Yuanmingyuan, or the Old Summer Palace in Beijing, fits into Manish Chalana’s idea of a spacial palimpsest, similar to Sanam Luang Park in Bangkok.[1] When considering the history of these spaces, one can almost feel as if they are looking at fossil layers in the earth. Sanam Luang was at first a regal space, reserved for royal ceremonies and cremations. In the 20^th century it became a contested political space where students staged protests against Thailand’s military junta governments and now it is a space for Bangkok’s well-known vices such as prostitution. Yuanmingyuan has a similarly turbulent history. Each layer of Yuanmingyuan’s history is imbued with the political, social and economic upheaval China has experienced over the past 150 years.

Yuanmingyuan was the primary retreat for Qing emperors who found the Forbidden City and urban landscape of Beijing to be stifling. In contrast to the cacophony of inner Beijing and the austere but imposing Forbidden city, Yuanmingyuan was supposedly a place of great natural beauty. The retreat was designed to resemble the Jiangnan region, a southern area where famous Chinese painters and poets came from.[2] It’s gardens and man-made lakes were said to have made Yuanmingyuan into an oasis and a paradise on the outskirts of Beijing. The Qianlong emperor included a European-style section to the palace gardens, drawing on the recommendations of his Jesuit advisors. British and French forces, having established a military presence in northern China as a result of the Second Opium War, came to blows with Chinese Imperial forces and marched into Beijing after the emperor had already fled the city. A British legation, led by Harry Parkes, was killed by Imperial troops during the conflict.[3] Anglo-French troops responded by razing and looting Yuangmingyuan, dealing a personal and symbolic blow to the emperor, who had grown up on the summer palace grounds.

Today, the Yuanmingyuan park is a paradoxical space. It represents the scars left by foreign exploitation, but it is also represents the renewal and resurgence of China. It is both a “gradenscape” and “ruinscape.”[4] Visitors to the park witness the broken marble columns where the  French and British troops laid waste to the palace and looted its most valuable art. On the other hand, they are also able to enjoy the beautiful recreational landscape Yuanmingyuan has become. As Haiyan Lee articulates, “the pain of loss and humiliation is always acknowledged, but pleasure is never far from consideration.” [5] Significant investment from the government has helped to renovate the area and turn it into a family-oriented recreational park, similar to Western-style botanic gardens. Yet it is also still a memorial, a place whose main intention is to immortalise history. Yuanmingyuan’s history carries a significant amount of weight. The ruins are a reminder of the decadence of the Emperor and the injustice China endured in the face of colonial powers. More than anything, the space symbolises the ways in which China has changed and how it has decided to memorialise its troubled and violent past. Yuanmingyuan is no longer just an enclave reserved for imperial corruption and decadence, nor is it blatant evidence of China’s weakness and foreign incursion. Rather it is a space for the public to engage in memorialisation of Yuanmingyuan’s collective past and enjoy it as a place for recreation and well-being.

[1] Noobanjong, Koompong. “The Royal Field (Sanam Luang): Bangkok’s Polysemic Urban Palimpsest.” In Messy Urbanism: Understanding the “Other” Cities of Asia, edited by Manish Chalana. Hong Kong University Press, 2016.

[2] Li, Lillian. “The Garden of Perfect Brightness.” Visualising Cultures.  Massachusetts Institute of Technology. (2012). https://visualizingcultures.mit.edu/garden_perfect_brightness_03/index.html

[3] Ibid

[4] Lee, Haiyan. “The Ruins of Yuanmingyuan: Or, How to Enjoy a National Wound.” Modern China 35, no. 2 (2009): 155-90. www.jstor.org/stable/27746912.

[5] Ibid

Much has been written on the benevolent, patriarchal language and discourses of empire that surrounded the Western colonial projects of SE Asia. These models sought to justify European imperial expansion on the grounds of restoring the material, artistic and myriad other cultural glories of SE Asian states and kingdoms. In doing so, colonial powers became guardians, or stewards, of subject peoples waylaid and fallen into depravity and decadence, who required educating on their own historical achievements to attain a higher level of civilisation.[1]

Evidence of this is abundant within both the French and British contexts. Within the former, French colonisation of Cambodia included initiatives to promote traditional arts, the restoration of a national museum, as well as crucially the restoration of monuments from the Angkorean period, including the site at Angkor Wat. As Andaya notes, ‘by resurrecting the glories of Angkor, the French provided the Khmer people with a permanent reminder of their former greatness and a powerful symbol of Cambodia as a nation’.[2] This both allowed the French to frame themselves as a benevolent force undertaking a mission civilatrice, as well as cementing the symbolic connection between the Khmer and the French.

