Nationalism in Exile
Following the political dreams of refugee communities.
Exile has long enjoyed a special place at the literary table. Bereft
of the soul, estranged from the family, banished from the community,
expelled from la patrie, lost in the diaspora—such tropes
have formed a sturdy axle of poetry and novels for centuries. But something
has changed about displacement since the explorations of Dante, Conrad,
Nabokov, and countless other paladins of exile.1
That is the sheer scale and reasons for human migration.
These qualities are transforming the tone, essence, and sensibility
of the diaspora, and its political meaning.
The UN agency responsible for refugees estimates the total number of
displaced to be 27 million as of 1995, up from one million in 1951.
That current figure surely underestimates the numbers of "internally
displaced persons," dislocated within their own country. And it does
not count at all those who have migrated "willingly," to seek work or
escape despair, a mass that makes the true count closer to one hundred
million, nearly one in every fifty people on earth. The magnitude is
also conveyed by country statistics: those newly uprooted in 1999 alone
included 350,000 Afghans, nearly one million Angolans, 400,000 Burundians,
600,000 Chechens, 280,000 Colombians, 1.2 million in the two Congos,
100,000 Kashmiris, 500,000 Indonesians, 200,000 Sierra Leoneans, and
one million Kosovars. (Large fractions of those people were able to
return to their ravaged villages, and so they are no longer counted
as displaced.) Because civilians are now the primary victims in warfare—nine
times more than soldiers, a reversal of the ratio prevailing during
World War I—the experience of displacement is not merely loss
of home and town, but one of relentless, menacing violence.
Who represents these people in our culture, our literature, our politics?
Recording the pain of displacement has been the work of the individual
exile, expat, and émigré, who is, with few exceptions, someone
possessing the refined ability befitting a successful author whose condition
of removal from the homeland is often voluntary. "To concentrate on
exile as a contemporary political punishment, you must therefore map
territories of experience beyond those mapped by the literature of exile
itself," writes Edward Said in the title essay from Reflections on
Exile. "You must think of the refugee-peasants with no prospect
of ever returning home, armed only with a ration card and an agency
number…. Negotiations, wars of liberation, people bundled out
of their homes and prodded, bussed, or walked to enclaves in other regions:
what do these experiences add up to? Are they not manifestly and almost
by design irrecoverable?"
Books discussed in this essay
Letters of Transit: Reflections on Exile, Identity, Language, and
Press, $15.16 (hardcover)
Whispered Prayers: Portraits and Prose of Tibetans in Exile
Steven R. Harrison
Press, $59.95 (hardcover)
Outlandish: Writing Between Exile and Diaspora (2000)
University Press, $45.00 (hardcover)
Purity and Exile: Violence, Memory, and National Cosmology among
Hutu Refugees in Tanzania (1995)
Liisa H. Malkki
of Chicago Press, $23.00 (paper)
States of Fantasy (1996)
Press, $19.95 (paper)
Reflections on Exile and Other Essays (2000)
Migrations: Humanity in Transition (2000)
University Press, $28.00 (hardcover)
Such a refugee literature—tales from the camps, so to
speak—has scarcely appeared, and in this Said's assertion that
the refugee experience cannot be recovered may be sadly astute. But
we do have a literature of exile, of compelled migration, to
examine for clues to the special social and political character of that
experience. It pivots on two domains of consciousness that appear to
dominate displacement—memory and alienation. These two feed on
each other, the recollections of what is lost and the alienation from
what is found.
The latter—unfamiliarity, the hardships, the racism one might
face—besets nearly all displaced people in greater or lesser severity.
For the intellectual, like Jewish-German philosopher Theodor Adorno,
this alienation is pervasive and consuming, as Nico Israel recounts
in Outlandish, his exploration of Conrad, Adorno, and Rushdie.
"'Every intellectual in emigration,' [Adorno] writes in an early aphorism,
… 'is, without exception, mutilated.'" (This from Minima Moralia,
his influential 1951 work, written from the dystopia of Los Angeles.)
