This essay attempts to bring greater subtlety to our understanding of the role that print and newspapers play in the shaping of modern society. The essay begins by focusing on the centrality that Jürgen Habermas and Benedict Anderson give to print and newspapers and examines the applicability of their ideas to Kerala, India's most newspaper-consuming state, over the past 200 years. The essay suggests that by conceptualizing print and newspaper development in three stages, we arrive at a more accurate understanding of the impact of print consumption on societies and their politics.

Until 1530, sculptural images of Confucius and varying numbers of disciples and later followers received semiannual sacrifices in state-supported temples all over China. The icons' visual features were greatly influenced by the posthumous titles and ranks that emperors conferred on Confucius and his followers, the same as for deities in the Daoist and Buddhist pantheons. This convergence led to visual conflation and aroused objections from Neo-Confucian ritualists, culminating in the ritual reform of 1530, which replaced images with inscribed tablets and Confucius's kingly title with the designation Ultimate Sage and First Teacher. However, the ban on icons did not apply to the primordial temple of Confucius in Qufu, Shandong. Post-1530 gazetteers publicized the distinction by reproducing a line drawing of this temple's sculptural icon, and persistent replications of this image helped to popularize his cult. The same period saw a proliferation of non-godlike representations of Confucius, including his portrayal as a teacher, whose iconographic origins can be traced to a painted portrait handed down through generations of his descendants. In recent years, variations of this teacher image have become the basis for new sculptural representations, first in Taiwan, then in Hong Kong and the Chinese diaspora, and finally on the mainland. Now installed at sites around the world, statues of Confucius have become a contested symbol of Chinese civilization.

The world's two most populous countries each made international headlines in 2008, thanks to the Sichuan earthquake and Beijing Olympics, the Mumbai terror attacks, and reports of how the global financial crisis affected the Chinese and Indian economies. However, China and India were also seen in 2008 as making up, together, one of the ongoing development stories of the twenty-first century—and there are good reasons to think this trend will continue throughout 2009. Thanks to years of strikingly high growth rates for India and even higher ones for China, comparisons of the two countries have proliferated. This has resulted in a slew of books and articles, often aimed at investors, that worry over or enthuse about the way the “dragon” and the “elephant” have been upending or bringing new energy into the global economic order. Scholars immersed in the study of Asia often find these publications lacking in depth, but there is no question that economic shifts in the two countries and surging interest in their current trajectories are important. With this in mind, we decided this would be a useful time to revisit a familiar governance issue that has long been associated with joint discussions of China and India: the relationship between democracy and development. We invited economist Pranab Bardhan, author of a forthcoming book on the political economy of India and China titled Awakening Giants, Feet of Clay, to reflect on the subject, concentrating in particular on issues of governance—a topic he has explored in plenary and keynote addresses given everywhere from Montreal to Manchester, Beijing to Bogota, Canberra to Calcutta.

Socialization is “the process by which someone learns the ways of a given O society or social group so that he can function within it.” Socialization occurs in many different groups and settings, but in all societies, the first and usually the most important of these is the family. For this reason, family socialization has been of interest to scholars in several different disciplines using a variety of conceptual frameworks.

Border studies in South Asia privilege everyday experiences, and the constructed nature of borders and state sovereignty. This article argues that state elites in India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan during the 1950s and 1960s actively pursued territorial sovereignty through border policy, having inherited ambiguous colonial-era frontiers. By comparing security and development activities along the Durand Line, between Afghanistan and Pakistan, with the better-known case of India and Pakistan's ceasefire line in Kashmir, this article demonstrates that the exercise of sovereignty required a bounded space that only borders could provide and a rejection of competing border zone authorities. The local specificity of each border, however, created the historical conditions in which political elites acted. Combining an archival history methodology with conceptual insights from political geography and critical international relations, this article uses an original integration of two important Asian border spaces into one analysis to highlight tensions between sovereignty's theory and practice.

The Changsha rice riot of April 12–16, 1910 was one of the series of popular revolts that racked the Ch'ing dynasty in its closing years.1 Triggered by serious crop failures and peasant demand for relief, it involved over twenty thousand participants and the occupation of a heavily garrisoned provincial capital. Rioters put the torch to the governor's yamen, foreign property and government offices and looted over one hundred rice shops. In outlying districts secret societies made spasmodic attempts to incite a general uprising against the dynasty.

The anti-rightist campaign of 1957 and 1958 had dire consequences for many of China's artists, just as it did for hundreds of thousands of China's intellectuals (Link 1984:11–14). A sculpture instructor and Communist Party member at the Central Academy of Fine Arts, for example, refused to testify against the artist Jiang Feng, the academy's director and a man to whom he felt personal loyalty. The sculptor was declared an “extreme rightist” and sent to a labor camp at Xingkai Lake in Heilongjiang on the Soviet border. His entire sculptural output for the following years, 1958 to 1979, was a small box filled with crudely carved tree roots, work conducted in secret without professional tools or materials (interview with A 1986).