This framework is also shown in Sir Stamford Raffles plan for a college of Native Learning in Singapore. As justification, he points for example to Great Britain’s long history in ‘promoting the truth and diffusion of knowledge’, and ‘to the improvement of the condition of her new subjects’.[3] On the grounds therefore of ‘exciting the intellectual energies and increasing the individual happiness of the people’, he therefore proposed the establishment of an Institution of Higher Learning in Singapore, ‘having for its object the cultivation of the languages of China, Siam and the Malayan Archipelago; and the improvement of the moral and intellectual condition of the inhabitants of those countries’.[4] This moreover had the additional advantage of training a new class of bureaucrats, skilled in local languages, to cement Imperial control.

These cases form a marked contrast however to the Japanese form of Imperialism, which eschewed the improvement of indigenous peoples. Instead, upon the annexation of Manchuria in the 1930s, the seemingly open, barren landscape was perceived as an opportunity to liberate the colonising Japanese themselves, through new infrastructures of urban modernity. The civilising mission in this case hence was directed inwards, with Meiji conceptions of Korean and Chinese cultural and economic backwardness providing the justification for Imperial expansion.[5]

This ideal was illustrated by large-scale and ground-breaking urban projects. The trading town of Changchun was transformed into the new Imperial capital of Xinjing, with wide open green spaces, and axial formations of boulevards radiating outwards from key monuments to Japanese modernity (for example a War Memorial , the Puppet Emperor’s Palace, a train station etc). Under the urban planner Sano Toshikata, it moreover became the first Asian city where all buildings were equipped with water closets. This hence paved the way for large scale immigration, with the civilian population of Manchuria being swelled by 800,000 mainly middle-class Japanese immigrants from 1930-41. .[6] Japanese colonial discourse therefore helped to disseminate of a new, urban utopia, with the idea that this would inform and inspire similar improvement schemes back in Japan, though such grand schemes were ultimately abandoned due to financial constraints.[7] Nevertheless, such a case study is instructive in illustrating the marked ideological contrast between European and Japanese discourses on colonisation and modernity. Whilst the former purportedly looked to the past to find inspiration for modernising its indigenous subjects, the latter kept its gaze firmly fixed on the future, for the supposed betterment of its own population.

[1] Edward Said, Orientalism (Penguin, 2003), Introduction

[2] Leonard Andaya, ‘Ethnicity in Pre-colonial and Colonial South East Asia’, in Norman Owen (ed.), Handbook of Southeast Asian History, (Routledge, 2014), p.273

[3] Sir Stamford Raffles, Formation of the Singapore Institution: A.D. 1823, (Mission Press, 1823), p.5

[4] Ibid, pp.3-6

[5] Louise Young, Japan’s Total Empire: Manchuria and the Culture of Wartime Imperialism, (University of California, 1999), pp.255-258

[6] Ibid., pp.262-263

[7] Ibid., p.281

Throughout the 19^th century, Asia became home to the unrelenting forces of globalisation. Across Asia, anti-foreign violence and exclusionary policies like the Canton system separated the lives of Chinese and foreigners in virtually all areas but commerce. After imperial powers had gained extensive influence in China, foreign entities instituted their own policies of exclusion by regulating space to keep out natives and preserve their imposed dominance in the colonies. Despite the increased contact between Asia and the West throughout the 19^th century, spatial arrangements strictly demarcated what was native space and what was foreign space.

In Qing-era China, the Canton system was the pinnacle of isolationist and exclusionary policy. However, preventing foreign entities access to the colossal commercial potential of the Chinese hinterland proved ineffective as British merchants still found ways to smuggle opium into various Chinese port cities. When the Chinese population became inundated with the adverse effects of the drug, the Qing imperial government attempted to crack down on foreign trade and the British responded with force, resulting in the First Opium War and the establishment of the Treaty Port system.[1] Efforts to stifle the spread of Western imperialism failed and the country was opened to the influence of imperial powers and international trade. Paradoxically, once Western imperial powers were able to open China to outside influence, they sought their own ways to limit cross-cultural contact. The British colonial government in Hong Kong provided one of the most potent examples of this through their manipulation of aesthetic and spatial arrangements in an effort to segregate the colony between the coloniser and the native.

