It is Sunday morning in Salvador, a city in Brazil’s northeast, and morning mass is just ending. The sun beats down as worshippers stream out of one of the city’s many baroque churches. The crowds—descendants of settlers who came here to build a new world and of the slaves brought in to do it—walk down narrow streets, past colourful houses, and down to the city’s golden beaches.

After having just left one service, these worshippers promptly begin another—this time to Yemanjá, goddess of the sea. As drums begin to beat to an energetic rhythm, the worshippers’ excitement mounts, and the women, in their white clothes and gold jewellery, begin to dance. They sway back and forth, singing chants and incantations, and wade into the clear water as they do so. One by one, eyes glazed over, they begin to shake, convulse and collapse, falling into trances. The chanting continues, the tension rises, and more and more people succumb, overwhelmed by the forces at work.

This rather unusual juxtaposition of Catholicism and animistic rituals is a core element of Afro-Brazilian religions, namely Candomblé and Umbanda. According to Paul Christopher Johnson, author of Secrets, Gossip, and the Gods, Candomblé developed in the northeast of Brazil soon after the arrival of slaves, and Umbanda later, in urban Rio de Janeiro of the 1920s. These religions, defined as ‘possession cults’, center on the possession of mediums, known as cavalos—or ‘horses’ in Portuguese—who are ‘ridden’ by orixás. The orixás are forces of nature, originating from traditional West African beliefs, which descend from the sky. According to Johnson, the orixás take control of the bodies and minds of the mediums and leave them in trances and fits of convulsions.

 “It is not uncommon to see someone before a statue of St. George or St. Barbara, only to discover they are in fact shrines to Oxossi or Iansã, the orixás of the forest and wind”

According to Johnson and Roger Bastide, author of The African Religions of Brazil, Candomble and Umbanda were formed through a process of syncretism: the fusion and assimilation of different, even opposing, ideas into a unified practice. As a result, it is not uncommon to see someone before a statue of St. George or St. Barbara, only to discover they are in fact shrines to Oxossi or Iansã, the orixás of the forest and wind.

According to Bastide, originally, slaves from West Africa and Angola brought with them their ancient beliefs in the orixás, such as Oxalá, who represents the sky, and Yemanjá, the sea. Due to the suppression of their traditional beliefs and forcible conversions to Christianity, slaves hid their beliefs behind the mask of Christian figures and concepts. This began the process of syncretism. According to Ana Zahira, an academic and active Umbanda mae-de-santo (or priestess), “what began as just a cover was internalised and absorbed” into the workings of the religions. The umbandistas also looked to the salons of 19^th century Paris for another unlikely addition to their belief system: ‘Spiritism’, the ideas of the eccentric Allan Kardec, who promoted re-birth and communication with transcendent spirits.

How and why these religions arose is a topic of debate: was it was a Marxist-style opiate—a sigh of the oppressed—or a noble form of resistance, or a search for identity? According to Johnson, following the abolition of slavery in 1888, the old records of the slave trade were burned, a supposedly well intentioned but cynical act that succeeded in destroying any knowledge of ancestry for the several million descendants of Brazil’s slaves. The subsequent need for history and identity led to the formation of Nigerian, Angolan and Congolese varieties of Candomblé, in an attempt to re-create a symbolic history for Afro-Brazilians, and a link to their African roots.

In the 19^th and much of the 20^th centuries Candomblé and Umbanda were viewed as subversive and rebellious and were actively persecuted by police. Once persecution stopped, however, and its practice was no longer restricted to a secret meeting room in a favela on the outskirts of Brazil’s cities, the rituals and ceremonies were opened to the general public and absorbed into the consciousness of the country. Once frowned upon by the intellectual elites of Brazil, the same figures now embrace the religions as a symbol of their national unity.

This newfound public acceptance has enabled these religions to spread. One Umbanda temple that began in Rio now has branches in numerous cities around the world. I spoke to an American woman living in Paris who is a follower of Umbanda. When I asked why she, with no particular connection to Brazil, had become a practitioner, she explained the appeal: “[I]t’s not just sitting there and listening to somebody talk.” The drumming, chanting, and dancing fostered a strong sense of community that she felt our more sober European traditions lacked. Through contact with your orixá, she said, you learn about nature, and by extension, yourself.

“In recent years Brazil has been swept with a wave of Pentecostal Christianity, which is predictably hostile towards Candomblé, Umbanda, and even Catholicism”

Despite the national and international acceptance of these religions in recent years, they are under a new threat. Brazil has traditionally been a bastion of Roman Catholicism, and, despite being separate, the Afro-Brazilian religions have co-existed peacefully. In recent years, however, Brazil, like many other countries, has been swept with a wave of Pentecostal Christianity, which has become hugely popular: in Rio, umbandista neighbourhoods have all but died out, and on streets where beating drums could once be heard, you now see lines of straight-laced young men, dressed in shirts and ties, marching dutifully past and proclaiming redemption and the forgiveness of sins.

