons 71-72, 160
metadata
conservation 95, 96-97, 102, 104-106,
manuscripts 45, 52-63, 94, 95
131, 381
need to understand content 45
copying. See scribes
open access 32
covers 95, 102, 103, 117, 118, 120-121,
128-131 sound recordings 621, 628
Michelet, Jules lxv
dating of 35, 60, 71, 90, 178
microfilm liii, 92
decoration 107-109
microhistory lvi-lvii, lxii
digitisation 32-34, 36-39, 73, 95-96,
105, 403 missionaries
paper 33, 34, 37-38, 71, 114, 117, 160 Baptist missionaries 445, 449
parchment 89, 97, 98-99, 101, 115 churches of 450, 451-452, 460, 466-
467, 477
storage xli, lviii, 90, 96-97, 177-178,
183 education 473-474
maraboutage (Islamic form of magic) hygiene rules 457-460
173, 177, 179 model villages 466
Mashriqī 365, 368. See also Maghrib/ Welsh Calvinistic missionaries 449,
Maghribī 468
Mason, Michael 293-294, 319 Mission Veng Church 450, 465, 467
Matam 333 mita (draft labour) 247, 251, 252
Mauritania 341, 348, 350 mitayo (draft labourer) 251
Maxwell-Stewart, Hamish 324 Mizo
May Wäyni Monastery 89-134 architecture 451-452
book and manuscript construction chibai (greeting) 471, 473-475
106-120 composers 468
tooled leather decoration 120-130 harhna (awakening) 449, 475-477
digitisation project 89-131 healing customs 454, 467, 471-472
manuscripts lal (village headmen) 456, 468
decoration 107-109 language 467, 471
ownership 92 naming practices 471-473
repairs (traditional) 102-106 newspapers 473
storage 96-97 people 453, 455-457
Mbacké, El Hadji 347-348 salt uses 454-455
Index 645
spirituality and spirits (ramhuai) 450, Mizo 453

471-472 orchestras (African) 551
Mizoram 446-447, 456. See also Lushai Persian 594, 596-597, 601-602,
Hills 606, 613. See also Golha radio
Mizoram Presbyterian Church Synod programmes
Archive 450 prohibition 594-595
mobile phones 365, 368, 369, 370
Mogrovejo, Toribio Alfonso de 251 Namchu, Óng Tshering 73
Mombeya, Thierno 337 Namgyal Institute of Tibetology,
Montería 272-276 Gangtok, India 73, 74
Mu‘ayyiri, Rahi 588, 601 Napier Expedition (1868) 94
Muhammad, Prophet 135, 137, 142, Napoleon Bonaparte lv, 378
347-348 Napoleon III lv
Muhammad Reza Pahlavi 594, 595 Nash, George 17
Mu‘iniyan, Nusratu’llah 590, 599, 600 National Archives of Nigeria 295
mukhtar (chief) 191-193 National Archives of the United States
múng (evil spirits) 84 lviii
mun (shaman) 74, 83 National Iranian Radio and Television
(NIRT) 604
Murid communities
National Library of Israel 380-381
Ajami, use of 337-350
Ndong, Moukhtar 346, 359, 360
education 354
Nepal lx, 67-88
poets 350-353
newspapers
Muridiyya Sufi order 332, 338, 340.
See also Bamba (Cheikh Ahmadou Latin America 433-434
Bamba Mbacké) Mizo 473
Murray, C. S. 461, 462-463 Palestine 382-396
Musaddiq crisis (1953) 595 press law and censorship 201,
Museum of La Plata 417, 420, 422-426, 382-386
438, 439-440 Roma 199, 200, 203, 205, 212-214, 217,
museums 219
Estonian Literary Museum, Tartu Ngom, Cheikh 353
624 Nguirane, Mbaye 347
Krasnoyarsk Territory Regional Niang, Mahmoud 340
Museum (KKKM) 488, 493-496, Niang, Sam 340, 344, 352
526 Niassène 338
Museum für Völkerkunde, Vienna Niger 333
72 Nigeria lxii, 173, 293-325. See
Museum of La Plata 417, 420, 422- also agriculture; colonialism;
426, 438, 439-440 National Archives of Nigeria;
Soviet-era policies 489 Northern Nigeria and slavery
music banknotes 336-337
African Kabba province 309, 320-322
Murid Ajami 345, 354 literacy 333
Syliphone archive project 547-580, National Archives 295
585 Northern Region, convict labour
as political medium 551, 559 293-325
censorship 563, 564-565, 594, 595, 598 Nivkh language 629-631
Guinean 552-564
NKVD (People’s Commissariat of Paraguay 417-444. See also Bennati,