The art historians Alex Bremmer and David Lung discuss the British policies of segregation in Hong Kong’s residential districts in the late 19^th century. They assert that by creating areas that excluded native Chinese, the British residing in Hong Kong attempted to create what they deemed as an “orderly, civilised, visually coherent, and identifiable urban environment that reinforced the identity and interests of the dominant cultural minority.”[2] By the 1880s, Chinese outnumbered foreigners in Hong Kong by fourteen to one. As foreigners made up an increasingly small part of Hong Kong’s population, the colonial government sought to concretely demarcate which spaces were for foreigners and which were for Chinese. The ethnic homogeny of residential areas was of particular concern to the colonial government. Europeans generally held the belief that the Chinese population had unsanitary habits and would spread disease.[3] Apart from this overt racism, segregation was justified using the fear of a Chinese-driven mutiny on the colony. The Arrow War between 1856 and 1860 deepened resentment for the British in Hong Kong and the Qing government encouraged Chinese citizens in the colony to turn against the foreigners. In 1904, a bill was passed that formally reserved the peak area of Hong Kong for anyone who was “non-Chinese.”[4] The policy lasted until 1946.

Exclusion and segregation upon ethnic lines were ubiquitous in spatial arrangements between imperial China and foreign entities. The Canton system limited foreign commerce to a closed area and resulted in the opening of China by force in the First Opium War. As Bremmer and Lung show, colonial officials in Hong Kong made concerted efforts to separate themselves from the Chinese population, using racist arguments as well as the possible threat of violence against foreigners. No matter how strong their commercial ties were, the exclusionary spatial arrangements between Britain and China showed that ethnic tension and animosity persisted in significant ways leading into the 20^th century.

[1] Spence, J. The Search for Modern China. Third Edition, (2013).

[2] Bremner, G Alex, and David P Y Lung. “Spaces of Exclusion: The Significance of Cultural Identity in the Formation of European Residential Districts in British Hong Kong, 1877–1904.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 21, no. 2 (April 2003): 246.

[3] Ibid

[4] Ibid

Reports Made 1916-1929 – Strike Situation – Important Happenings, Meetings, Propaganda, Etc 1449

While the Shanghai Municipal Police Archives hold a wealth of records, the police reports tracking the aftermath of the May Thirtieth Incident caught my attention. While the file holds several different reports, they all hold a significant amount of detail in the records of meetings, demands and overall sentiment of the protestors indicating the police were either infiltrating meetings or getting detailed reports from informants. Before detailing the reports, some context of the incident helps clarify the importance of these documents.

The May 30^th Incident occurred following nationalistic reorganization. In 1924, the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) members joined the Kuomingtang (KMT) to centralize nationalistic ambitions and mobilize support from a more diverse support base.[1] This reorganization saw several branches with the Department of Youth, Women, Labor, Peasants, Merchants, and Propaganda established, amassing more support for their larger ambitions of gaining Shanghai from the foreign powers who held it.[2] The anti-imperialist sentiment was called on to gain mobilize merchant support who long felt burdened by economic restrictions however, their own interests at times conflicted with the agenda of the KMT. [3] Students were recruited within KMT subsidized institutions like Shanghai University and Kwangtung University while legalized trade unions in 1924 Canton were meant to gain working-class support.[4]

In 1925, frequent disputes between a Japanese owned cotton mill (no. 8 on Naigai Wata Kaisha) occurred.[5] The conflict came on May 15^th when a Japanese foreman shot dead a Chinese worker by the name of Ku Chen-hung.[6]  This event created mass outrage with a large memorial service and several arrests of students who were distributing pamphlets about the event.[7] The arrest intensified the tensions and following police shooting into a protesting crowd on May 30^th, a widespread movement erupted. Different branches of merchants, workmen, students, etc. took part in an extended strike. Students created twelve demands which were passed on and included in the 17 demands of the Shanghai Federation of Merchants, Workers, and Students Organization on June 7^th.[8] Demands like the end of martial law, the end of extraterritorial rights for foreigners and the release of all arrested protestors were evident in the first file.

In the file, the first document describes a meeting of the federation on June 9^th with details of the meeting’s discussion. Police had knowledge of where strikers were posting fliers, where they were staying, future meeting places/times as well as the rhetoric and claims they were using to gain support. The third report details a subtle calm with more people returned to work indicating they believed the worst of the strike was over. However, it would not be fully settled until late August when most workmen returned back to the Japanese mills.[9] What is striking in these documents is the level of attention, awareness, and detail in these reports. The concern and vigilance demonstrated reflected the disruptive power strikes, especially one with such a wide-scale support base had for the entire city. Anti-foreign sentiment is very clear in the workmen’s demands and meetings as is the police’s concern and awareness towards the potential trouble these activities could cause them.