These hard-line Pentecostals are predictably hostile towards Candomblé, Umbanda, and even Catholicism. The mae-de-santo I spoke to described Pentecostalism as a “threat” to her religion, breeding a fundamentalist mentality that undermines the plurality of these rather unique and distinctly Brazilian faiths.

It is a shame that single-faith dogmatism is threatening this culture and identity. Once truly a religion of the povo, Candomblé may soon only exist as a middle-class pastime. These faiths should arguably be respected, not least for what they reveal about this country and its people. As French ethnologist Roger Bastide remarked, studying Candomblé required him to radically alter his European, post-Enlightenment conceptual framework: in order to truly understand the faith, he had to accept so-called “irregularities” and “contradictions” as the very bread and butter of his work.

Restavec is a Creole word meaning, literally, ‘one who stays with’. It is also the term for a Haitian child who is abandoned by their family to a childhood of servitude in other households.Until very recently, this Haitian practice was virtually unknown to the outside world, and has only now been condemned as a modern form of slavery by the UN. UNICEF estimates that, on an island with a population of just 8 million, 300,000 children work as restavecs. Twenty years ago, the UN paid almost no attention to the issue, and had only a dim awareness that these restavecs even existed. After four speeches to the UN Assembly, two books, and tireless campaigning both in and outside of Haiti, it is no exaggeration to say that Jean-Robert Cadet is the man who put the Haitian restavecs on the map. A former child slave himself, Jean-Robert Cadet’s life story is, in part, one of violence and neglect at the hands of his former ‘owners’, of constant struggle against oppression and injustice. Yet it is ultimately one of catharsis, as his journey sees him cross, as he puts it, the seemingly unassailable gulf from “Haitian slave child to middle-class American”.

Jean Robert Cadet sits across from me in an unassuming service station on the M4. He wears a baseball cap and, and in his soft French-Caribbean accent he speaks confidently and candidly of his time as an abused and unpaid domestic servant throughout the first fifteen years of his life.  He states bluntly: “I did not have a childhood.” The illegitimate product of his wealthy white father’s philandering with his maid, Cadet was sent as a restavec to stay with a high-class prostitute (known under the pseudonym of ‘Florence’) whose clients included numerous government officials. In her care he was treated like the thousands of other Haitian children deemed socially unacceptable, and was subjected to physical and emotional abuse.‘Florence’ pulled and pinched his penis, beat him in his sleep, kicked him with her high-heels, forced his head down the toilet, made him wash her blood-stained menstrual rags.

However, it was the emotional and verbal abuse, Cadet confides, that left considerably deeper and longer-lasting scars. Florence called him a dog, told him he would never amount to anything more than a ‘shoeshine boy’ and, by making him sleep on the kitchen floor and forbidding him ever to sit at the dinner table with the rest of the household, ensured that Cadet would be unable to endure almost any social situation for decades after he finally left her. It is this lasting psychological and social damage, so acutely described in his first book Restavec, which make his poise and ease so remarkable.

As a restavec, Cadet was made to believe that he was worthless. “In Haiti, sleeping in a bed means that you are somebody,” he explains. “I never had a bed; I slept under the kitchen table… I believed I was not worthy of a bed.” He was the victim of a fragmented society in which “everybody wants somebody underneath them… all the way down to dogs.”Cadet harbours few doubts as to where the blame for this fragmentation lies. “The French,” he answers firmly, Haiti’s former colonial masters. Cadet explains that France, along with other colonial powers, were responsible not only for ‘quarantining’ Haiti after the independence in 1804, but also for imposing rigid social hierarchies on Haitian society, hierarchies capable of perpetuating slavery long after the French had left.

Understandably, Cadet has little time for those who question whether the restavec system really constitutes slavery in the strict sense: “Restavecs are treated worse than slaves,” he says unequivocally. He is similarly brusque about claims, particularly those of his fellow Haitians, that this tradition is best understood as an underground foster care system, rather than a system of slavery. “Haitians are proud of their history”, he explains. “As the descendants of former slaves, most are unwilling to believe that they could have become slave-masters themselves.” Even those at the very top of Haitian society are complicit in this culture. Cadet explains that the Chief of Police also holds children in servitude. In a society in which vast extended families are the norm, it is easy for people like this Chief of Police to have a ‘niece of his wife’ living in his household, being treated, whether they acknowledge it or not, as more of a slave than a member of the family. The subtleties involved in this mean that it is often difficult for people and organisations unacquainted with the culture, such as UNICEF, to identify which child is a normal family member, and which is a restavec. For this reason, it is easy for some to deny that restavecs are treated badly, with many arguing that the system is a form of social welfare similar to those seen in other countries; a way of helping a child from a poor family.