Internal Affairs) 501 Guido
Northern Expedition (Baluev) 488-490, Asunción 429
496, 524 Medical-Chirurgical Scientific Italian
aims 501 Commission 429-430
organisation 496-505 Paraíba
political interference 502-504 ecclesiastical archives 279-280,
Northern Nigeria 286-287
convict labour 293-325 João Pessoa 277, 278, 279-280
pre-colonial and early colonial maps 277, 278
records 294-305 Nossa Senhora das Neves 277
transportation links 312-313 Nossa Senhora dos Milagres da
notary records 264-268, 271-272 Ribeira do Cariri (later Nossa
Paraíba 280-283 Senhora dos Milagres do São João
numeracy, currency-derived 343-344 do Cariri) 279, 280, 283, 287
numerology 342-343, 359 notary records 280-283
Portuguese colonists 276-283
orality slavery 276, 279, 280, 282, 286-288
oral culture 618-619 Universidade Federal da Paraíba 280
oral history 305, 548 Pariamarca 236, 237-242, 249-250, 253,
oral literature 619-621, 622, 627 255
orchestras (African) 551 parishes (Andean) 225-258
Oriental Christian manuscripts l-liv. boundaries 225, 232, 255
See also Coptic manuscripts; historical records 237-254
Ethiopian manuscripts and Syriac pastoral visitations 234, 251
manuscripts
Parti Démocratique du Guinée (PDG)
orthography 551, 553-555, 559, 562-565
Lepcha 69-71 Pashov, Shakir 195-214, 215, 216
Pulaar 356-357 pastoral visitations 234, 251
Wolof 356-358 Payvar, Faramarz 610
Osorio, don Alonso 253 Perillán y Buxó, Eloy 434, 436
Ottoman Empire 190-192, 378 persecution 214, 563, 595
Ottoman Press Law 384-385 Persian music 587-613. See also Golha
Oumar Tall 337, 338 radio programmes
Oxyrhynchus lvii Peru lxii, 225-258, 428. See also parishes
(Andean)
Pahlavi monarchy 604. See
also Muhammad Reza Pahlavi and Canta 226, 237, 240, 242-254
Reza Shah Pahlavi Carcas 247, 250
palenques (maroon communities) 260, Huacho diocese 225, 237
261 Lima 252
Palestine. See also Jerusalem Loccha 246
Bethlehem 384 Mallo 252
British Mandate 382-387 Pariamarca 236, 237-242, 249-250,
newspapers 382-396 253, 255
political parties 391 Quivi (Quives) 242, 250, 252
Supreme Muslim Council 378, 379, Petrie, William Flinders 418
384 phonogram archives 619, 621, 623-631
Index 647
photographic archives 425, 489, 524, prisons