 

 

[1] Hung-Ting Ku, ‘Urban Mass Movement: The May Thirtieth Movement in Shanghai’, in Modern Asian Studies 13 (1979), p. 198

[2] Ibid., p. 198

[3] Ibid., p. 199

[4] Ibid., p. 199

[5] Ibid., p. 201

[6] Ibid., p. 201

[7] Ibid., p. 201

[8] Ibid., p. 207

[9] Ibid., p. 210

In his work, ‘Sounds of the City: The Soundscapes of early modern European towns’, Garrioch examines the formation of a semiotic system in early modern towns, arguing that the system was useful for conveying news and ‘helping people to locate themselves in time and in space’.[1] Although this auditory system was gradually eclipsed by modern modes of information, it was nonetheless an important and underexplored historical phenomenon. Garrioch cites the noise of horses, street vendors and church bells as vital examples of the semiotic system that helped townsfolk in the Early modern period to locate themselves within a city. However, how would these soundscapes compare to that of an East Asian city like Tokyo?

 

Analysis of the soundscapes of East Asian cities has already been undertaken by a number of scholars many of which arguably point out a number of similarities between East Asian cities and those in the west.[2] In fact, a number of the points raised by Garrioch are equally applicable to the soundscapes of East Asian cities. In terms of the sounds of the street it is fair to argue that very little can be differentiated between the early modern East Asian city and that of its counterpart in Europe. In Europe market days were distinguished not by a single sound, but by a conjunction of noises indicating unusual levels of commercial activity. Examination of the Woodblock print, Night view of Saruwaka Street arguably indicates the noises and soundscape expected from a bustling street in historic Tokyo.[3] As in Europe it is likely that the vendors situated in the street selling food, had achieved a ‘high level of audibility’.[4] Furthermore, in European cities the lack of noise was equally informative as noise within the semiotic system. In Europe, silence was closely associated with both secular and religious power in the form of court rooms, which conveyed authority, or churches in which silence was expected as a matter of respect.[5] Like churches, temples in East Asia were often places of quiet for better facilitate reflection and meditation in a manner not dissimilar to churches. In this regards, the ability to produce or demand silence was a privilege of authority and another similarity in the soundscapes of both Europe and East Asia.

 

It is also likely that, with the rapid modernisation of Japan, this soundscape likely became eclipsed in a manner not dissimilar to in Western European cities. The short educational film Children of Japan from 1941 shows the extent to which the traditional Japanese soundscape had been largely eclipsed[6]. Bustling streets in the film show pedestrians, cars and cyclists in western attire as well as trams and trains in the new cityscape. Although the vendors still exist, it is clear that this semiotic system has been largely been replaced by modern technologies. Although it is not possible to find out exactly what an east Asian soundscape would be, it is likely that in many instances it shared key similarities with its western equivalents and was also eclipsed with the advent of new technology.

[1] David, Garrioch, ‘Sounds of the city: the soundscape of early modern European towns’ in Urban History, Volume 30, Issue 1, May 2003, p5.

[2] Freek, Colombijn, ‘Toooot! Vrooom! The Urban Soundscape of Indonesia’, Journal of Social Issues in Southeast Asia, Vol. 22, No. 2 (October 2007), p255.

[3] Utagawa Hiroshige, ‘The Night view of Saruwaka Street’ <https://www.mutualart.com/Artwork/-THE-NIGHT-VIEW-OF-SARUKAWA-MACHI—FROM/8BDCCCABCF350172> [Accessed 11/12/19].

[4] Garrioch, ‘sounds of the city’, p8

[5] Ibid, p13.

[6] Children of Japan, ERPI Classroom Films, Inc.

< https://archive.org/details/Children1941> [Accessed 11/12/19].

 

The Hibiya Riot is famous for being the first major social upheaval in modern Japanese history. Angry at what was perceived to be the disappointingly minor concessions gained following the end of the Russo-Japanese war in 1905, a heterogenous group of lower and middle class rioters brought Tokyo to a standstill for three days, at the end of which 311 people had been arrested, and 17 people were killed.