Cadet is dismissive of this. “The difference is the brutality,” he argues. “Many countries are very poor, and many may have similar systems, but the Haitian system is unique in its cruelty.” For Cadet, the reasons behind this are cultural; it is no use simply blaming poverty and assuming that the practice will disappear as GDP grows. Failing to value the sanctity of childhood is, according to Cadet, deeply ingrained in the country’s social fabric: “it is part of their cultural make-up dating back to colonial rule”. He explains that the Haitian language is rich in proverbs such as ‘a child is like an animal,’ and as such, the problem is a one of attitude and perception, rather than of material deprivation.This perhaps explains the prevalence of the system at all levels of Haitian society, and the lack of remorse on the part of Cadet’s former keeper Florence: “she felt no need to apologise. She didn’t think she had done anything wrong. She did what she did because someone before her had done the same.”

Cadet, unlike most of his fellow restavec children, was fortunate in that he was educated. He does not accept that this had anything to do with luck, however. “It was a matter of convenience,” he explains. “When a visitor would come round and I answered the door, I was expected to write the name of the visitor down for Florence when she returned home. If I couldn’t write the name down, then I was useless. That’s why they sent me to a literacy centre.” For most restavec children, education is not a possibility, but Cadet is insistent that this is the key to eroding this culture of slavery and abuse. An effective state education, and an education which instils Haitian children with the values of ‘liberty, equality and fraternity’ are what matters.The UN troops propping up the weak government are not the solution, nor are the NGOs, which, he says, are exploitative in their own way: “NGOs use the issue to make a living. Their programmes are not working.”

But if education is the most viable route towards a restavec-free future for Haiti, the 2010 earthquake certainly hampered its progress. Not only are the country’s institutions and infrastructure in tatters, but the number of restavecs has risen considerably. Prospects look bleak, but there is certainly still hope. The first step is in the work of people like Cadet; people who decide to tell their stories rather than stay silent.

——–

Jean Robert Cadet will be speaking on “A hope for Haiti – The restavek system and the future generations” with the International Relations Society on Thursday 19th January, 7.30pm, at Queens College, Lecture Room B

Early on the morning of August 21st 1911 a maintenance worker at Paris’ Louvre museum opened a locked door for one Vincenzo Perruggia, releasing him onto the bustling streets of the French capital. Little did the worker know, Perruggia walked away with more than just a spring in his step – concealed under his regulation smock was the Mona Lisa, now one of the most valuable paintings in existence. The theft changed the face of the art world and ensured that if that world was to have only one face it would be that of Da Vinci’s half-smiling muse.

To say that ‘La Joconde’, as the French know her, was not well known prior to the theft would be misleading – she was the only painting at the Louvre to have its own mailbox, such was the influx of love letters addressed to her – but this fame was nothing in comparison to what followed.

If someone wanted to view a painting in 1911 the only real way to do so was by physically going and seeing it. The theft of the Mona Lisa changed all that. To see her face all anyone had to do was glance at a newspaper, a magazine or one of the many novelty items that developed in the wake of the theft. The painting gained widespread publicity as coverage of the crime gained momentum and entered popular culture – La Joconde became an international celebrity.

When the Louvre reopened to the public a week after the theft there were queues for the first time in its history. Thousands, including a young Franz Kafka, came to view the empty space where the painting had been hanging, only four wall hooks betraying her absence.

Not only did La Joconde quickly become the most viewed face in art, she also became the most written about. The New York Times article covering the theft described her as “the finest picture in existence” and the degree of hyperbole only increased alongside the weight of writing on her. Critics swooned over her mesmerising smile, referred to ‘her’ rather than ‘it’ and described how her eyes would follow an admirer around the room. There were a few dissenting voices noting that some of these effects were not unique to La Joconde but they were very much in the minority.

It was not for her beauty that Perruggia chose her but for her size. At only barely over seventy centimetres tall, La Joconde was one of the smallest paintings in the gallery – something Perruggia knew as he had been commissioned to build a glass frame for her earlier that year. Perruggia’s plan to smuggle his prize out of the Louvre under his smock meant the larger paintings were off the menu.

 La Joconde “left the Louvre a work of art … she returned an icon.”

Was it this chance decision that propelled the Mona Lisa to fame? There is no doubting that it is an exceptional painting – even before the theft, one man was driven to commit suicide in front of it, hardly a common response to an average painting. Did the theft give rise to the legend, though? R.A. Scotti, in her recent book on the subject, asserts that La Joconde “left the Louvre a work of art … she returned an icon.” The theft made La Joconde the most publicised work of art in history and the subsequent entry into popular culture made her the toast of those at the bottom as well as the top of the cultural hierarchy.

Without Perruggia it is tempting to ask whether one might enjoy a more private audience with La Joconde than the sweaty, hurried viewing available in a packed out room in the modern day Louvre. As you gaze upon that most famous of faces perhaps a thought should be spared for the small Italian thief, forgotten by history, who may have brought the crowds but probably also brought you.

If we were to pick anybody to fight this corner fiercely and gallantly, it would be Steve Roggenbuck. Starting in 2009, Roggenbuck built up a vast internet presence as a creator and advocate of anything that could be described as Internet Poetry, a movement dedicated to “raising poetry to the level of internet culture”, rather than the other way around. After building a successful and thriving community around the concept, however, he is now distancing himself from the idea of Internet Poetry as a movement, saying that as he cultivated the project, “the word… started to feel like clutter to me”.