526 administration 305-306, 309, 310, 314,
photographic studio archive project 319-322
531-545 colonial archives 294-305
photographic techniques 505-508 forced labour 309-312, 322-323
image manipulation 487 rehabilitation 308, 324-325
photography skills training 314-315, 323
African 531-545 Pulaar 337, 344, 356
architecture 518-521 Pushkinskii Dom 620, 622-623, 627
as novelty 448 Pu Vana 445
cartes-de-visite 417-419, 420-422, 427-
429, 430, 431, 433, 438, 440 al-Qaḥṭānī, Muḥyī al-Dīn 139
copyright and permissions 539, quackery 422, 426-427, 429
541-542 Quibdó 263-268
documentary photography 488, 500 quilombos (maroon-descended
ethnographic 488, 500, 509-510 communities) 288
identity photographs 538 Quivi (Quives) 242, 250, 252
landscape 500, 509, 510, 517 Quran 144, 181, 342. See also schools
maps 516 racial equality 203-204. See
of manuscripts 32-34, 36-39, 73, also prejudice (racial)
95-96, 105, 403 Radio Tehran. See Iranian National
portraits 500, 507, 509-510, 539-540. Radio
See also cartes-de-visite Radio Télévision Guinée (RTG) 549,
Pirnia, Davud 587, 588, 590-591, 596, 554, 565-566, 567, 568, 571-572,
599-603, 605, 608 578-580
Podor 333 Radio-yi Iran 604, 607
Portuguese colonists 276-283 al-Raḥmān, Sayyid Manṣab b. ʿAbd
post-colonial theory 479 138, 144-145, 159
Potiguar Indians 277 rancherías (villages) 263, 268
Pouget, Michel-Aimé 427, 428 Ranke, Leopold liv-lvi
Pouget, Petrona Sosa de 427 reducciones (grid settlements) 231-232,
prayer 233, 242
Ahom 43, 53-57 Reiss, Wilhelm 436
Lepcha 76 repartimientos (Iberian forerunner to
Riyadha Mosque manuscript encomiendas) 229, 233-235
collection 141-142 Reza Shah Pahlavi 593-594, 598, 603
preachers. See also missionaries ribats (frontier fortresses) 306
evangelical Roma 217-218 ribats (religious schools) 137
prejudice (racial) 300, 348, 355-356, 458, Riohacha, slavery 269-270, 272
461, 462 Riyadha Mosque
primary sources, importance of foundation 135-138
189-190 manuscript collection 138-161,
printing presses 164-172
effect on manuscript culture liv, aquisitions 149-152
149-152 catalogue 138-142
Murid communities 354-355 development 142-145, 147-148
Palestine 382 provenance 153-159
waqf (pious endowement) Sakhalin, Japanese exodus from

donations 145-147 629-630
rock art 3, 15, 17, 24 Salazar, don Gerónimo de 238, 240, 242
rock inscriptions (Tifinagh) 5, 7, 15-26 Samanid dynasty 604
Roma 189-224 Samoyed language 621, 622
Communist rule in Bulgaria 200-213 Sampayo, Antonio 420
culture and education 208-212 sanglyon (funeral rituals) 83
Egyptian Nation 190, 192-195 San Juan River 264, 266, 269
elsewhere in Europe 218-220 Santa Cruz de la Sierra 430-431
evangelical churches 217-218 Sapienza University of Rome 1, 4
importance of primary source Savidge, F. W. (Sap Upa) 463, 477
research 189-190 School of Oriental and African Studies
Kıpti (Copts) 190, 193-194 72
newspapers 199, 200, 205, 212-214, schools
217, 219 Christian 218, 452, 473-474. See
organisation also missionaries
Egyptian Nation 190-195 knowledge 350
Ekhipe (United General Cultural Quranic 173-174, 176, 180, 331, 344,
Organisation of Gypsy 350, 358
Minorities) 201, 203-206, 208, Roma 208, 218
209 Soviet/Russian 509, 515, 523, 525, 526
Istikbal 197-200 vocational 350
Istiklyal 208-209 Scott, James C. 447
Society Egypt 197 scribes 131, 153-159
Pashov’s book manuscript 195-201, Djenné 179
204 Kijuma, Muhammad 159-160
religion 194-195 tradition of copying texts 36-37, 55,
Roma Theatre 209-213 71
Róngkup, Chong 73 Wolof Ajami 346, 351
Rostworowski, María 250 Seereer 353
RTG (Radio Télévision Guinée) 549, Senegal 336, 338, 547
554, 565-566, 566, 567, 568, 571-572, Baol 353
578-580 Senegambia 338-340, 352, 354-355
Russia lii, lxiii, lxiv, lxv, 487-530, senses, among the Mizo 449
617-634. See also schools and Soviet harhna (awakening) 475-477
Union hearing 449-453
Russian Academy of Sciences 620
sight 466-475
Russian Geographical Society 494, 500,
smell 457-460
509
taste 453-457
Saba, Abu’l-Hasan 598, 601 touch 460-466
Ṣafī ʿAlī Shāh 592 sensory history 445-479
Safwat, Daryush 597, 610 Serkawn 449, 463
Sahara xliii, 1-30, 173, 180, 331, 547 Shaha, Brojo Nath 471
archaeological remains 3. See Shahrdar, Mushir Humayun 596, 598
also Tifinagh rock inscriptions Shajarian, Mohammad-Reza 602, 604,
trade 25, 173, 180 607
Index 649
Shakespear, John 461-462, 472 music 548, 571-578, 573-579. See