Japanese propaganda had obscured a Pyrrhic ending to the conflict. Japan had suffered 80,000 fatalities in a drawn-out, attritional war, with total costs incurred coming to 1.7 billion yen; eight times the cost of the Sino Japanese War of 1894-1895. Andrew Gordon’s account hence demonstrates clearly how public fury was directed at visible signs of Government authority. For example, nearly three quarters of all the neighbourhood police boxes were destroyed in the city, whilst clashes resulted in injuries to 450 policemen and 50 firemen.

However, the roots of this riot can be found in more than just anger over tainted national pride. There is also evidence for a more subtle, economic dimension to this groundswell of popular protest. Besides the police boxes, the other public institution to be specifically targeted was the recently opened streetcar system. Tokyo had invested heavily in its tram system as a potent symbol of the new Imperial and democratic Japan. However, they were expensive, and beyond the means of many of the city’s lower classes. They were also a disruptive presence, threatening the livelihoods of thousands of rickshaw drivers in the city. Nor indeed was this a one-off occurrence. Upon the anniversary of the riots, a rise in streetcar fares spurred a new rally in Hibiya Park, which again ended with the smashing of dozens of streetcars, as well as an attempt to storm the streetcar offices. [1]

 

Such a case therefore illustrates the simmering tensions between the ‘old’ city of Edo and the ‘new’ metropolis of Tokyo. The transition between the two is discussed by Henry Smith in the ‘Edo-Tokyo Transition’. He refers to the distinction in Japanese intellectual thought between the shitamachi and the yamanote. Whilst they began as geographical designations (shitamachi referred to the lower class Eastern downtown of the city, whilst yamanote was associated with the elite Western upland areas), Smith argues that by the early 20^th century, they had come to embody two competing ideological frameworks, with the former representing the old, traditional ‘plebeian’ ethos of Edo, whilst the latter instead heralded the new, modern and Imperial Tokyo.[2]  

What conclusions can be drawn from this? In terms of the destruction of modern technology, there are obvious parallels between the Hibiya Riot and the 19^th century Luddite movement in Britain, where textile workers attempted to destroy textile machinery that threatened their employment.[3] What is interesting about the Japanese case though, is how this struggle against streetcars formed part of a deeper, ideological battle for the very soul of the city; with competing notions of modernity versus tradition helping to shape urban social protest in early 20^th century Japan.

[1] Andrew Gordon, ‘Social Protest in Imperial Japan: The Hibiya Riot of 1905’, MIT Visualising Cultures, < https://visualizingcultures.mit.edu/social_protest_japan/trg_essay01.html> (accessed 9/12/2019)

[2] Henry Smith, ‘The Edo-Tokyo Transition: In search of Common Ground’, in Marius Jansen and Gilbert Rozman (eds.), Japan in Transition: From Tokugawa to Meiji, (Princeton, 1986), pp. 370-374

[3] Evan Andrews, ‘Who Were the Luddites’, in History Today, (26.6.2019), <https://www.history.com/news/who-were-the-luddites> (accessed 9/12/2019)

The history of foreign concessions in Chinese treaty-port cities like Tianjin pose a strikingly unique take on colonialism in China. Foreign entities, namely those from Britain, France and Germany constructed their concessions in treaty ports for the purpose of physically separating themselves from the Chinese community that they deemed as lesser and often as unclean. However, the initial purpose of the foreign concessions did not last. As Zhang Chang and Liu Yue note in the chapter “International Concessions and the Modernisation of Tianjin” the concessions, particularly those in Tianjin, became conductors of cross-cultural confluence – between China and the outside world but also between the colonial powers themselves. The cosmopolitan, ostensibly harmonious nature of early 20^th century Tianjin seems to contradict the serious conflict that occurred between the colonial powers and within China itself.

Since the Opium Wars in the mid-19^th century, foreigners had maintained a history of violence and oppression in China. The actions of colonial powers like Britain, France and later Japan helped to instigate nation-wide conflict like the Boxer Rebellion but also smaller incidents like the Tianjin Massacre of 1870. Decades long turbulence, in combination with racism and jingoism, constituted some of the main reasons why foreign entities established isolated areas or “concessions” within Chinese cities. The concessions were walled communities that were meant to separate the poor Chinese from colonial residents and provide the same general amenities they could find back in their home countries. The physical and social barriers set up through foreign concessions created a distinctive spatial layout in China’s largest mercantile cities like Tianjin and Shanghai. The history of the foreign presence in Tianjin is not totally absolved from animosity with local Chinese, but Zhang and Liu’s chapter indicates that the first decades of the 20^th century saw a productive relationship between foreigners and Chinese flower.