Perhaps this shouldn’t come as a surprise from somebody who has vehemently rejected genre distinctions and borders from the outset, urging people to “break free from the shackles of word” and to expand the term poetry to incorporate video, image and text combinations and GIF. Roggenbuck’s blog has repeatedly stressed that poetry is something he sees as loosely defined. Now, however, he sees the term as so loosely defined as to be more or less meaningless. He explains: “if we are really going to be open about putting language in various visual/multimedia forms– then why are we even calling it poetry as a rule?”

Roggenbuck’s waning enthusiasm for Internet Poetry as a concept might worry some of his loyal followers and fellow ‘poets’, many of whom have themselves built names for themselves under the term. Does this signify the death of the Internet Poem? Not exactly. He still speaks with great passion about the internet’s ability to facilitate literature, stating that it opens up “big opportunities for types of poetry that are maybe not respected in academic institutions but which actually have a big potential readership”. This explains his continued work in a similar vein to before, creating unlikely juxtapositions of text with out-of-place images.

When justifying his passion for an internet culture so regularly ridiculed for its apparent pointlessness, he writes articulately and passionately, a clear break from his famous online persona characterised by twitter-esque brevity and “post-ironic” sarcasm. “For me it’s really just culture. That’s the level at which I care about it: we are creating things that make other people happy and which tell us how to live.”

Zaraghuna Kargar, a short, brown-haired woman, is attentive as she escorts me to her sofa and selects an armchair for herself. As producer and presenter of the Afghan Woman’s Hour and the author of Dear Zari, she has defied the customs which imprison many women in her country. Set up by the BBC in 2005, the aim of Woman’s Hour is to broadcast a programme specifically aimed at women, cutting through social, economic and geographic differences. Aired in Dari and Pashto, it discusses gender, social issues and women’s rights, inviting doctors, psychologists and female politicians to provide information and opinions to women throughout Afghanistan. But the most popular section is when real Afghan women broadcast the individual stories of their lives, and it is these which comprise most of Dear Zari.

In the book, as in real life, Kargar radiates independence and candour. Dear Zari is a testament to her determination to provide Afghan women with a voice in a time when few are willing to hear them. Although many would say that such a liberated woman is an anomaly, she insists that all Afghan women are connected. In the book, Kargar chooses to interweave her life story with the other tales, creating the impression that she and the women are united. She explains: “I realised it doesn’t matter if an Afghan woman lives in London, she is still an Afghan woman and she will somehow suffer and go through the things that an Afghan woman is going through in North Afghanistan or another mother goes through in Kabul.” There is no better candidate to comment on the plight of Afghan women than Kargar herself; having unwillingly submitted to an arranged marriage, she divorced her husband to the astonishment and disapproval of her community. Kargar’s personal experience and journalistic work have given her both the sympathy and the experience necessary for raising awareness about the lifestyle of many Afghan women.

But what is it like to be an Afghan woman? “When it comes to relationships, when it comes to life, family, looking after children, in that sense I think women are globally similar. But when you look at the lifestyle, it is completely different, and even I as an Afghan woman – who had lived far away from my country and from the women I belonged to – found it shocking,” Kargar tells me. A palpable factor is the role of men; a woman is always under a male relative’s control. With bitterness Kargar talks of how women are seen as the property of their male relatives: “In many, many things, as a woman, you are just somebody who men of the family decide for: for your future, for your life. If it’s good or bad you have to live with it. That is that.” The marriage system enforces the perception of women as a commodity; it has been estimated that between 70 to 80% of Afghan marriages are arranged, and women are frequently forced to marry husbands selected by their families, regardless of her objections. Girls can be sold to settle family disputes and debts; Dear Zari is replete with daughters traded to settle old scores. The tale of Shereenjan is just one example: when her brother killed a man from another family, Shereenjan’s father traded his nine year old daughter in recompense. Now an old woman, she spoke on Afghan Woman’s Hour of how she grew up in the barn, slaving for the new family. Later she married the family’s eldest son and bore him children in lieu of the murdered man. She chose to end her story with the phrase, “this is the story of my life.”

“Women who have come out and try to speak about this and try to change this are supressed in many ways.”

“The face of woman is a source of corruption,” remarked a Taliban official in the 90s. “There are a big number of men out there who do think that women should be hidden,” Kargar remarks, with a shake of her head. And those men who don’t are concerned about gossiping neighbours and the scorn of their community, if their wives and daughters seem to be behaving scandalously. But what do Afghan women believe? Shockingly, some agree that they should be treated as inferior. “I think it is a culture imposed by men on them,” Kargar tells me, “because if you hear 24/7 from the man of the family ‘don’t go out without a burqua, it is shameful. Look, this neighbour did this, that neighbour did that, they don’t have shame or manners,’ then you start to believe that.” There are also women who defy such categorisations, but the choice is not easy: “Women who have come out and try to speak about this and try to change this are supressed in many ways. They are shunned by society, they are shunned by the men, and they are shunned by their fellow women who think they are not good women.” However, Afghanistan is rolling forwards: boys and many girls are receiving education, exposure to more tolerant perspectives and Kargar hopes for a more open-minded generation.