In 1944, a rebellion in China's northwestern Xinjiang Province prompted Chiang Kai-shek to send his most trusted lieutenant, Zhang Zhizhong, to negotiate with the rebels and to attempt to consolidate Nationalist China's hold over the perennially restive frontier province. Zhang's innovative adaptation of tested Soviet models of minority representation tapped into and reinterpreted a long tradition of established cultural paradigms for digesting and representing the internal “other” within China. The most visible and widely disseminated projects that Zhang sponsored in the waning days of Nationalist China represent a determined eleventh-hour propaganda attempt to integrate the seldom-seen Central Asian frontier into the greater conception of a unified Chinese republic. This effort also marks one of the earliest instances of the Chinese state attempting to employ mass propaganda media to disseminate—among a large and diverse audience—a modified version of established modes of ethnic representation previously in currency only among a limited subsection of elite and official society.

China's protracted regional conflicts of 1967 and 1968 have long been understood as struggles between conservative and radical forces whose opposed interests were so deeply rooted in existing patterns of power and privilege that they defied the imposition of military control. This study of Nanjing, a key provincial capital that experienced prolonged factional conflict, yields a new explanation: the conflicts were prolonged precisely because they could not be characterized as pitting “conservatives” against “radicals”, making it difficult for central officials, local military forces, or Mao Zedong to decide how to resolve them. Furthermore, Beijing officials, regional military forces, and local civilian cadres were themselves divided against one another, exacerbating and prolonging local conflicts. In competing for approval from central authorities, local factions adopted opportunistic and rapidly shifting political stances designed to portray their opponents as reactionary conservatives—charges that had no basis in fact.

On october 15, 1991, Haji Muhammad Soeharto, President of Indonesia, became the first official calligrapher for the Al-Qur'an Mushaf Istiqlal—The National Independence Illuminated Qur'an—by inking in the initial letter of the Basmallah in the opening sura (Al-Fatihah, the prologue; see Fig. 1). Four years later, just after commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of Indonesian independence, he put the finishing touch to the closing sura of the Qur'an (An-Naas, or “Humanity,” Suta 114), signed the completed manuscript, and presented it to the people of Indonesia and to the Muslim world community. Although he is adept at using or reciting the Qur'anic Arabic needed for daily prayer, the profession of faith, and the verbal exchanges that bond Muslims with each other, Soeharto is a decidedly unpracticed calligrapher when it comes to Arabic orthography.

Two tamil mahābhārata folk cults that I have studied recreate the Indian epic's “sacrifice of battle” in their festivals, and rethematize, in the symbolic registers of south Indian village goddesses and regional kingdoms, its meditations on death and regeneration (Hiltebeitel {1976} 1990:245–360; 1988a:394–435). One is the cult of Draupadī (the epic's chief heroine); the other that of Kuttantavar, son of Arjuna (the epic's chief hero) and the serpent-woman UlupT. I will focus here primarily on the latter. Kuttantavar is a Tamil deity whose myths and rituals orchestrate multiple, multiform deaths. The enormity of death that is incorporated in either cult's performance of the Mahābhārata war is, in the Kūttāṇṭavar cult, condensed into the reiterated deaths and revivals of this one hero, and expressed metaphorically through mythic and ritual forms of body-building—involving icons, effigies, and persons—that construct, transform, dismantle, and reconstruct bodies and heads. Although the metaphor could also apply to Draupadī cult rituals, it is especially appropriate for Kūttāṇṭavar, who is built up like Kirilov in Dostoievsky's The Possessed. What is surprising in his cult, and or moment for this paper, is that this primarily martial metaphor has been appropriated by Alis, Tamil transsexuals or “eunuchs.”

The hit was typical in many ways. A gunman fired a nine-millimeter pistol into the car of Mass Communications Organization of Thailand chief Saengchai Sunthonwat, then fled with the driver on a waiting motorcycle. Two other members of the gang who had identified the victim also escaped. Due to the prominence of widely respected Saengchai, the police devoted a great deal of attention and resources to solving the crime. Ultimately, they traced the gunmen, who led them to the alleged mastermind. The assassination, according to police, was the result of a conflict of interest in the granting of concessions for provincial radio stations. When the accused mastermind had offered Saengchai a gift of an expensive gold chain and a valuable Buddha image to smooth relations, Saengchai refused the offer. He further insulted the mastermind by saying that the gift would only be good enough for his dog. This insult, as much as the loss of income, lay behind the killing. Although the hit was typical in many ways, two things, beyond the tragic death of a good man, make this killing academically interesting. First, the alleged mastermind was not a godfather but a godmother. Second, the press paid no attention to the fact that the culprit was a woman. In almost every reference, the word “godfather” could have been substituted for “godmother” with no change in meaning or inference.