"'His language,' Adorno continues, 'has been expropriated, and the historical
dimension that nourished knowledge, sapped.' The situation is exacerbated
by the presence of factions within the diasporic émigré community;
because 'all emphases are wrong, perspectives disrupted,' their attempts
to organize politically seem futile…. The public sphere demands
absolute conformity ('an unspoken oath of allegiance to the platform'),
while 'private life asserts itself unduly, hectically, vampire-like,
trying convulsively, because it really no longer exists, to prove it
is alive.'" This sullen rendering underscores the struggles common to
diaspora communities coping with this alienation: maintaining one's
language and culture, remembering a history that makes sense of the
displacement, and seeking the safety found in homogeneity-inducing politics.
Each of these acts depends on a form of memory.
The unjust estrangements of exile have been, from the early twentieth
century, a source of moral stature—replacing an earlier association
of exile with shame—and are now burnished by the improbable cloth
of postmodern theory. "Exile used to be thought of as a difficult condition,"
writes Eva Hoffman in her fine essay, "The New Nomads," in Letters
of Transit. "It involves dislocation, disorientation, self-division.
But today, at least within the framework of postmodern theory, we have
come to value exactly those qualities of experience that exile demands—uncertainty,
displacement, the fragmented identity. Within this conceptual framework,
exile becomes, well, sexy, glamorous, interesting. Nomadism and diasporism
have become fashionable terms in intellectual discourse…. And
these days we think the exilic position has precisely the virtues of
instability, marginality, absence, and outsiderness." What Adorno found
quite distressing—mutilating alienation in all its forms,
from homeland, new land, fellow exiles, family, self—is now celebrated
as what Hoffman tartly calls "our preferred psychic positioning." It's
another small step to appreciate, as Said observes, Georg Lukács's
argument that the novel "created out of the unreality of ambition and
fantasy, is the form of 'transcendental homelessness.'" One could
say precisely the same of twentieth-century visual art, moving as it
did from fixed human and spatial relationships to the jarring disconnections
of cubism and beyond.
So the condition of displacement is relished through both the increasing
self-identification of intellectuals and the public's more conventional
sympathies with the predicaments of homelessness. This latter image
of the refugee, however, occasioned by the horrifying number of cases
and the worldwide reach of the news media, has likely replaced as a
heroic form the older, romantic notion of the individual exile,
which has become associated with privilege. Nowadays it is the refugee
to whom we attribute the qualities of fatefulness, tragedy, and loss.
THIS IMAGE IS nowhere more dramatically presented than in Sebastião
Salgado's sublime photographs in Migrations. Salgado is remarkable
in his ability to capture the horror of expulsion in beautiful images.
His 360 photographs are consistently jolting. An image of a young African
woman cradling her husband, an intravenous medical device attached to
his arm being all that reveals the emergency setting, is lovingly composed:
it disturbs only when you realize the man is dead, the woman almost
impassive. Several photos are broad-lens landscapes of migration, the
enormous refugee camps in Central Africa, great valleys set against
a turbulent sky; in its timeless artistry, one is reminded of the dramatic
settings of a Delacroix or the peasant repose of a Brueghel, but instead
it's the plastic-sheet tents of late twentieth-century families fleeing
a historic genocide. A family of Mozambiquans, a few belongings balanced
on their heads, stand to watch their refugee hut go up in flames as
they start their return, the burning a ritualized severing of the past.
Children play behind barbed wire among ruins of cities; men and women
huddle against the cold of the Balkan winter; a long line of Rwandans
in search of water trudge along a road in the misty morning light averting
their eyes from the bloating bodies in the ditches below.
It is easy to be seduced by such photographs, this combination of beauty
and heart-breaking stories. The danger of such imagery is that it can
convey the indelible impression of "the refugee" as a universal figure
of suffering, the passive victim, a set of tearful eyes catching our
gaze in an undifferentiated mass. In the discourse of popular journalism,
this is certainly the rote form. Stephen Harrison's Whispered Prayers,
a photography book about Tibetan refugees living in South Asia, treats
this romanticized type as the norm: the Tibetans, abused by the Chinese,
are set in sepia-toned portraits with accompanying text that is a unrelenting
testament of victimhood. This is not to say that Tibetans are not victims,
or that the photos—which are quite beautiful—are not worthy
and representative. The absence of historical context is notable, however,
and the depiction of the displaced as helpless victims, while often
true, shrouds a far more complex reality.