The combination of cultural restrictions, political confinement and war has worsened women’s situations substantially. “The consequences of war for women are far worse than for anyone else,” says Kargar. “If a woman is widowed she loses everything.” For a widow, remarriage means forsaking your children, but appealing to your in-laws and relatives means becoming a financial burden. In Dear Zari, Kargar introduces us to Layla, who after being widowed three times was shunned by her community as a “woman of dark steps.” Eventually she left her children and was forced to live as a servant in her brother’s house, reminded daily by her sister-in-law of her inferior status. Kargar sighs dejectedly: “I see that it is so widespread in my society. The widowhood, the pain, losing your kids, losing your name, being the subject of gossip.” In the 1980s, the Communist government established assistance for widows, providing monthly rations of essential imported items. But when the Taliban arrived the benefits ceased.

“Afghan society is very traditional and based on culture and traditions which are imposed by men and in favour of men. It is not even based on religious factors,” Kargar informs me. This year, as the tenth anniversary of military invention in Afghanistan approaches and talk of pulling troops out by next year grows, the prevalent attitude is that segregation is not the effect of a religious tyranny, but a cultural manifestation. David Cameron stated: “We are not there to build a prefect democracy, still less a model society.” Nevertheless, the West still has a substantial role to play. Even to compare the state of the country now to ten years ago before, the situation has improved tenfold. Before, Kargar tells me, “women literally had nothing.” Now there is education, women parliamentarians for the first time in Afghan history, women activists, media programmes specifically for women, such as Women’s Hour. Hussan Ghazanfar, Afghanistan’s minister for women’s affairs, on a recent visit to the UK, quoted that 57% of girls now go to school. However, Kargar fears the process ahead will be slow: “There will be heroes who go forwards for change, but even in England change didn’t happen so quickly,” she remarks with a smile. Indeed such progress is hardly received with open arms by many Afghans. Between March and October 2010, twenty girls’ schools were attacked, and in the same period at least 126 students and teachers murdered. The price to pay for education is still high.

“Afghan women are like sleeping lions: when awoken they can play a wonderful role in any social revolution.”

What is the role of Afghan women in creating change? Even under the Taliban there were those who covertly defied the laws. The Golden Needle Sewing School stands out as the salient example of a widespread phenomenon. Women met together under the pretext of learning to sew. In reality such gatherings were small classrooms, where they discussed a sometimes surprising, and eclectic, array of subjects, including James Joyce, geometry and Afghan history. These schools demonstrate Afghan women’s resilience and determination. In 2009, women protested against the Shia Personal Status Law, which decreed that any Shia woman could not leave the house without her husband’s permission, nor could she refuse him sex. The law was eventually softened. The truth however, is that this reflects only one section of Afghan women; especially in rural areas, old customs are prevalent. Organisations like RAWA – the Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan – also have a major role popularising the plight of Afghan women. This group, founded in 1977, is the oldest organisation in Afghanistan fighting for liberation, peace and equality for women. Indeed, RAWA’S founder, Meena Kamal, remarked “Afghan women are like sleeping lions: when awoken they can play a wonderful role in any social revolution.” When I say this Kargar nods emphatically. “It is a very beautiful sentence and it is very true. In Afghan women the resilience I have seen shows it to be so.”

As you cross the border from Chile to Argentina, a vast billboard reads, “The Falklands are Argentine”. Before even entering the country it is made indisputably clear that the 1982 war is very much at the forefront of people’s minds. It’s never long before a travelling Brit is asked the pointed question, “so what do you think about the Falklands?”

Every major Argentine city has a permanent demonstration, where groups of veterans hold vigil over large maps of the Falklands in Argentina’s blue and white stripes. The signs declare, “We must not forget them. They are non-negotiable.”

The Monumento a Los Caídos en Las Malvinas (Monument To Those Who Fell In The Falklands) has pride of place in the capital. Here, the names of thousands of victims are picked out in gleaming plaques, and a perpetual flame burns over an image of the islands. The monument is guarded in two-week shifts by the three main branches of the Argentine armed forces – the Army, Navy and Air Force – with an elaborate changing of the guard ceremony that draws tourists and civilians alike. It stands in perpetual confrontation with the Torre Monumental, a building formerly known as the British Clock Tower, and a gift from British citizens.

In stark contrast, many British people perceive the Falklands merely as a distant, unprepossessing collection of islands with an inhospitable climate. There is no monument or war memorial for the Falklands in Britain, nor a public holiday, as Falkland War veterans are commemorated only as part of Remembrance Sunday.

Nearly thirty years on from the war, there are few Brits not directly involved with the conflict who feel particularly strongly about whether the islands remain British or not.