shamanism 69, 74, 622, 627 also Syliphone
Shan languages 47-48, 49, 51-52, 62 radio 565, 567-568, 570, 591, 604. See
Sharif, Farhang 602, 609 also Golha radio programmes
Sharifian descent 135, 348 soundscape 445, 450-451
al-Shāṭirī, Abū Bakr b. ʿAbd Allāh b. Soviet Union 202, 490, 487-530, 502,
ʿUmar 148 620, 626, 628-630
Shihada, Bulus 384 collective farming 499, 501, 509-510
Siberia 487-530 communist ideology 498-499, 514,
endangered language recordings 595
619-623, 626-628 internal boundaries 514-517
folklore 522-523 socialist transformation 487, 490-491,
genealogy 499-500 500-501, 503, 505, 510
literacy 498, 501 Spanish colonists
photographic archives of indigenous Colombia 259-264
peoples 487-526, 530 Peru 227-231
Sierra Leone 269, 336 spirit calling 35, 47-49
Silchar 469 Stalin, Josef 496, 525-526
slavery Steinitz, Wolfgang 626-628
Brazil 276-288 Sternberg, Lev Yakovlevich 629
Colombia 260, 261, 263, 265, 266, 268, St Petersburg
269-272, 274 Institute for Linguistic Studies 623
health and disease 266, 268-269 Pushkinskii Dom 620, 622-623, 627
Northern Nigeria 293-294 Strulev, Mark Sergeevich 496, 497, 499,
records of 264-268, 271-272, 279-288 503, 520
slaves in prison 305-307 Stübel, Alphons 436
transportation and purchase 260-264 Sucre 430
Sokhna Amy Cheikh 352 Sufism 135-136, 142
Sokhna Mai Kabir 352 mysticism 174
Sokhna Mai Sakhir 352 Sufi orders 135-136, 332, 338, 340,
Sokkna Aminatou Cissé 352 592
Sokoto Caliphate 305-308, 324-325 Supreme Muslim Council 378, 379, 384
sound archives 549, 565-566, 567-568, sustainable development 4-5, 25-26
579-580, 611-613, 623, 631 Swahili 136-137, 159, 332
phonogram 619, 621, 623-631 Ajami 139, 153, 156, 167, 169, 171
sound recordings Sy, Habibou Rassoulou 346, 354, 363,
linguistic 619-631 364
media Syli Orchestre National 551, 553, 561,
audio cassette 548 573
Syliphone 548-549, 555, 556-557, 561-
Edison phonograph 620
562, 563, 564
magnetic tapes 549, 621
EAP projects 566-580
phonograph cylinders 621
syncretism. See Lepcha
phonograph records 597, 610
Syriac manuscripts lii-liii
vinyl records 548, 566
wax cylinders 597, 620, 626-627 Tabajara Indians 288
wax discs 620
Tadrart Acacus 1-30. See also Tifinagh Tiahuanaco ruins 433-440