Salgado has his share of beleaguered women and children and tableaux
of helplessness. His photo of the Benako camp in Tanzania is typical
in this regard. The refugees in this photograph are from the Rwandan
genocide of 1994, and their deplorable living conditions (he has several
of these dream-like images) recall the chaos as well as the pathos of
sudden and violent expulsion—these people had to leave so quickly
they took nothing with them. But his work moves beyond easy sentimental
gimmicks to confront more troublesome questions of migration—for
example, he returned to this area to capture another period of horror
when the camps became enmeshed in the Congolese civil war.
Or consider the photo of the Kurdish women carrying sticks on their
backs. It is finely composed, displaying his exceptional use of light.
The text signals the bare facts: these are women from families driven
from their villages in the Kurdish areas of Turkey, forced out by the
Turkish army in its pursuit of the rebels, the PKK; the women's home
village was likely razed. The story in the photo tells us a few other
things: that these young women, probably mothers, must forage far from
the village for firewood, with a supply that could scarcely last a day
and night; that they must do so in harsh and unfamiliar terrain, in
competition with other young women from the village in which these have
sought refuge. They are not counted as refugees, because they have not
crossed a border, and it's improbable they are counted as "internally
displaced," because they are not urbanized; they will not, therefore,
receive international assistance. In a sense, then, they and their tragedy
do not exist. In a few other photos, Salgado does not blink from the
complexities of the civil war. He notes, for example, that the camps
of Kurdish refugees in Iraq are used by the PKK as military platforms,
an increasingly common situation, as we know from the Palestinian camps
and the Rwandan Hutu camps in the Congo. Victimhood should not be confused
for innocence, or the will to strike back.
Another photograph, taken in the Sudan in 1993, shows boys who hide
during the day and walk hundreds of miles at night toward refugee camps
in Kenya. The photo, apart from being extraordinary visually, is noteworthy
for three other reasons. First is the plain fact of it being the Sudan:
like the Kurds of Turkey or the Yanomami and Marubo people of Brazil
(or many others neglected because their plight is inconvenient for the
major powers), the people of Sudan have suffered social cataclysm, war,
and displacement in a black hole of the world's attention span. The
second aspect of this photo is that these are young boys. Why are they
running, why not with their families? Because they will be enslaved
as soldiers if they are caught. The third telling quality of this photo,
and virtually every photo in the book, is that displacement is almost
never a solitary affair—boys escape with other boys, whole towns
are uprooted and move en masse, refugee camps house tribal enclaves,
and so on. The experience is social, communal.
Among the more gratifying emphases in Salgado's choices is the series
on what may be called economic refugees. The movement of people
from outback to metropolis is a very old phenomenon, well known in the
United States, but today the scale is monstrous and the scope is global.
The features of exile and displacement are every bit as insinuating
in these cases as from overt political causes: the experience of moving
from a village in the Amazon to São Paulo is as startling as moving
from, say, East Jerusalem to Amman, and probably more so. A few years
ago, while researching a book on Turkey, I witnessed this in the shantytown
of Esenyurt on the outskirts of Istanbul, where Kurdish families from
southeastern Anatolia were living in ramshackle huts, disconnected from
their agrarian culture and vulnerable to police brutality, industrial
pollution, and frequent privations that rarely beset them in their native
Another neglected mode of migration is the guest worker. While
such people have earned considerable attention where they reside and
work in large numbers over many years—Turks in Germany, for instance—the
use of temporary, imported labor is growing swiftly without much care
for the political and social side-effects. In Cyprus, where my family
and I spent several months last year, we were quickly confronted, due
to our need for a nanny, with the fact of an enormous population of
guest workers from the Philippines and Sri Lanka. We discovered that
the governments in Manila and Colombo encourage and facilitate the brokers
who bring in thousands to places like Cyprus to be housemaids and other
low-skilled laborers. For these people, rights are virtually non-existent;
they are separated from their families for years, can be expelled at
any time, are frequently abused, and have no chance for permanent residence.
This realm of economic displacement is one of the ugliest dimensions
of globalization, not least because its denizens are nearly faceless
and voiceless. This is common to Europe and America, a dirty little
secret because the gatekeepers of the public realm are the principal
Time and again with astonishing precision Salgado captures the nightmarish
passage of displacement, the chaotic scurrying of survival, the terrible
beauty of violent disorder. What he does not show, or perhaps cannot—it
would then be a different collection altogether—is the progression
of migrant consciousness from this mad dash to the relative settledness
of the refugee camp or metropolis. It is the post-exodus stillness that
has produced the vast, inward literature of exile. And in this stillness
a metamorphosis occurs, a rapid evolution of the senses that both reveals
and occludes the abandoned "homeland."