So why is it that Argentina’s claim to the islands has continued to pervade public opinion, whereas in Britain the windy overseas territory is largely forgotten?

Thirty years ago, the Falkland islands were on British people’s minds and tongues just as much as they are today in Argentina, with Thatcher’s 1983 election victory largely due to her success in preserving the territory as British. Sovereignty over the islands germinated a wave of patriotic sentiment in both countries. The difference is that Argentina has retained what appears to be a largely visceral claim to the islands, whereas for Britain that once-uniting issue has fallen into relative insignificance.

“The Kirchner administration will more than likely look to keep the Falklands issue on the front pages,” says Dr Matt Benwell from the University of Liverpool, who has research interests in the Falklands (or Malvinas as they’re known in Argentina) sovereignty question and more specifically the perspectives of Argentine and Falkland Islander youth. “Argentine politicians often use the Malvinas issue as a rallying call to unite the people.”

 Every school displays a poster explaining how the British usurped the islands

Unlike many youngsters in Britain, Argentina’s youth are far from disengaged with the Falklands question. For many of them the Malvinas are unquestionably Argentine – their presence in the classroom ensures that. Every school displays a poster explaining how the British usurped the islands, picturing the dark blue vein of the sea dipping suddenly to the right to include the Falklands in Argentina’s territorial waters.

“Argentina’s youth maintains a strong connection with the struggle for the Falklands, manifesting itself particularly in social networking sites,” says Pablo Ruiz Diaz of the most popular web forum for discussion of the conflict, Islas Malvinas Online. “35% of active users on my site are under 25 years old, a figure that is in no way inconsiderable if we take into account that the war took place almost thirty years ago. This figure grows to 63% if we include the group of 25-34 year olds.”

These statistics are even more startling when compared with the debate coming from the other side of the Atlantic. One Facebook group arguing “Malvinas son Argentinas” (“The Falklands are Argentine”) has over 300,000 members, whilst its equivalent rival, “The Falklands are British” has a mere 369 members. While thousands of similar groups exist hailing Argentina’s right to the islands, the few British groups that appear each have only a handful of members, uttering occasional rallying cries against the Argentine enemy.

There is no question then that the level of youth engagement with the issue in Argentina remains high. However, Dr Benwell’s research suggests that politicians’ use of Falklands as a vehicle for political point scoring, assuming the ability to muster support at the mere mention of ‘Malvinas’, may now be futile. He has found that many young Argentines hold a sceptical view of the Falkland problem, questioning the timing of its appearance in the news, which often coincides with a political scandal elsewhere.

So why the continued support of the Argentine sovereignty claim? In a speech in June 2011, President Kirchner described Britain as a “crude colonial power in decline”. Written cries of “Long live Argentina!”, “The Falklands are, were, and always will be Argentina’s!” and “The empire is coming to an end. Argentines will be victorious!” flood the walls of the most popular pro-Argentine Facebook groups.

Evidently, there is concern that the British presence in, or occupation of, the Falkland Islands represents a relic of the colonial days that sits uncomfortably with 21st century Latin America. Yet this is somewhat ironic, given that the legal basis of Argentina’s claim to the Falkland Islands, South Georgia and South Sandwich Islands is due to their status as part of Argentina’s territory under Spanish imperial rule.

Argentines are found to be less worried about the question of sovereignty than the benefit of having the territories in terms of potential resources.

The islands’ relevance and the reason for all the powerful emotions they arouse are more subtle than sheer patriotism and anti-Imperialist rhetoric. Research shows that the motivation behind interest in the islands is multifaceted. Argentines are found to be less worried about the question of sovereignty than the benefit of having the territories in terms of potential resources.

Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges claimed in a 1982 interview that “the Falklands thing was a fight between two bald men over a comb”. This may have had a grain of truth at the time, but since the more recent discovery of oil in the sea around the Falkland Islands, the “Falklands thing” can no longer be dismissed as a case of political one-upmanship. Tension is rising since British company Rockhopper Exploration discovered oil whilst drilling in the sea around the islands. Suddenly the debates have been renewed.

With the thirtieth anniversary of the conflict approaching, the number of war veterans dwindling and the public’s emotional attachment to the islands perhaps beginning to wane, suddenly there is a new reason for Argentina to be interested in the South Atlantic territories.

Recently, there has been speculation about Britain’s ability to win a repeat Falklands war

But so too for Britain. Recently, there has been speculation about Britain’s ability, given the recent cuts in defence spending, to win a repeat Falklands war. Admiral Sandy Woodward, Commander of the British Naval Force in the South Atlantic in 1982, wrote a controversial article in the Daily Mail claiming that without US support, and given our lack of aircraft carriers, there was no possibility that Britain could defend the Falklands today in the face of Argentine aggression. Although the Ministry of Defence later dismissed his claims as unsubstantiated, Admiral Woodward’s arguments fuelled renewed speculation over Britain’s ability to hold on the territory.