The foreign presence in Tianjin helped to spread new ideas to Chinese elites. Arguably the most import foreign export in Tianjin was local democratic government. The foreign concession was run by an elected council and their systems inspired local Chinese authorities in Tianjin to establish China’s first democratically elected governing body that was officially recognised by the Qing government. (94) Perhaps even more consequently, the move to adopt democratic provincial institutions in Tianjin was directly endorsed by Yuan Shikai, the future President and self-declared Emperor of China. Neither foreigners nor Chinese were immune to the effects of cross-cultural confluence. Foreign children who were nannied by Chinese amahs often spoke Chinese as their first language and didn’t fully absorb their home country’s language until they attended school in the concession. Language skills in Chinese and various European languages were also important for career advancement. Foreign subjects working in customs houses were required to learn Chinese. As the foreign presence in Tianjin grew, Chinese citizens could become a part of the “social elite”  by learning European languages and studying abroad. (99)

The wealth and modernisation that flowed through Tianjin as a result of its bustling trade and significant colonial presence saw western-style materialism spread to wealthy Chinese outside of the concessions. Wealthy Tianjin businessmen adopted western-style exuberance. Some of these businessmen built European-style estates but added touches of traditional Chinese culture, such elaborate gardens. Through cultural exchange with foreign entities, Tianjin turned into a diverse, thriving city where cross-cultural confluence became a part of the urban fabric.

Zhang Chang and Liu Yue could engage further with this period in Tianjin’s history by discussing how the events of the First World War and the Sino-Japanese conflict affected the concessions and the citizen’s willingness to engage with those from other countries and absorb cultures. Despite this gap, they make it clear that Tianjin became a site of positive confluence between China and the outside world.

 

 

Bibliography:

 

Chang, Zhang, and Liu Yue. “International Concessions and the Modernization of Tianjin.” In Harbin to Hanoi: The Colonial Built Environment in Asia, 1840 to 1940, by Victoir, Laura, and Victor Zatsepine, eds., edited by Laura Victoir, and Victor Zatsepine. Hong Kong University Press, 2013. Hong Kong Scholarship Online, 2014.

 

Following the bubonic plague that struck Hanoi in 1903, the colonial administration was forced to recognise its failures to both destroy the rat problem endemic in Hanoi. Hanoi, expected to be the hygienic triumph of French colonialism was in fact a medical crisis. Furthermore, the Vietnamese had begun to ‘experiment with a form of collective labour action’ and by 1904 had quadrupled their pay. In addition to this Vietnamese residents not in the extermination teams were able to exploit the bounty system put in place by the colonial administration by cutting the tails off rats and allowing them to continue to breed. As Michael Vann concludes, it is ‘one of the rich ironies that characterize the history of French colonialism. However, similar ironies and resistance to colonial medicine were not limited to the history French colonialism.

In colonial Hong Kong, the Chinese residents of Hong Kong rioted when the British imposed house-to house inspections during plagues and over a third of the Chinese population left Hong Kong because of the anti-plague measures. Another notable example can be seen in the turmoil created in Korea following Japanese attempts to ‘sanitize’ Seoul whereby the Seoul Sanitation Association (SSA) attempted to monopolise the collection of night soil, garbage and took responsibility for the ‘overall salubriousness’ of the urban environment. However, despite the best intentions of the Japanese, the venture was a disaster. Koreans uprooted willow trees meant for sanitation due to their need for firewood, garbage and waste was not removed and the new sanitation system was so disruptive that by 1909 the SSA was forced to allow displaced Korean fertiliser merchants to use its equipment to help alleviate the massive shortage of night soil needed by farmers in the vicinity of Seoul. Despite the draconian measures such as harsh fines and imprisonments put in place to attempt to force Koreans to comply to the system of reform, the Japanese were unable to make the Koreans ever fully commit to their hygienic reforms and practices. The problem of epidemics remained an issue throughout the occupation, and arguably indicates another example of a failed attempt at sanitation that in face worsened the sanitation of Koreans in Seoul at the time.