Most often, this change hinges on a fresh articulation of nationalism.
Edward Said provides the broad sweep: "Nationalism is an assertion of
belonging in and to a place, a people, a heritage. It affirms the home
created by a community of language, culture, and customs; and by so
doing, it fends off exile, fights to prevent its ravages…. All
nationalisms in the early stages develop from a condition of estrangement."
Nationalisms of all kinds are constructed, as Benedict Anderson argued
in his influential Imagined Communities, and legions of historians
and social scientists have investigated the hammering and sawing of
national myths, which have provided the most stubbornly durable political
mindsets for the past two centuries.
This relationship between diasporas and nationalism, well established
over time (think of the Irish in America, or the Jews across the globe),
is all the more significant today because of the magnitude of displacement.
The throngs of Angolans in South Africa, Liberians in New York, or Albanians
in Italy—all displaced by traumatic civil wars—are just
three examples of a restless political consciousness in exile that appears
as a seminal matter of international relations. Modern communications,
particularly the Internet, enables what Anderson calls "long-distance
nationalism," the capacity of diasporic groups to participate in the
political life of their homelands as never before. So these twin developments—enormous
flows of dispossessed people, and the ability to stay in touch once
departed—may alter the very concept of nationalism, its composition
and practice. Because the exile's predicament is typically so dissimilar
from life in the homeland, the expressions of nationalism will likely
be something new and different, possibly sui generis to the diaspora.
But what would the features of this diasporic nationalism be?
Since Cicero and Ovid, exile literature has been drenched in nostalgic
longing for the lost place and the people left behind. In coming to
terms with his own exile, Said describes Conrad's powerful rendering
of "the loss of home and language in the new setting, a loss that Conrad
has the severity to portray as irredeemable, relentlessly anguished,
raw, untreatable, always acute." In Letters of Transit, writer
André Acimen recounts his early years in New York: "I had come
here, an exile from Alexandria, doing what all exiles do on impulse,
which is to look for their homeland abroad, to bridge the things here
to things there, to rewrite the present so as not to write off the past."
A 25-year-old Tibetan man in Harrison's photo essay: "Inside my heart,
there is always a place for my family, an empty place, a black spot.
Whether my life is good or bad, that black spot is always present in
my heart. It is a dark and foreboding place. There is fear and longing
there. I have a recurrent dream that I go back to Tibet and am so happy
to see my family." These sentiments spring in part from the alienation
the exile feels in new surroundings, and are given form and positive
meaning by memory.
LANGUAGE, CULTURE, AND HISTORY are core constituents of memory, the
emotional channel to the homeland. Language is a given, however tenuous
its stamina in the diaspora. Culture is often replicated in small ways,
as Acimen noted, or as larger projects of a migrant community—"Little
Havana" or "Little Bombay." While culture is fitfully replicated as
patchwork,2 history is fabricated from whole
cloth. And the construction of historical memory by exiles can be a
many-splendored thing: radiant with longing, lush in sentiment, painted
in dichromatic strokes. It is in this realm that politics enters forcefully.
For history, like culture, is a social activity, but more plastic; collective
memory is molded by the experience of leaving the homeland, the conditions
of the place of exile, and the hopes for return or revenge.
The dreamscape of exile is quite different from the nation-building
ideologies forged by the likes of Napoleon, Bolívar, or Atatürk
(although it's noteworthy that many such national sires came from the
periphery—Napoleon from Corsica, Atatürk from Macedonia,
Hitler from Austria, Arafat from who-knows-where). But the quality of
dreaming about nationhood, the emotional and mental capacity of humans
to visualize a homeland populated by ethnic, religious, linguistic kin
in a framework of ethics and purpose, may transcend the points of origin
and departure. We have long thought of nation-building as a process
of law and politics, social movements and armed struggle, conquest and
submission, and stages of "modernization." But nations and nationalism
are also infused by fantasy—indeed, one might say that fantasies
are the sine qua non of nationhood, the emotional tie that binds.
In her brilliant exploration of this idea in States of Fantasy,
British critic Jacqueline Rose turns the concept from the typical association
with deeply private whims to the firmer ground of historical agent:
"Fantasy—far from being the antagonist of public, social, being—plays
a central, constitutive role in the modern world of states and nations."