rock inscriptions Tibet
archaeological significance 3-5 Buddhism 68, 74-75, 83-84
human geography 24-25 literature 68, 75-76, 78
water 7 resurrection texts 79
Tai Ahom 31-66 Tibetan Book of the Dead 83
Assam manuscripts project 31-64 Tifinagh characters 5, 6
chicken bone augury 35, 42, 44-45 Tifinagh rock inscriptions 5, 7, 15-26
language 34-35, 40, 42-43, 46-47, chronology 18, 20, 22-24
62-63 Tigray 89, 92, 97-98
manuscripts Timbuktu 173, 174, 175, 180, 182, 184
categorisation 40-42 Titicaca, Lake and regions 433, 439
histories (Buranjis) 42-43 Touré, Sékou 550, 561-562, 564, 572
mantras and prayers 41, 53-57 Toussele, Jacques 531-533, 540, 542, 545
predictions and augury 44-45 trade routes 25, 119, 148, 180. See
spirit calling texts 41, 47-51 also commerce
stories 41, 58-60 translations
chronology 35, 60 difficulties 5, 7, 40, 42-43, 46-47, 75,
storage 36 85
rituals 35, 53-57 methodologies 47-48, 49-53
Tai Ahom-Assamese lexicons Trent, Council of 225, 232, 249
Bar Amra 41, 60-62 Tsigani (Gypsies) 190. See also Roma
Loti Amra 41 Tuareg. See Kel Tadrart Tuareg
translation process 47-48, 49-53 Tukulóor 338
Tajvidi, ‘Ali 587, 589, 598, 609
Ubah, Chinedu N. 293
takhmīs (poetic form) 349
Udmurtia, language revitalisation
talibés (Quranic school students) 173 624-626
talismans 334, 343, 469 Udmurt State University 625
Tamyong Lepcha 73 UNESCO
Tantavilca, don Gabriel 243, 246
language endangerment 619, 631
tarana (popular ballads) 613
literacy rate statistics 332, 603
tax 178
orthography 356
Andean doctrina 242, 249
World Heritage sites 3, 173
collection (Roma) 192
Unicode
collection (Spanish colonists) 227,
Ajami exclusions 357-358
230-231
Tai Ahom script 60, 62
Mizo chhiah 461
Wolof Ajami 357
Tehran
United States
Advanced School for Music Studies
Bureau of Indian Affairs lviii
597
National Archives lviii
Centre for the Preservation and
Promotion of Music 597 University of Leicester 1
Usman ɗan Fodio 337
National Conservatory of Music 597
Technical College 597 Vatican Library l-li
Thieyène 341 Vaziri, ‘Ali-Naghi 593, 595, 597, 606
Index 651
Vergara, don Diego de 253-254

Victoria, Queen 455
Vienna
Museum für Völkerkunde 72
phonogram archives 619, 624
Virgin Islands lvii
wadis (valleys) 17, 20

waqf (pious endowment) 150, 151, 152,
161
al-Jazzār Mosque Library 378
Riyadha, Lamu 138, 142, 145-147, 147
Roma 198, 208
Wayúu Indians 270-271
Welsh Calvinistic missionaries 449, 468
Westernisation 463-464
Whipping Act, VI (1865) 462
Wolof 332
Ajami (Wolofal). See also Ajami
business records 344
manuscript digitisation project
331-370, 375
manuscript types 334
Wolofisation 363
women
Ajami poetry 352
exploitation 461, 462-463
Iranian 593
prison labour 314
seers 476
shamans 74
squirrel hunters 512
Worger, William H. 324
Yakut people 496. See also Evenki

National District
Yenisei 492, 496
Zanzibar 138, 142, 149

Zionism (and anti-Zionist propaganda)
383-385
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Knowledge is for sharing

Ten Years of the
Maja Kominko (ed.)
Much of world’s documentary heritage rests in vulnerable, litle-known and oten

inaccessible archives. Many of these archives preserve informaion that may cast
new light on historical phenomena and lead to their reinterpretaion. But such
rich collecions are oten at risk of being lost before the history they capture
is recorded. This volume celebrates the tenth anniversary of the Endangered
Archives Programme at the Briish Library, established to document and publish
online formerly inaccessible and neglected archives from across the globe.
From Dust to Digital showcases the historical signiicance of the collecions

ideniied, catalogued and digiised through the Programme, bringing
together aricles on 19 of the 244 projects supported since its incepion. These
contribuions demonstrate the range of materials documented — including
rock inscripions, manuscripts, archival records, newspapers, photographs
and sound archives — and the wide geographical scope of the Programme.
Many of the documents are published here for the irst ime, illustraing the
potenial these collecions have to further our understanding of history.
Cover image: Qʷәraro Maryam (Gärᶜalta, Tigray). Repository for discarded manuscript
fragments in a niche of the central bay of the north aisle. Photograph by Michael
Gervers.
As with all Open Book publicaions, this enire book is available to read for
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supplementary digital material, can also be found here:
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From Dust to Digital

Ten Years of the Endangered Archives Programme

Maja Kominko (dir.)