The Falkland Islanders themselves do not observe Argentina’s public holiday in remembrance of the soldiers who died in the Falklands, nor have they expressed a clear desire to be anything but British. It is on this basis that Britain refuses to involve itself in negotiations over sovereignty. In June David Cameron made a statement insisting that Britain would not hold negotiations on the islands’ sovereignty until the Falkland Islanders ask for them, “full stop, end of story”. Since the Falkland Islanders are the people who will be most affected by the discovery of oil in the South Atlantic, perhaps Cameron is right to consider them first and foremost – or perhaps their interests just conveniently coincide. It’s possible that, as British public interest is reignited, visitors will be greeted with placards proclaiming “The Falklands are British” as they step off the ferry at Dover.

“A tradition.”

“Barbaric behaviour.”

“Brings people together.”

“Promotes enthusiasm for bloodshed.”

“So beautiful as to be almost abstract.”

“A bit boring.”

Cockfighting has been illegal in England since 1845, but the practice continues to flourish within the law in many parts of the world, including the coastal Peruvian village of Nepena. Organisers of cockfights in Britain can incur prison sentences and fines, but champion cock breeders in Nepena win prize money and prestige.

Far from being an underground operation, Nepena’s cockpit is situated near the centre of town in an arena built to accommodate several hundred spectators. The 6 August sees the semi-final tournament of an annual summer contest involving nearly a hundred cocks from Nepena and the surrounding areas. The event itself is merely the culmination of a process that consumes the better part of the year. It all begins when the breeders discern which of their cocks are most willing to fight by taunting the caged birds and observing their reactions. After selecting the most aggressive cocks from their coops, the owners embark on a training period of at least six months. They stage practice competitions, in which the roosters wear gloves instead of metal blades on their legs, while otherwise pampering them and feeding them well. The contest furnishes the community with endless fuel for conversation— speculating, strategising, bragging. The evening before the event, the men in the bar show off photos of their roosters on mobile phones.

More than an hour before the first cocks don their spurs, spectators begin to filter into the arena, paying an entrance fee of ten soles (about two pounds) to take advantage of the festive atmosphere. Peppy music is played, and drinks and snacks— including chicken— are sold. Families congregate in the stands, the children running up and down the bleachers and the men drinking beer. The women wear high heels and tight jeans.

A five-year-old child determines the order in which the cocks will fight by collecting marked bits of paper from the ground of the cockpit. In the first round, the commissioner reads into a microphone, Jose Fernandez from Chimbote will compete against Ignacio Garcia from Nepena.

Jose and Ignacio hold their roosters up to each other as though making an introduction

Jose and Ignacio carry their cocks into the ring and the commissioner attaches metal blades to the birds’ legs. Jose and Ignacio hold their roosters up to each other as though making an introduction; the birds lean out of their owners’ arms to peck at each other.

“50 soles for Ignacio, anyone against? Anyone against?” calls a stout middle-aged man marching up and down the bleachers. He finds someone willing to bet against him, and others follow suit. When the betting ends, Jose and Ignacio set their roosters in the ring and retreat into the stands. The two birds stare at each other for a moment, then, almost simultaneously, they fly at each other, biting, scratching and stabbing.

What is the proper etiquette for spectators at a cockfight? I anticipate it might it be like watching a graphic scene at a movie theatre, with everyone staring straight ahead and awkwardly avoiding eye contact. I am wrong. The crowd is not only watching the match intently, but is actively participating. Crowd members respond audibly to the action, gasping during particularly violent bouts and making clucking noises to provoke cocks that are reluctant to fight.

Gamecocks are valued for their taste as well as their earning potential

After a few bouts, Jose’s rooster lies immobile on the ground. The commissioner rings his bell over the injured bird, signalling its defeat. The crowd cheers; individuals pay off their bets. Blood drips from Jose’s wounded bird as he carries it away, leaving a red trail on the bleachers. Upon exiting the ring, Jose wrings his rooster’s neck, killing it instantly. A local man informs me that the cock will be soaked in cold water tonight to cool its spirit before it is cooked tomorrow. Gamecocks are valued for their taste as well as their earning potential; because of the special diet they have eaten and the care they have received, he assures me, they are far tastier than the average chicken.

It is well past midnight when the last of some two-dozen rounds finally draws to a close. Much of the audience proceeds to the discoteca, where they rehash the evening’s events over electronic music and more drinks.

My attempts to probe Nepenan cockfighting enthusiasts about the morality of their favourite pastime elicit little more than laughter. “Chickens are objects,” insists Manuel Gonzalez. He steers the conversation back to the topic of the prize money— 100,000 soles (about 23,000 pounds) for the grand champion. The average annual income per capita in Peru is about 27,000 soles, and it is much less in the small town of Nepena.

“Contact with menstrual blood turns new wine sour, crops touched by it become barren, grafts die… Even that very tiny creature the ant is said to be sensitive to it,” wrote the Roman philosopher Pliny the Elder in his Natural History in AD 77. Taboos surrounding menstruation can almost be called a “cultural universal”: something that exists, in some form, across all cultures, throughout all time. We, humans, simply don’t like talking about the curse. Here are a few of the more extreme restrictions placed on women during that special time of the month.

