I have been meaning to write a proper blog post about my frustrations regarding some of the discourse within archaeology around making amends for the discipline’s contributions to oppression and violence – in fact, this post has probably been sat unfinished in my drafts for a few years now. But these frustrations have certainly reached a boiling point over the past few months as I’ve watched major organisations and societies that seemingly represent the field remain silent in the face of the genocide of Palestinians.
A sign from a protest in support of Palestine which reads “If you’re silent during a genocide you are complicit.”
Others have already written more eloquently than I ever could about why archaeologists in particular have a responsibility to speak out for Palestine (e.g., Emmott 2023, Blouin 2024, Leathem 2024, Sills 2024), so I won’t reiterate what has already been said. Instead, I want to think about why there seems to be such a silence from archaeologists as a whole, not just about Palestine but also in discussing the ways in which archaeology continues to enact harm against others. More specifically, I have been frustrated with what feels to be a widespread lack of interest in actually examining how the discipline’s historic contributions to colonialism and white supremacy are still fundamental to contemporary archaeology and are still causing harm today, particularly to marginalised people both inside and outside of the discipline.
Archaeologists as a whole are seemingly not afraid to call out the past sins of the discipline, with the popularisation of “decolonisation” (both accurately and performatively utilised) within academic circles leading to a more concentrated effort of archaeologists to critically re-examine the discipline and its historic roots. And there has also been increased movement to actually identify and address the lack of diversity and inclusivity in contemporary archaeological practice. But the conversation seems to get quieter when it comes to thinking about archaeology as an agent of violence in the present tense – and here I am not speaking about pseudoarchaeology undertaken by people who are, more often than not, from outside of the discipline (although pseudoarchaeologists are indeed causing much harm through their work). No, I want to specifically talk about contributions to harm by archaeology and archaeologists.
I often feel as though archaeologists want to view the most egregious forms of harm perpetuated by the discipline lie in the past, and that while archaeology has much to do as far as become more inclusive and accessible, it is otherwise “not as bad”. There is a sense that perhaps we as practitioners of archaeology can avoid complicity in the worst elements of the field through maintaining temporal distance in this matter – allowing us to disavow and condemn archaeological violence from afar, confining it to the past. Even in discourse around “decolonising archaeology”, there is a habit by some of referring to archaeological harm in the past tense, with decolonial actions as a means of making amends for historic violence (of which I am guilty of as well, to be honest).
But the truth is that we cannot confine the harms of archaeology in the past. The violent ideologies and practices that archaeology helped develop and legitimise are still here, still inflicting harm. The eugenics and racial theory that archaeological thought has historically contributed to (Challis 2016) cannot be separated from how it manifests in the continued justification for racism. The legitimisation that archaeology has given to looting and theft during colonialism (Stahn 2023, pp. 39-40) continues in the proliferation of paternalistic attitudes by museums towards demands for repatriation and sovereignty over stolen artefacts and human remains. And the weaponisation of archaeology and cultural heritage to justify mass violence (including the continuation of settler colonialism, apartheid, and genocide) has not be confined to the history books – it is happening right now.
Of course, it should be clarified that while silence is arguably widespread (particularly among organisations and societies representing the field), individual archaeologists themselves have been speaking out and making the crucial connections between the past and present (e.g., Schneider and Hayes 2020, Brunache et al. 2021, Flewellen et al. 2021, Hartemann 2022). These archaeologists are often – and perhaps unsurprisingly – from underrepresented and marginalised communities themselves who unfortunately have the lived experiences that make finding the connections between past and present harms by the discipline much more apparent. But archaeology is still a discipline made predominately of, and prioritises the voices of, white, cishet people (Heath-Stout 2020), particularly those from the imperial core – while that remains the case, the silence will likely remain.
As negative as this entire post has been, I’d like to be proven wrong. I’d really like to see more archaeologists – particularly those who have the privilege and power – to speak out against not just the past harms of our field, but the present ones as well. But unfortunately, the continued silence of the broader discipline in the face of genocide appears to reiterate that archaeologists are not ready – or perhaps not willing – to accept that archaeology’s role in colonialism and oppression is not just confined to the past, but continues today. To remain silent is to remain complicit – but archaeologists can speak up and make the decision to actively do something about the harms our field perpetuates, rather than pretend it does not exist.
There is always a choice to break the silence. Today is just as good as any day to start.