While she traces a number of meanings of the interplay between nationhood
and fantasy, her core idea is to show how political categories are meaningful
only if provided with the enlivening tonic of human dreams: "Playful,
perverse, savage—to call justice a fantasy … is to say no
more or less than that it is the supreme target and embodiment of our
social aspirations, our most exacting ideal. Or, to put it another way,
there is no ideal without fantasy, no short cut through the trials of
fantasy to the realization of our political dreams."
Rose's formulation is, I submit, even more applicable to nationalism-in-exile.
(Two of her three examples, studied through novels, are Israel and South
Africa, whose national ideas were shaped significantly in exile.) Beyond
the individual's perception of strangeness or loneliness or longing—the
province of literature—is a group dynamic; for most migrants move
in groups and live in the same or similar groups in the new place. This
collectivity is a powerful sculptor of the group's identity in all respects,
but it is particularly consequential in molding communal memory—a
new or reconstructed history—of the national essence, the causes
of the expulsion, the claims to legitimacy, and so on, because this
(unlike language or culture) is new, this predicament of displacement
and dispossession, and it begs for self-satisfying explanation. "Fantasy
is a way of re-elaborating and therefore of partly recognizing the memory
which is struggling, against all odds, to be heard," Rose writes, using
Freud as her springboard. "Loss, historic deprivation transmute themselves
into necessity, one which soon … would entrench itself beyond
all negotiable reach."
How this appears is rather straightforward, though the exact contours,
which surely depend upon the details of displacement, have not been
probed sufficiently. Both Cypriot and Kurdish refugees I interviewed
invariably described their loss through a memory of bucolic perfection.
"We had walnut trees and goats and pasture in our village," was a typical
tale of woe from a Kurdish woman whose family was driven out by the
Turkish army. The Cypriots said similar things, and the loss always
focused on land, fruitful and beautiful land. Whether these memories
were strictly accurate or embellished by time and nostalgia, or by a
need to uphold, as Adorno put it, "an unspoken oath of allegiance to
the platform," is impossible for me to say. But the similarity of these
dozens of stories is no less striking, and the phenomenon appears to
be confirmed by the growing academic field of diaspora studies.3
One of the rare empirical works in this vein comes from anthropologist
Liisa Malkki in her influential 1995 work, Purity and Exile, a
study of Hutu refugees who had fled Burundi and a 1972 bloodbath engineered
mainly by the rival clan, the Tutsi, who controlled the state apparatus.
She gathered the stories of two groups, those Hutus who lived in a refugee
camp, and those who lived in a Tanzanian city. The first group, far
more than the second, had constructed over time "mythico-history": "it
was unmistakable that history had seized center stage in everyday thought
and social action in the camp," she writes. "The Hutu mythico-history
represented an interlinked set of ordering stories which converged to
make (or remake) a world." It was, she argues, "constructed in opposition
to other versions of what was ostensibly the same world, or the same
past. The oppositional process of construction also implied the creation
of the collective past in distinction to other pasts, thereby heroizing
the past of the Hutu as 'a people' categorically distinct from others….
It seized historical events, processes, and relationships, and reinterpreted
them within a deeply moral scheme of good and evil."
The Hutu's "construction of shared, collective past (operating simultaneously
as charter and as a 'destiny') was essentially also the creation of
a national past" that was primarily filtered through the experience
of genocide and flight. Burundi was remembered as an ancestral home,
with all the usual flourishes, but mainly a social milieu differentiated
by stories of good and evil associated, respectively, with Hutu and
Tutsi. The camp, the process of constructing the mythico-history, Malkki
observes, "represented a period of tests and lessons, a process of purification,
which would make the Hutu as 'a people' worthy of regaining the homeland."
She also studied Hutu refugees living in a nearby Tanzanian city, who
had integrated somewhat with the locals; they were far less prone to
construct the fantasies about Burundi than were their ethnic brethren
in the camps.
Are these refugees political actors in their homeland struggles? Malkki
cites the case of the Hutu massacre of Tutsis in Rwanda in 1961 and
the 150,000 displaced into surrounding countries; some 25 years later,
a Tutsi insurgency was made up a "sizable part" of the forces exacting
revenge. She learned subsequently (and told me) that a number of the
Hutu refugees she interviewed did in fact return to Burundi in the 1990s
to become politically active.