However, the clash between predominantly Western notions of sanitation and health with traditional thought was not always resisted as was the case in the treaty port of Tianjin. Rogaski observes that with the arrival of imperialism Chinese notions of Weisheng or ‘hygiene’ shifted from ideas of diet, meditation and cosmology to encompass more ‘modern’ conceptions such as cleanliness of bodies, Western practices of hygiene and medicine. Although this is possibly due to the unique position of the treaty port as a space when compared to a colonised city, it is nonetheless a notable case in which Western ideals were largely accepted by the Chinese elites in the city.

Ultimately, if one were to examine additional colonial undertakings in order to improve the hygiene or sanitation of the colonial cities, it is likely that resistance and failure were the primary outcomes. However, in cases where Western interpretations of Hygiene are not imposed upon the colonised, the same strategies and developments can be seen as an important form of modernisation.

The Craft guilds of the 19th century played an important role within Shanghai’s urban space, combining a multitude economic, social, and religious functions. The centre of these urban networks was the guildhall, a building which would come to symbolism the power and prestige of Shanghai’s guilds. Unlike in Europe, the guilds of Shanghai were based off of native place as well as occupation, operating as the focal point for migrant communities. The social makeup of the city was altered, perpetuating a sense of separation within the city due to the discriminatory nature of the guilds’ geographic outlook. This sense of separation was not just limited to the mental sphere of collective identity, manifesting itself within the physical parameters of the city, as seen in the preference of guild members to only frequent tea houses within the vicinity of their guildhall.[1] It can, therefore, be seen that socially the guildhall influenced the habits and perceptions of Shanghai’s urban craftsmen.

Yet, the guildhall didn’t just operate as a social nexus, it also possessed a spiritual role. Temples could be found within most guildhall complexes, dedicated to a patron saint or deity, with active worship still being recorded within guildhalls in the 1920’s.[2] John S. Burgess and Niida Noboru have challenged the religious role of Chinese guild. However, Timothy Bradstock states that this is because they misunderstood certain sources, leading them to believe that a lack of religious practice within certain guilds indicated an unconformity when it came to possessing a spiritual purpose.[3]  Instead, Bradstock explains that a lack of religious practice was often associated with a lack of funds. A problem which does not seem to apply to Shanghai when the supposed architectural splendour of the guildhalls are considered.[4]

The architectural design of these buildings was important, as it was a testament to the power and influence of a guild, becoming a rallying post for the community that the guild had created. The importance of the guildhall as a rallying post is reflected in the decisions made within it, such as to protest or to strike, decisions which would shape Shanghai as the guilds were often surprisingly effective when they chose to mobilise around a cause. For example, the Siming gongsuo guild was able to resist attempts by the French concession to seize its land in 1874 and again twenty years later.[5] Guildhalls acted as the nerve centre within a web of influence, not only acting as rallying points but also as a bastion of protectionism. Economic activity within craft industries was controlled through the guilds. Price and wages were regulated as well as materials, labour and training. Guilds, for instances, often fixed apprenticeships to a three year period, limiting workshops to just one apprentice at a time.[6]

Guildhalls impacted Shanghai on multiple levels, defining the lives of the urban craftsman as well as the city itself. Guildhalls were not just symbols of guild power but also a vital apparatus in their system of control. The conclusions of the revisionist historian, S. Oilgive, seem to be, therefore, entirely invalid as these guilds were neither ineffective nor inflexible.[7] In fact, guildhalls were so significant to the guild members themselves, that when painters in 1914 got locked out of their guild by the Chinese government, a city wide strike was organised by other guilds in support.[8]

[1] Elizabeth J. Perry, Shanghai On Strike: the Politics of Chinese Labor (Stanford,1993), p. 37.

[2] J. S. Burgess, ‘The Guilds and Trade Associations of China’, The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 152 (1930), pp. 75-76.

[3] Christine Moll-Murata, State and Crafts in the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911) (Amsterdam, 2018), p. 330.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Perry, On Strike, pp. 45-46.

[6] Moll-Murata, State and Crafts, p. 329.

[7] S. R. Epstein, ‘Craft Guilds in the Pre-Modern Economy: A Discussion’, The Economic History Review 61:1 (2008), p. 159.

[8] Perry, On Strike, p. 23.

Bibliography:

Burgess, J. S., ‘The Guilds and Trade Associations of China’, The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 152 (1930), pp. 72-80.

Epstein, S. R., ‘Craft Guilds in the Pre-Modern Economy: A Discussion’, The Economic History Review 61:1 (2008), pp. 155-174.

Moll-Murata, Christine, State and Crafts in the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911) (Amsterdam, 2018).