Please Consider Donating to the Funds Below to Support Palestinians
Brunache, P. et al. (2021). Contemporary Archaeology and Anti-Racism: A Manifesto from the European Society of Black and Allied Archaeologists, European Journal of Archaeology, 24(3), pp. 294–298.
Challis, D. (2016). Skull Triangles: Flinders Petrie, Race Theory and Biometrics. Bulletin of the History of Archaeology, 26(1): 5, pp. 1–8.
Flewellen, A.O. et al. (2021). “The Future of Archaeology Is Antiracist”: Archaeology in the Time of Black Lives Matter, American Antiquity, 86(2), pp. 224–243.
Hartemann, G.O. (2022). Unearthing Colonial Violence: Griotic Archaeology and Community-Engagement in Guiana. International Journal of Historical Archaeology , 26, pp. 79-117.
Heath-Stout, L.E. (2020). Who Writes about Archaeology? An Intersectional Study of Authorship in Archaeological Journals, American Antiquity, 85(3), pp. 407–426.
Schneider, T.D., & Hayes, K. (2020). Epistemic Colonialism: Is it Possible to Decolonize Archaeology? The American Indian Quarterly, 44(2), pp. 127-148.
Please note that this blog post contains spoilers for the game “Heaven’s Vault”.
As I wrote in a post almost a year (!!!) ago, I finished my second playthrough of Heaven’s Vault (Inkle Studios, 2021). And perhaps one of the things that struck me most on this replay was just how long the travel sequences were – for those who have not played, the main method of travel in the universe of Heaven’s Vault is by “sailing” space rivers which consist of flows of oxygen, hydrogen, and ice. These sailing sequences aren’t particularly action-heavy, with the only input of the Player consisting of steering the ship to the correct fork and hitting a button to check out ruins that are along the rivers.
However, they are long…like, really long. The map for the game is deceptively large, with many twisting rivers that coincide with other pathways, making it easy to get lost as you unlock more areas and expand your exploration range further. And honesty? It gets a bit…annoying. And boring. To give the game developers credit, there is an “auto-travel” option where you can hand off steering duties to your robotic companion, basically teleporting you to your destination. But there’s a catch – your robotic companion is unable to stop at any unexpected ruins you might come across, meaning that you can easily miss out on exciting finds that may give further clues towards the central mystery of the game.
Screenshots from the game depicting the Nightingale “sailing” on one of the many space rivers found in the game. Text is from one of the many conversations that occur during the very long sequences of traveling in Heaven’s Vault, with our main character Aliya Elasrasaying, “Tracing the movements of things is another way of tracing the movements of people…in the end, the things aren’t really that important.”
Obviously, Heaven’s Vault is a video game about archaeology so there are some very explicit similarities between its core gameplay mechanics and archaeological methods. But I think we can also, perhaps more abstractly, relate the long and winding travels on Heaven’s Vault’s space rivers to the often long, and sometimes winding process of archaeology, a discipline in which research is constantly revisited and revised over long periods of time, with unpublished data from decades earlier finally getting worked into more recent, published work, and old, outdated theories re-invented over time. And yet we also see an impatient side to archaeology as well – the short turnarounds expected from most fieldwork, the need to produce results as soon as possible due to contractor needs and funding policies.
Thinking about patience (or the lack thereof on my part) in Heaven’s Vault reminds me of “slow archaeology”, which was a concept first put forth by archaeologist William Caraher. In his original 2013 article, Caraher suggests the use of a slower archaeology in contrast to the time-efficient, assembly line-like approach to fieldwork that has been facilitated by digital tools and other technical innovations that are mainly accessible to larger, more well-funded projects. A slower archaeology, on the other hand, is often embodied by smaller, less-funded projects with small teams working multiple roles on-site. This, in Caraher’s view, returns archaeology to a state of craftwork, where manual handling of the work requires more attention at a slower pace, maintaining an embodied experience and knowledge that isn’t disrupted through technological processes.
In response to Shawn Graham’s (2017) critical view of slow archaeology as one that also requires a level of privilege not afforded to underrepresented and otherwise marginalised archaeologists, Caraher (2019) has more recently suggested a reframing of slow archaeology to be more about an “archaeology of care”; that is, an archaeology that takes care to understand how the discipline is ultimately shaped and informed by the relations between individuals, tools, methods, and technologies. Regardless of whether or not archaeology is more craft or industry, maintaining this critical eye throughout keeps archaeology embodied as a method of knowledge-making and cautions us to not get too complacent with the increasingly digitised workflows of the discipline.
