The modern study of the Peloponnesian War has suffered from a double blind spot. On the one hand, the traditional study of political history based on events has shown little interest in the great development in the study of ancient Greek economic, social and cultural history. On the other hand, social, economic and cultural history has shown little interest in the study of events like the Peloponnesian War. In this chapter I want to discuss an alternative framework that can incorporate the full wealth provided by Thucydides and bridge the gap between economic, social and cultural history based on static analysis and political history based on dry narrative. The key for accomplishing this task is the concept of entanglement. The Peloponnesian War can be understood as a history of three different kinds of entanglements. The first entanglement is that between different levels: local communities, micro-regions, macro-regions and the Panhellenic world. The second entanglement concerns a series of processes put into motion by certain key factors: violence, honour, wealth and political discourse. The third entanglement concerns the variety of actors involved in the Peloponnesian War: state apparatuses, alliances, empires, potentates, factions, networks, exiles, mobile humans, the enslaved.

One distinctive feature of the Peloponnesian War is the intimacy of its violence. The war is characterised by the sacking of cities, civil war and the impoverished existence of vulnerable communities living their lives as refugees in exile. In every other recorded conflict, this is a recipe that leads to high rates of sexual violence against women and children. Yet our historical sources are almost entirely silent about the occurrence of such abuse. This chapter explores the implications of the premise that there was a significant rate of unrecorded sexual violence during the Peloponnesian War. It details all the various circumstances in which such abuse was likely to occur and draws upon comparative material from other conflicts to show the strong likelihood of sexual violence. It also explores ways in which the topic of sexual abuse was addressed indirectly in art and drama through the metaphor of the sacking of Troy and the sexual violation of women in myth. The messages of these cultural products gain greater resonance and vitality when placed against a backdrop in which sexual violation is a regular occurrence as part of the nature of war.

The last chapter of the book critically examines the production of history within multilayered matrices of power – influenced by “precolonial,” colonial as well as contemporary contexts. Two key concepts are the main focus of this chapter: the “greater Rwanda” thesis for Rwanda, and “balkanization” discourses for Congo. The chapter traces how both concepts instrumentalize the past to explain the present, and at times are used to justify violence or interference within the context of tense relationships between Rwanda and Congo as well as the protracted conflict in the region since the 1990s. The chapter shows that while both discourses are crucial to understand meta-narratives of the nation in both countries, they also need to be considered in their cross-border context, as they are in constant dialogue and function as cross-border foils.

The chapter also addresses how in Congo historical narratives are mobilized in debates over citizenship, a pivot of conflict in the region, emphasizing that these discourses were often constructed with the imperial débris left by the Belgians. The chapter further considers how memories about Rwandan aggression in the nineteenth century are used to “naturalize” conflicted relations between Rwanda and Congo, turning “suffering together” – at the hands of Rwanda – into an important part of defining Congolese nationality. However, as the chapter also emphasizes, while such victimhood discourses are often instrumentalized politically, they do not mean the suffering is less real. Moreover, in Rwanda as well, suffering has at times been turned into a political tool.

This chapter examines the period around independence in Rwanda and Kivu. The 1950s saw the maturation and increasing salience of “national” and “ethnic” aspects of people’s identities as they became central to political discussions over “autochthony” and access to resources. Changing political contexts made the ground more fertile for “ethnic,” as well as “national” identity to become part of the political vernacular.

For Rwanda, it focuses on the refugee waves that were the result of political violence against Tutsi in the period between 1959 and 1964. It shows that focusing too narrowly on the forced nature of their mobility disguises previous connections that were conducive to helping Tutsi refugees establish themselves in Congo. The chapter thus reiterates the importance of looking at people’s “personal information fields” as well as other preexisting affective or other ties in understanding the patterns of their mobility. For Kivu, the chapter tries to explore what other fault lines become visible when one shifts the attention away from “identity” as the sole explanation for violent conflicts, such as the “Kanyarwanda wars” in the 1960s.

A last point this chapter makes is the changing meanings of the border between Rwanda and Congo, for people living in its vicinity as well as for the Belgian administration. Whereas the Belgians had always benefited from the close connections between Kivu and Rwanda, this changed almost overnight in 1960 when Congo became independent. Both Rwandans and Congolese had used cross-border connections to build political networks and to organize out of the reach of the colonial state and traditional authorities. After Congo’s independence, the loss of control over subversive activities just across the border caused anxieties for the Belgians in Rwanda. For Congolese and Rwandans, independence turned the border into a national boundary, separating Rwandan from Congolese political sovereignty as well as altering the sense of national belonging.

The first goal of this chapter is to argue that the press as an institution is entitled to special solicitude under the First Amendment, not only because it is textually specified in the Constitution or because it serves important roles such as checking public and private power, but because it can contribute to the marketplace of ideas in ways that a healthy democracy needs. In other words, the press as an institution can provide an important link between the First Amendment’s epistemic and democratic values. The chapter’s second goal is to provide a rough and preliminary sketch of the relationship between press freedom, violence, and public discourse. Some elements seem straightforward enough. Violence and harassment obstruct the press’s function, including its traditional role in constituting and shaping public discourse. Distrust, disinformation, violence, and press degradation exist in a mutually reinforcing ecosystem. And even as violence shapes the media, the media shapes the social conditions, understandings, and practice of violence in return. Journalism, albeit in different ways than legal interpretation, “takes place on a field of pain and death,” to repurpose Robert Cover’s famous phrase – not only in describing it but in making it real. This, it should go without saying, is no excuse for violence against media members. The point is, rather, that a healthy press can be a bulwark not only for knowledge and democracy but against the kinds of private and public violence that threaten both.

