This notebook contains some of the ideas, ambitions, hopes, anxieties, interrogations, and fears that randomly or expectingly came to punctuate the writing of the previous chapters.

Chapter 2 analyzes the regulation of colonial archives in Kenya as a method of racialized secret-keeping that involved cooperation between the Colonial Office in London and officials based in Kenya. It demonstrates that the regulation of its archives was one of several strategies of the colonial administration to control access to information and intelligence pertaining to the Emergency. The first half of this chapter examines the negotiations between the Colonial Office in London and the British colonial government in Nairobi over how best to deal with managing and securing secret records. The second half proceeds to analyze the only instance in which a “researcher” has ever been granted full and unconditional access to the secret records of the Emergency. In doing so, it argues that the British colonial government was interested not only in barring access to sensitive documents but also in enabling their use in highly controlled settings so that official documents could serve as evidence supporting sympathetic “research,” or propaganda, which vindicated the government at a time of growing critique.

The internationally acclaimed Apache-Chicano writer Jimmy Santiago Baca was born into generational poverty in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in 1952. Both of his parents abandoned him by his seventh birthday, and by age eleven he was living on the streets and enduring stints in juvenile detention. By nineteen he found himself in an isolation cell in the maximum-security federal prison in Florence, Colorado. Therein, he taught himself to read and write, initiating the meteoric literary career of one of the most influential voices in Chicano letters and in prison studies. Baca’s oeuvre currently includes thirty-four books of poetry, fiction, essays, and memoir, as well as the script for the film Bound by Honor (1993). Regardless of genre, Baca writes about traumatic loss and pain, including his remarkable capacity for enduring it. His predominant theme is carcerality, which he ardently critiques from within. His poetry is especially powerful in this vein, consistently exploring incarceration as nothing less than the intentional destruction of human life. Additionally, Baca’s poetry has always shared a vision of the literary arts as a means to bear witness to such cruel violence and to work compassionately toward social justice for all people.

The Preface introduces some of the key questions and analytical points of the book, its sources, and some of its contributions. It details how the book was inspired by an art exhibition that the authors co-organized with art historian Bárbaro Martínez-Ruiz and the process through which some of the questions posed by the exhibition became a book project. It discusses how it was frequently difficult to assess whether an artist was racialized, at least in some social contexts, as a person of African descent, and the author’s strategies to handle this question.

Against the rise of fascism, American literary modernists confronted the psychodynamics of conversion that underlie pernicious forms of conspiracism and racist public discourse. William Faulkner’s Light in August (1932) and Jean Toomer’s unpublished writings on racial psychology, for example, reverse-engineer the psychodynamics of racism by putting readers in the uncomfortable position of seeing themselves from the point of view of the other (whether a literary text or another human being). Forcing a kind of double consciousness upon the reader, Faulkner and Toomer provoke disgust toward conspiracism’s self-appointed vigilantes. The paranoid public sphere is thus the diametrical opposite and sinister shadow of the pluralistic public sphere that James theorized. By fracturing and fragmenting the monolith of race, Faulkner and Toomer render epistemological doubt a powerful ally to critical thought.

This chapter foregrounds practices of colonial warfare, focussing on the transimperial knowledge behind scorched earth and extermination. The first section identifies devastation and hunger war as the most common practice of colonial war, specifically colonial in the way it was racialised, applied ubiquitously and considered self-evident. In line with the book’s argument, it is argued that the contestation and final abandonment of the method by the Dutch in Aceh represent less of a national particularity than it might appear. The second section departs from conventional approaches to colonial genocide and explores how exterminatory practices were part of Western thought on colonial warfare. There were specific war contexts in which extermination became thinkable, even if these were not held to apply to the majority of colonial wars. Thus, somewhat paradoxically, extermination was an inherent and at the same time relatively minor presence in thinking on colonial war. Engaging with theories of German colonial particularity, the chapter applies these findings to the genocide in German South West Africa, showing how the actions and motivations standing behind it fit into broader transimperial patterns.

This chapter charts how the rise of modern racism came to racialize colonial warfare over the nineteenth century, and touches on the role of imperial anxiety and colonial masculinity in such warfare. The extreme violence that was part of colonial warfare might once have rested on structural circumstances, but constant explanation and justification of such violence through racial categories meant that over time racialized notions came to precede the event, becoming generators of violence themselves. The chapter also offers general observations on the nature of colonial war and colonial armies and on the relationship between knowledge and Western militaries. The main point is that detailed knowledge on colonial warfare was largely absent in formal military education at the time, and that such knowledge was largely gathered through (practical) experience and remained concentrated in relatively small groups of ‘experts’. The chapter closes with a description of the manuals of colonial warfare published between 1829 and 1920 in the Dutch, British and German empires, presenting their general characteristics and a chronology and briefly discussing their use as historical sources.

A constructed racial otherness of the enemy distinguished colonial warfare from other modes of fin-de-siècle warfare, while it constituted at the same time a unifying element across different empires. It gave rise to a general culture of permissiveness and the fashioning of an imagined ‘native mind’, two preconditions for a specific body of knowledge on colonial warfare to emerge. This featured specific prescriptions as to what colonial warfare was to do, denoted here as the five ‘basic imperatives’: colonial warfare had to generate a ‘moral effect’ on the opponent, it had to be ‘bold and offensive’, it had to create a ‘lasting peace’ by using heavy force first, it had to ‘punish’ and, increasingly, it had to produce high death tolls (the ‘big bag’). The chapter explains how all these imperatives pushed towards extreme violence and demonstrates how all were present in very similar forms in the British, German and Dutch empires. For each, the origins, development and empire-specific appearance are discussed. With a transimperial corpus of colonial manuals as main source base, it is also shown that there was a further convergence in this body of knowledge around 1900.

In this chapter, the founding of the magazine The End and the Toxteth riots are twin jumping off points for a history of Liverpool’s subcultural resistance to Thatcherism via music, fanzines, and football in the 1980s. The chapter analyses the tensions between race, class, and politics, which profoundly shaped the history of the club and the city during this troubled decade.

This chapter uses the short but toxic ownership tenure of American businessmen Tom Hicks and George Gillett (2007-10) as a window onto the tensions between activism and commercialism, and between the local and the international, at LFC in the twenty-first century. Drawing on testimony from members of the supporters’ union Spirit of Shankly, Chapter 13 analyses the power, and the limits, of fan protest in ‘the age of football’.