Reflecting back at my impatience at the travel system in Heaven’s Vault and my penchant for using the auto-travel button, I can see how that runs counter with the idea of “slow archaeology” – in automating this travel (in the most literal way possible given that a robot takes over for you), you are missing out on embodying that experience, even if its long and boring. And without that embodiment, you miss out on being able to make off-the-cuff decisions or discoveries, such as stopping at a random ruin which gets bypassed in automation. In bypassing this experience, I can still get to a conclusion – ignoring manual sailing doesn’t impact the ending of the game, for example. But I do miss out on smaller elements that could have become something much greater through my experience with it, producing a result that maybe isn’t deemed to be productively important in the grand scheme of things, but ultimately enhances my understanding by interacting and engaging with it.
Something that I think we can all do to remember that is emphasised by Heaven’s Vault’s story is that archaeology is an “incomplete” story, that none of us will really see the completion of our understanding of the past as we ourselves are drawn into histories through the passage of time. This isn’t to say that project and fieldwork results aren’t useful, of course! But it may be that they’re not the true goal of a slower, more caring archaeology – that we don’t have to streamline and make things more efficient and productive, but strive towards being “in the moment” with the past that we handle, engaging archaeology in order to enable a more thoughtful and embodied approach to our understanding.
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The following transcript is from a conference paper I presented in 2022 as part of the Making Diversity Interventions Count Annual Conference at the University of Braford. It is also an expansion of a previous paper I presented on decolonising zooarchaeology, and proposes a more institutional-wide approach to moving towards decolonisation.
A selection of quotes critically engaging with decolonisation efforts in institutions (from the original presentation)
Introduction
Since the 2020 revival of the Black Lives Matter movement, there has been a wave of institutional-level initiatives focused not only on equity, diversity, and inclusion, but also on decolonisation. Two years later, many of these initiatives have been shown to be simply performative in nature, prompting much critical discussion from academics and scholars in decolonial and post-colonial studies regarding the actualities of “decolonising” the university.
For example, despite the popularity of Tuck and Yang’s (2012) Decolonization is Not a Metaphor, the language associated with decolonial theory continues to be misused and co-opted to the point of being primarily metaphorical in nature. As such, decolonisation becomes a synonym for broader social justice movements in academia and is ultimately deprived of its original political and praxis-based orientation as resistance against colonisation (Pai 2021, Fúnez-Flores 2022).
Similarly, there has been much criticism with regards to the gradual decentring of decolonial work produced by theorists and scholars from the Global South. By ignoring the original historical contexts and traditions of Indigenous and African decolonial theory, those in the Global North have been able to, ironically, colonise decolonisation (Tuck and Yang 2012, Kumalo 2021 p. 163) and continue the colonial practice of extraction from the Global South (Grosfoguel 2013, Todd 2016), where research already suffers from devaluation due to inequitable practices of scholarship (Moosavi 2020).
These issues work cyclically, in that misuse of decolonial theory leads to its decoupling from its historical lineages, which in turn leads to further misuse and appropriation. Such degradation of decolonisation into something more “digestible” continues to move the concept further away from its radical roots as well, depriving it of its associated ethical and political commitments (le Grange et al. 2020, Opara 2021, Fúnez-Flores 2021a). Decolonisation is transformed into what Adebisi (2020) refers to as “tick-box exercises” that do little to disrupt “hierarchised epistemic hegemonies”, and instead act as what Tuck and Yang (2012, p.10) have referred to as “settler moves to innocence” that merely relieve settler-coloniser feelings of guilt and responsibility without actually conceding power or privilege.
Proposing a Framework of Action
Although it is vital that these critiques are seriously considered during the development of institutional-level decolonisation initiatives, there also is a sense of urgency for action within universities that has only intensified since 2020. As both Adebisi (2020) and Dhillon (2021) have both noted, while neoliberal institutions may be unable to truly decolonise, they can still cultivate environments that allow for robust discussion of colonialism and create the potentiality for decolonisation. Utilising these suggestions alongside Appleton’s (2019) recommendation that those who are not ready to commit to decolonial actions instead focus on planning on how they may do so in the future, I propose instead that we utilise a framework in which the aim is to move towards decolonisation. This framework was originally developed with regards to decolonial approaches to zooarchaeology (Fitzpatrick 2022) but has now been slightly expanded to consider the broader spectrum of institution-wide initiatives.