Chapter 1 critically engages with existing academic work that either emphatically argues in favour of, or radically dismisses the appeal to humanity within international law. The important critique on the invocation of humanity notwithstanding, I argue that a concept of humanity as a collective subject, or normative community, is needed, in order to grasp what is at stake in dehumanisation.

This chapter introduces the book’s motivation: to understand how activists use identity to manage the apparent contradiction between the promises of legal inclusion and persistent forms of marginalization. The chapter illustrates the importance of the issue through discussion of the activism of two lesbian groups – Free Gender in Cape Town, South Africa, and La Fulana in Buenos Aires, Argentina – that form the focus on the book. Both organizations strategize sexual identity in tandem with other racial, class, and gender identities, albeit in different ways. The chapter presents the conceptual background of the book, which adopts a historical approach to understanding LGBT inclusion into citizenship and explains the relevance of intersectionality to contemporary LGBT organizing. The chapter previews the theoretical framework developed in Chapter 1 that accounts for key differences in how the two organizations strategically use multiple identities. The chapter concludes with a discussion of some of the methodological aspects of the research and presents the plan for the rest of the book.

This chapter brings to light the salience of psychopathy and personality disorders to cult leaders and their followers. Cult leaders present with distinctive personalities that enable them to exert inordinate influence over others and to exhibit highly manipulative and remarkably destructive conduct. Within the literature on cults, narcissistic and antisocial personality disorders are among the most commonly identified character pathologies ascribed to cult leaders. However, psychopathy may be the most fitting yet least explored constellation of traits and behaviors observed in such individuals. This chapter sheds light on the neglected perspective of psychopathic cult leaders while also focusing on the Cluster B personality disorders. The corresponding psychological profile that emerges for cult followers is typified by a noteworthy comorbidity of antisocial, obsessive compulsive, and dependent personality disorders. Suggestive forensic instruments to utilize for the clinical and forensic assessment of cult leaders and their followers include the PCL-R, Rorschach, MMPI-2, and TRAP-18.

This introductory chapter discusses the focus of this monograph, and places it in its theoretical, contextual and methodological context. Working from the premise that while gender shapes violence, violence also shapes gender, I introduce the central line of enquiry of this book: the gendered politics of settler colonialism, with a specific focus on masculinities across the sharply hierarchical divide of Israeli militarism and occupied Palestine.

The empirical research is placed within its historical context, serving to contextualise the settler colonial present – the application of which is explicated within this section. My own positionality, research methodology and the structure of the book is discussed after articulation of the conceptual framework of the book. The latter explores theory and literature surrounding gender, masculinities, violence, and their intersections – affirming Demetriou’s (2001, 342–48) argument that “when the conditions for the reproduction of patriarchy change”, “exemplary masculinities […] adapt accordingly.”

The concluding chapter highlights the fluidity and interconnected nature of masculinities within specific interactional settings across Israel and Palestine, indicating that what is hailed as ‘the ideal’ is ever subject to change amid complex webs of power, patriarchy, and militarised colonisation. Each telling components of much broader and complex stories, I summarise each chapter as indicative of the contingency and mutual adaptability of gendered dynamics across manufactured, militarised, and sharply hierarchical colonial divides. I argue that gendered identities in this context are connected by that which simultaneously separates them – the militarised violence of the colonial regime. In so doing, the intertwined nature of identities across and enmeshed within complex webs of power, violence and resistance are explored, revealing a plurality of scripts and codes that variously constitute the complex gendered politics of settler colonialism.

Specifically analysing the experiences of Palestinian youth in a West Bank refugee camp, Chapter IV analyses the navigation of emotions inevitably precipitated by the grinding realities of colonisation and military occupation, in a setting in which normative conceptions of masculinity assert that ‘men don’t cry’. Using Palestinian rap music as a case study to explore young refugee men’s navigation and subversion of these dynamics, I argue that emotional expression in this particular musical culture both functions to reconfigure binary gendered norms in a context of invasive settler colonialism, while simultaneously masculinising emotionality through a dialogic performance of emotion, nationalism, resistance, and paternalism. I illustrate, therefore, that in some ways gendered binaries are challenged in and through the performance of Palestinian rap as a form of resistance and release, while in other ways, these are reconfigured so that men’s emotional expression can be subsumed within them.

Chapter II examines shifting notions of masculinised strength as they adapt in occupied Palestine, contesting notions of ‘masculinity in crisis’ so frequently applied to this context. Where it is nigh impossible to enact physical strength in the face of the military might of Israel, I explore the fluidity of emblems of masculine strength and prowess – arguing that hegemonic masculinities and patriarchies in Palestine are not fixed, but move in dynamic relation to the conditions of coloniality with which they intersect. Through the examination of sumud, mental strength and moral strength, this chapter therefore charts emergent narratives of strength and resistance in a setting in which bodily invasion by the occupying forces is an ever-present reality. As such, where the violence of militarised colonisation routinely undermines normative conceptions of ‘masculine excellence’, I examine masculinised ideals as negotiated, maintaining binary gendered categorisations that (re)establish the masculine as strength.