Diaspora communities have played a significant, and frequently destructive,
role in the civil strife besetting Ireland, the former Yugoslavia (Serbs
and Croatians, particularly, and now Albanians), South Asia, the Middle
East, and West Africa, to name only a few of the obvious cases—and
this list is growing. But we do not understand how and why these communities
abroad act as they do, how their consciousness about the conflict is
formed, and why it is so often reactionary. As the complex history of
nationalism shows, fantasies do not have to be retrograde. Moreover,
we know that exile need not be a melancholic nightmare—it is often
a liberating experience, not just for the financially secure but for
many who seek to escape provincialism or barren prospects. And, of course,
only a fraction of the displaced tend to be politically mobilized, some
as an expression of their own group isolation in a new country in which
they are marginalized.
Leadership in the diaspora provides pivotal political guidance: think
of the difference between Nelson Mandela (in "prison exile" on Robben
Island) and Jorge Mas Canosa (in exile from Cuba in the comfort of Miami),
and their respective ideologies of forgiveness and vindictiveness. At
the more prosaic level, leaders in small-scale diaspora communities
routinely shape the construction of memory and nationalism, often as
a bidding process between competing elites or political groups. But
attributing the differences in exilic experiences to variations of leadership
is not satisfying. Too many other factors influence the fantasy as well
as the politics of exile—the nature of the homeland regime and
its opposition, economic conditions and cultural coherence in the diaspora,
the continuities of time and space.
What does seem clear is that the formation of nationalism and political
activism in the diaspora is a distinctly social enterprise. "Exiles
feel," Edward Said writes, "an urgent need to reconstitute their broken
lives, usually by choosing to see themselves as part of a triumphant
ideology or a restored people. The crucial thing is that a state of
exile free from this triumphant ideology—designed to reassemble
an exile's broken history into a new whole—is virtually unbearable."
Here again we see the vital link between the alienation of exile and
the reconstructed fantasy-history that makes it "bearable," and possibly
redeemable. Because exile literature has focused so sharply on individuals,
and privileged individuals at that, the more common and politically
powerful experience of refugees in refugee camps and in settled diasporic
communities has not been represented and therefore is scarcely understood.
The dynamics of this remarkable, growing phenomenon, which is altering
the expression of nationalism and the course of global politics, remain
a thicket unexplored. Yet, neither literature nor photography nor critical
theory—the longtime media of displacement—are likely to
guide us reliably through it. •
John Tirman is author of Making
the Money Sing: Private Wealth and Public Power in the Search for Peace.
He is a program director at the Social Science Research Council.
1 The words exile, émigré, migration, and displacement
all have different meanings or nuance, but I generally consider in this
essay involuntary or forced migration as being what's at issue, and
I use these terms somewhat interchangeably. The term "diaspora," as
Nico Israel explains, is the Greek transliteration of the Hebrew Za'avah
from Deuteronomy, translated yet again into English as removal,
"associated with a curse, with a perpetual otherness amid others, with
blindness, madness, and defeat (Deut 28:28), with a spreading that weakens."
2 For three different explorations of the importance of
culture in the diaspora, see Isabel Alvarez Borland, Cuban-American
Literature of Exile (University Press of Virginia, 1998); Hamid
Nacify, The Making of Exile Cultures: Iranian Television in Los Angeles
(University of Minnesota Press, 1993); and Victor Montejo, Voices
from Exile: Violence and Survival in Modern Maya History (University
of Oklahoma Press, 1999), the last an ethnographic study of Mayans driven
from Guatemala by political repression argues that their survival was
enabled by clinging to, and replicating, cultural practices as refugees
3 This has received relatively little attention from scholars.
Three exceptions are: William Safran, "Diasporas in Modern Societies:
Myths of Homeland and Return," Diaspora 1 (1991); Martin Sokefeld
and Susanne Schwalgin, "Institutions and Their Agents in Diaspora,"
conference paper, "Locality, Identity, and Diaspora," University of
Hamburg, 10-13 February 2000; and Peter Fritzsche, "Nostalgia as Exile:
The Culture of Displacement and the Narrative of History," in Mapping
Modernities: Nostalgia, Public Space, and Utopia (Rio de Janeiro,
forthcoming). The journal Diaspora (University of Toronto) occasionally
addresses these themes.
Originally published in the Summer
2001 issue of Boston Review