At one end of this framework are the performative forms of “decolonisation” that we are trying to avoid; this includes diversifying without structural change, misusing the terminology, unethical practices of citation and engaging with scholarship from the Global South, co-opting decolonial struggles for academic prestige, and producing unequal power dynamics. At the other end of this framework is decolonisation and what it would ideally entail for academia, although it is likely that we would ultimately need to move beyond the confines of our current institutions. This would include huge acts of transformation and change, such as the creation of new ways for ethical knowledge production, the dismantlement of all colonial institutions and their spheres of influence, and ultimately giving marginalised and colonised peoples autonomy over research related to culture and sovereignty over their colonised lands.
The main focus of this framework is found between these two ends, where we are avoiding performative actions and instead moving towards decolonisation using actions that are not themselves decolonial but still strive towards the values of decolonial practice. A major component of this framework would be in changing practices and structures to eliminate harmful power dynamics; this would involve reaffirming our positionality to the broader decolonial struggle, developing ways to use our resources as institutions in the Global North to support decolonial work in the Global South, and creating active and equitable partnership with marginalised and colonised peoples. In addition, the curriculum would need to be diversified and globalised, while also committing to the decentring of decolonial work situated in the Global North. Finally, accountability processes would need to be established by colonial institutions to make amends for past, present, and future harm through proactive restitution.
This framework is designed as a process because decolonisation itself is not a single event; rather, it is a complex and unsettling process of unlearning, self-reflecting, and relinquishing the powers and privileges that are obtained through colonial processes. Situated between ineffectual inaction and the complete dismantling of institutions, this framework of moving towards decolonisation encourages the maintenance of one’s positionality as an academic in the Global North while also providing ample space for developing the potentiality for decolonisation in the future.
Useful Action or Useless Semantics?
In proposing this framework, we must also consider its theoretical strengths and weaknesses in being useful to invoking change in the university. On one hand, the framework provides smaller, more actionable steps towards decolonisation while also allowing space to imagine decolonial futures that may expand beyond the confines of the university. In addition, this framework allows for acts of solidarity within our neoliberal institutions for decolonial actions occurring externally, encouraging those of us in the Global North to provide resources and support to work being done in the Global South. Ultimately, this framework echoes Adebisi (2020) in supporting the decolonisation of minds and scholars through changes in curriculum and practices, which may eventually support the development of mechanisms for decolonisation that breach the limitations of the university.
However, much of this is idealistic at best and highlights some of the weaknesses of this proposed framework. Any decolonial or decolonial-adjacent approach will ultimately be limited by the confines of the neoliberal university, which is already implicated in the “coloniality of power, knowledge, and being” (Fúnez-Flores 2021b, p.187). The risk of co-option and misuse also remains, as any decolonial theory produced through the academy ultimately feeds into what Fúnez-Flores refers to as a “political economy of ideas emanating from privileged epistemic, social, institutional, and geographic positions” (ibid, p. 193). There is also the notion that such a framework is too preoccupied with semantics, thus risking complacency and a lack of action due to its focus on curriculum and literature (Tuck and Yang 2012, p. 19).
Although the usefulness of such a framework is still unclear, I would argue that it at least highlights two important points of consideration for academics interested in decolonial approaches: that we must approach such work with honesty of intent and positionality, and that we must also accept the fact that our current institutions may inherently limit the work we attempt to do. While I would argue that we as academics in these institutions have a moral imperative to work towards decolonisation in the ways that we can, I would also stress that we must actively work against being used as tools of neo-colonialism through the appropriation of this work. Decolonisation is not a single event, but a process of struggle and if we are committed to the cause, we must also accept that it will require deep reflection of ourselves, of our work, and more importantly, of our place in the greater geopolitics of knowledge production and liberation.
References
Adebisi, F. (2020). Decolonisation is not about ticking a box: It must disrupt. University World News.
Appleton. N.S. (2019) Do Not ‘Decolonize’…if You’re Not Decolonizing: Progressive Language and Planning Beyond a Hollow Academic Rebranding. Critical Ethnic Studies.
Dhillon, S. (2021). An immanent critique of decolonisation projects. Philosophical Inquiry in Education, 28(3), 251-258.