Publisher: Open Book Publishers

© Open Book Publishers, 2015

Edited by Maja Kominko

This work as a whole is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-commercial

Printed in the United Kingdom and United States by Lightning Source

PART II. MANUSCRIPTS

3 Unravelling Lepcha manuscripts 67

PART III. DOCUMENTARY ARCHIVES

PART IV. PHOTOGRAPHIC ARCHIVES

14 Hearing images, tasting pictures: making sense of Christian 445

PART V. SOUND ARCHIVES

2.5 Folio 9r of the Du Kai Seng manuscript belonging to Tileshwar 44

3.1 Prayers to the Choten. Foning Collection (EAP281/1/9), CC BY. 67

4.1 May Wäyni. Treasury building interior with cased manuscripts on 91

4.6 May Wäyni manuscripts. Examples of minimally-prepared 98

6.1 Façade of Djenné library. Photo by author, CC BY. 175

7.1 Stamp of the Egyptian Nation organisation, Public Domain. 193

9.1 Map of Pacific and Caribbean Colombia, by James R. Landers, CC 262

9.6 Students learn to film endangered records at Vanderbilt’s digital 273

12.1 Front page of al-Jāmiʿah al-Islāmīyah [Islamic Union] newspaper, 27 385

13.1 Carte-de-visite from Bernabé Mendizábal to Mr. Comendador Dr. 419

13.4 Carte-de-visite from Michel-Aimé Pouget (EAP207/6/1, images 29 428

14.1 Mission Veng Church, c. 1913-1919, Mizoram Presbyterian Church 450

15.1 Baluev writing in his journal in Dudinka, 1938. © Krasnoyarsk 492

19.1 The Pushkinskii Dom in St Petersburg. Photo by V. Denisov, CC BY. 620

17.13 Mama Kanté avec l’Ensemble Instrumental de Kissidougou, “JRDA” 576

David G. Anderson is professor of anthropology at the University of Aberdeen.

Anne K. Bang is Senior Researcher at the Chr. Michelsen Institute and an

Mohammed Bashir Salau is Associate Professor of history at the University

Mikhail Semenovich Batashev is Senior Research Fellow in the Division of

Stefano Biagetti holds a Marie Curie Intra-European Fellowship in the

Courtney J. Campbell is a Past & Present Postdoctoral Fellow at the Institute

Craig Campbell is Assistant Professor in the Department of Anthropology

Dr Graeme Counsel is a Lecturer in ethnomusicology and an Honorary

Victor Denisov is a linguist specialising in Finno-Ugric Languages. He is a

Tjeerd de Graaf has specialised in the phonetic aspects of ethnolinguistics.

Savino di Lernia teaches ethnoarchaeology and African archaeology at

Michael Gervers is Professor of History at the University of Toronto and

Pablo Gómez is Assistant Professor in the Department of Medical History

Kyle Jackson is a Ph.D. candidate and Chancellor’s International Scholar

Maja Kominko is a historian of late antiquity and Byzantium. Her research

Jane Landers is the Gertrude Conaway Vanderbilt Professor of History at

Jane Lewisohn is a graduate of Pahalavi University, Shiraz, Iran. She has

Elena Marushiakova (President of the Gypsy Lore Society) and Vesselin

Stephen Morey is Australian Research Council Future Fellow at the Centre

Fallou Ngom is Associate Professor of Anthropology and Director of the

Heleen Plaisier has written a comprehensive reference grammar of Lepcha,

Irina Podgorny has been a Permanent Research Scholar at the CONICET

José Trinidad Polo Acuña is Professor of History at the University of Cartagena

Lisbet Rausing is co-founder of Arcadia, holds a doctorate in history from

Gabriela Ramos is Senior Lecturer in Latin American History at the University

Sophie Sarin is a designer who runs a textile and clothing studio in

Barry Supple is an economic historian. He held academic posts at Harvard

Jacek Tomaszewski is an art historian, conservator, and Lecturer at the Polish

David Zeitlyn is Professor of Social Anthropology at the Institute of Social

We would like to thank Lisbet’s father, Hans Rausing, whose exceptional