Perry, Elizabeth J., Shanghai On Strike: the Politics of Chinese Labor (Stanford,1993).

In her article ‘The Raj on Nanjing Road’, Isabella Jackson illustrates the crucial role played by Sikh policemen in the Shanghai International Settlement during the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries.[1] This reflects the wider importance of Indians to the Imperial project, fulfilling myriad roles across British territories in East and South East Asia. I was therefore interested to read James Warren’s article ‘The Rangoon Jail Riot of 1930’, which details the unique role played by Indians in the prison administration of British Burma.[2] Whilst significant similarities exist between these groups of Indians abroad, it becomes clear that their experiences could vary hugely, according to the prestige of their respective occupations, as well as the local context of their employment.

At first glance, Indians serving abroad seem to have been united by their subjection to racist, derogatory attitudes from indigenous peoples. Certainly, this seems true of Shanghai Sikh policemen, who even today are vilified in much Chinese history as ‘hongtou asan’ (Red-headed monkeys), perceived as vicious stooges of oppressive colonial rule.[3] Sikh policemen were for example blamed by the Chinese for opening fire on Chinese protesters in 1925, in the now infamous May 30^th Incident.[4]

This is mirrored in the case of Burma, where, by the early 20^th century, the entire population of prison wardens was Indian. In 1930, a huge riot broke out in the Rangoon Central Jail, with the ostensible aim of killing the superintendent, Major Bharucha. This reflected a long history of Burmese racially aggravated attacks against Indian prison staff.[5] Nor was racism confined to native Burmese, with the British enquiry into the riot laying the blame squarely at the feet of major Bharucha. He was described as both a bully and a coward, unsubstantiated accusations were made of his brutality, and he was summarily dismissed from his position.[6]

Whilst superficially similar however, it would be wrong to homogenise the experience of Indians in British service abroad. Working conditions appear to have been relatively good for Sikh policemen in Shanghai, attracting mainly ex-sepoys with the promise of pay five times greater than the Indian army, as well as the offer of nine months leave upon completion of five years service.[7] In the Burmese case by contrast, becoming a prison warden remained an unappealing prospect, with very low pay and long working hours. Indeed, according to a report by the Indian Jails Committee, an Indian jail warden was ‘but little less of a prisoner than the inmates whom it is his duty to guard’.[8] It would be wrong therefore to claim that Indians had a single, universal reason for seeking British employment abroad, with different opportunities instead being marketed at different subcategories within Indian society.

Moreover, the racism directed at Indians could spring from very different roots. In the Shanghai case for example, Sikh police became a ‘surrogate target for Chinese resentment of Euro-American Imperialism’.[9] Whilst this was also surely true in Burma, attitudes towards Indians in Rangoon likely had an economic dimension as well. The early 20^th century had seen mass Indian immigration into Rangoon to work as unskilled labour. This led to growing competition with local Burmese, resulting in a huge race-riot in 1930 directed against Indian dock workers, resulting in over 500 deaths.[10] Seen in this context, anti-Indian sentiment could therefore spring from a number of locally derived sources, rather than exclusively from their association with the British.

Robert Bickers has concluded that Indians were employed by the British Empire for the three interlinked processes of ‘economy, defence, and display’.[11] Whilst this fundamentally seems to hold true, we should not let this obscure the very real differences in both how the British empire used its Indian subjects, as well as how such Indians were received by the local population. Whilst I have considered only two cases in this post, a more comprehensive study comparing the different experiences of Indian communities abroad would therefore be valuable.

 

 

[1] Isabella Jackson, ‘The Raj on Nanjing Road: Sikh Policemen in Treaty-Port Shanghai’, in Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 46, No. 6 (2012), pp.1672-1704

[2] James Warren, ‘The Rangoon Jail Riot of 1930 and the Prison Administration of British Burma’ in South East Asia Research, Vol. 10, No. 1 (2002), pp.5-29

[3] Jackson, ‘The Raj on Nanjing Road’, p.1675

[4] Ibid.

[5] Warren, ‘The Rangoon Jail Riot of 1930’, p.21

[6] Ibid., pp.13-14

[7] Jackson, ‘The Raj on Nanjing Road’, p.1680

[8] Warren, ‘The Rangoon Jail Riot of 1930’, p.22-23

[9] Jackson, ‘The Raj on Nanjing Road’, p.1691

[10] Warren, ‘The Rangoon Jail Riot of 1930’, p.11

[11] Jackson, ‘The Raj on Nanjing Road’, p.1676