Let me begin with a conversation I had with the late David Wyatt of Cornell University, a prominent historian of Thailand and the 1993 president of the AAS, at one of the AAS meetings in Boston. I asked Professor Wyatt, what was the question about Thai history he got most often from Thai colleagues? His answer was:

1. 1) Was the execution of the king in 1782 by the founder of the current dynasty legitimate? If not, why did he do it?

2. 2) Was the death of another king in 1946 an accident, a suicide, or an assassination, and if it was the last one, who did it?

How do undemocratic civic organizations become compatible with democratic civil society? How do local organizations merge older patriarchal, hierarchical values and practices with newer more egalitarian, democratic ones? This article tells the story of how volunteer fire departments have done this in Japan. Their transformation from centralized war instruments of an authoritarian regime to local community safety organizations of a full-fledged democracy did not happen overnight. A slow process of demographic and value changes helped the organizations adjust to more democratic social values and practices. The way in which these organizations have made the transition offers important lessons for emerging democracies around the world.

As the study of the processes by which India and Pakistan achieved their independence unfolds further, it seems probable that the most fruitful advances will be made through studies of particular episodes and particular themes. In all this there is little fear that the national movement itself will be neglected. Its rise to preeminence is of perennial interest. But there is some danger that its opponents may be.

Science fiction narratives appeared in the North Korean children's magazine Adong munhak between 1956 and 1965, and they bear witness to the significant Soviet influence in this formative period of the DPRK. Moving beyond questions of authenticity and imitation, however, this article locates the science fiction narrative within North Korean discourses on children's literature preoccupied with the role of fiction as both a reflection of the real and a projection of the imminent, utopian future. Through a close reading of science fiction narratives from this period, this article underscores the way in which science, technology, and the environment are implicated in North Korean political discourses of development, and points to the way in which these works resolve the inherent tension between the desirable and seemingly contradictory qualities of the ideal scientist—obedient servant of the collective and indefatigable questioner—to establish the child-scientist as the new protagonist of the DPRK.

While Hindu-Muslim violence in India has received a great deal of scholarly attention, Hindu-Christian violence has not. This article seeks to contribute to the analysis of Hindu-Christian violence, and to elucidate the curious alliance, in that violence, of largely upper-caste, anti-minority Hindu nationalists with lower-status groups, by analyzing both with reference to the varied processes of globalization. The article begins with a short review of the history of anti-Christian rhetoric in India, and then discusses and critiques a number of inadequately unicausal explanations of communal violence before arguing, with reference to the work of Mark Taylor, that only theories linking local and even individual social behaviors to larger, global processes like globalization can adequately honor the truly “webby” nature of the social world.

During much of the period under discussion Formosa was ruled by civilian governors-general who tolerated limited political activities to induce native cooperation. Formosans, however, wanted to use their organizations to obtain political concessions. The Assimilation Society (Dōkakai 1914–1915) and the New People's Society (Shinminkai, 1918–1923) sought equal treatment with the Japanese. The League for the Establishment of a Formosan Parliament (Taiwan Gikai Kisei Dōmei, 1920–1934) and the Taiwan Cultural Association (Taiwan Bunka Kyōkai, 1921–1930) advocated home rule by creating a colonial legislature. The Popular Party (Minshūto, 1927–1931) and the League for the Attainment of Local Autonomy (Taiwan Chihōjichi Kisei Dōmei, 1930–1937) supported the liberalization of local autonomy by demanding suffrage, irrespective of race. All resorted to racial consciousness to augment their movements, while staying within legal limits. In the end all were suppressed. Their leaders were heavily influenced by the political liberalism of the 1920's in Japan and received the active support of many famous Japanese liberals. Significantly, while Formosan leaders were conscious of being Chinese and were even stimulated by certain nationalistic events in China, their movements never produced sentiment supporting the island's restoration to China.

Why has communism flourished in some parts of Asia and not in others? Examining the case of Kerala, this paper argues that, in India at least, social dislocation is the crucial ingredient when added to poverty, landlessness, and literacy. In Kerala, the matrilineal family system of caste-Hindus and the attendant system of extreme disabilities enforced against the low castes collapsed in the early twentieth century. The social upheaval was greater than anywhere else in India. A déraciné generation of caste-Hindus was forced to seek remedies for-the disruption and misery that daily confronted it, while increasing numbers of low castes refused to submit to the restrictions that traditional society sought to impose. This situation of social turmoil, similar in some ways to that prevailing in China and Vietnam, contributed crucially to the establishment of Kerala's vigorous, broad-based Communist party in the late 1930s.