-Among the Warao of Venezuela, menstruating women must live and sleep in a special hut away from the village.

-Menstruating women belonging to the Iroquois tribes of the South-eastern United States must not prepare, touch or even look at medicines. Their contact with medicine, according to traditional belief, would not only destroy its power but also harm its intended recipient.

-According to a custom of the Crow people of the western United States, menstruating women are forbidden from coming near sacred objects or men starting out for war. They must also ride inferior horses.

-The Mae Enga of the New Guinea highlands believe that contact between a menstruating woman and a man will turn the man’s blood black and slowly kill him. An anthropologist reportedly knew a Mae Enga tribesman who divorced his wife because she slept on his blanket while bleeding.

-According to the Eskimo, if a man comes into physical contact with a menstruating woman, an invisible vapour will attach itself to the man and make him less successful at hunting.

-Among the Beng of Ivory Coast, a menstruating woman may not touch a corpse, cook for old men or set foot in the forest. She may not touch the logs or coals on the fire of a non-menstruating woman.

-The Bible mandates that menstruating women must refrain from sexual contact. Leviticus 18:19 reads: “You shall not approach a woman in her time of unclean separation, to uncover her nakedness.” An Orthodox Jewish woman cleanses herself by taking a ritual bath after her period ends.

-In Malekula, an island of the New Hebrides, a menstruating woman may not enter a garden in which young plants are growing.

-Menstruating women belonging to the Kaulong tribe of New Britain are confined to the forest. They must be careful to avoid gardens, dwellings and water sources.

While most cultures treat menstruation as a curse, some see it as a blessing. Among the Vaishnava Bauls of Bengal, menstrual blood is thought to have potent energising properties. Traditional songs lyrically refer to it as a river that rises once a month. An anthropologist studying the Vaishnava Bauls reported that it is customary for a girl’s family members to ingest a few drops of her first menstrual blood, sweetened by milk and sugar.

There is something that doesn’t quite add up in the ‘reality TV’ industry. As a sector, it is very anxious to cover its tracks: applicants agree not to disclose any aspect of the selection process and networks claim they enforce thorough psychological screenings of participants to ensure they won’t be badly affected by their experiences. And yet, mental health watchdogs estimate that twelve contestants or ex-contestants of reality shows have committed suicide since 1997, including two contestants from Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant programmes (Hell’s Kitchen and The F Word) and a contestant on the US version of Supernanny. Considering the rate of suicide in the UK is about one out of every million individuals, it seems improbable that the high incidence of mental illness among contestants is a coincidence.

It isn’t surprising that shows themselves send some people over the edge – after all, they are highly pressurised and incredibly public forums for what has been called ‘human bear-baiting,’ and indeed, this aspect of the programmes is not hidden. Many sign up because they think they can withstand the pressure – and if they can’t, perhaps this shouldn’t be blamed on the networks. However, there is another, far more sinister, possibility. Perhaps the mental health screenings are as rigorous as the shows claim- but researchers are looking for something other than sanity in the contestants they book.

In Jon Ronson’s 2010 book The Psychopath Test – an examination of our society’s relationship with madness – one of his most startling revelations is a conversation he records having with an ex-TV researcher who he calls ‘Charlotte’. Charlotte had become one of the best reality-tv contestant bookers in the industry, through the use of a simple tactic: ‘I’d ask applicants what medication they were on. They’d give me a list…I’d assess if they were too mad to come on the show, or just mad enough.’ She goes on to say that the tactic has become widespread throughout the industry – apparently the ‘best’ contestants tend to be bipolar, clinically depressed, or suffer from mild anxiety disorders.

Even the briefest investigation into reality TV application processes would seem to support Charlotte’s allegations. The application form for Big Brother features the question ‘Have you had any contact with medical health professionals? (If yes, please give details. This will not exclude you from consideration.)’ Sending a variety of emails from different addresses to the Jeremy Kyle ‘hotline’, I received two requests for phone numbers, both responding to stories which included references to substance abuse and anti-depressants. Other emails I sent, featuring horror stories of incest and gambling addictions but in which, crucially, I sounded stable and didn’t mention any psychological problems, did not spark the researchers’ interest. It seems that producers not only allow mentally vulnerable people to appear on the shows but actively seek them out in the application process.

Whether networks can be blamed for this tactic is unclear; after all, participation in the shows is always voluntary. However, the manipulation of mentally ill people for entertainment seems barbaric and calls into question the reasons we watch these programmes in the first place. The truth is, there is nothing inherently interesting in watching normal people act normally. The most ‘popular’ viral clips of these shows feature people acting in unbelievable ways: attacking each other onscreen, breaking down publicly, and screaming at hosts. Researchers like Charlotte have merely come up with a tactic that maximises the potential for onscreen eruptions, and, inevitably, boosts viewing figures.

I have always thought that you’d have to be mad to appear on a reality TV show. What I didn’t realise was that this might literally be true.