Fitzpatrick, A. (2022) Gesturing Beyond Bones: Proposing a Decolonised Zooarchaeology. Approaches to Decolonising Research. Liverpool John Moores University.
Fúnez-Flores, J.I., (2021a). With such a pyramidal academic structure, it’s not surprising that concepts advanced by decolonial theorists in the Global South tend to be emptied of their ethical & political commitments once re-articulated in the Global North. Twitter.https://twitter.com/Jairo_I_Funez/status/1473663451696300036
Fúnez-Flores, J. I. (2021b). Toward a transgressive decolonial hermeneutics in activist education research. The Handbook of Critical Theoretical Research Methods in Education, 182–198. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780429056963-12
Grosfoguel, R. (2013). The structure of knowledge in westernized universities: Epistemic racism/sexism and the four genocides/epistemicides of the long 16th century. Human Architecture: Journal of the Sociology of Self-Knowledge, 11(1), 73.
Kumalo, S. H. (2021). Distinguishing between ontology and ‘decolonisation as praxis’. Tydskrif vir letterkunde, 58(1), 162-168.
le Grange, L., du Preez, P., Ramrathan, L., Blignaut, S. (2020). Decolonising the university curriculum or decolonial-washing? A multiple case study. Journal of Education 25–48. https://doi.org/10.17159/2520-9868/i80a02
Moosavi, L. (2020). The decolonial bandwagon and the dangers of intellectual decolonisation. International Review of Sociology, 30(2), 332-354.
Todd, Z. (2016) An Indigenous Feminist’s Take on the Ontological Turn: “Ontology” is Just Another Word for Colonialism. Journal of Historical Sociology, 29(1), pp. 4-22.
Tuck, E., Yang, K.W. (2012). Decolonization is Not a Metaphor. Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education, and Society 1.
My work and independent research is supported almost entirely by the generosity of readers – if you’re interested in contributing a tiny bit, you can find my PayPal here.
This is the transcript from a talk I gave in April 2022 for the Enabled Archaeology session of the CIfA2022 Conference.It is an extension of my original blog post on Digging While Depressed, which you can read here.
A slide from the original presentation detailing how we can enable archaeology for everyone by ending ableism.
Digging While Depressed (Fitzpatrick 2018, 2019) was the result of my experiences after being injured on-site during the 2018 fieldwork season, which had led to me spending the next several weeks off-site and alone, tending to my injured arm (and pride) while the rest of the excavation team were on-site. I was filled with many emotions, all of them negative – I felt embarrassed at my ineptitude, guilty that I had let my PhD supervisors down, and ashamed that I could not face my newfound fears that the traumatic event instilled in me. Perhaps the strongest emotion I felt during this period was loneliness as well – not only being away from my colleagues for most of the day as they excavated, but also from friends and loved ones during the fieldwork season. Unsurprisingly, these emotions led me into a major depressive episode, and so I took to Twitter to express these feelings while using the hashtag #DiggingWhileDepressed. To my surprise, other archaeologists from around the world shared their own stories and experiences, indicating that this was a much larger issue than I may have previously imagined. Through these brief discussions on Twitter, as well as some follow-up discussions via email and in-person, several shared factors where identified among these stories. For example, fieldwork is inherently isolating and creates periods of inconsistency in an archaeologist’s daily routine. Employment is similarly inconsistent, with casualisation rampant in commercial sectors across several countries; this creates a sense of precarity, particularly around income, which can cause anxiety. Fieldwork is labour-intensive, often working in poor climates and with similarly poor off-site accommodations. This all culminates in a general notion that discussing mental health among colleagues is “taboo,” that archaeologists should just “get over it,” and that suffering “validates” the work they are doing. I ended my original paper with a call for more concrete actions and practices in place to support the emotional and mental well-being of archaeologists as part of a broader initiative for making the field more accessible for those with disabilities, chronic illnesses, and neurodivergence in the field.
Although the hashtag itself never become particularly popular or really survived beyond 2018, the discussion it generated seems to have continued since then. For example, there seems to be more standardised practices in place to support mental health in the field (e.g., Davis et al. 2021), and calls for treating accommodations and accessibility as part of embedded a more ethical practice into archaeological work (e.g., Peixotto et al. 2021). There has also been work exploring other elements adjacent to the original discussion, including research into how isolation from social media factors into mental health (Eifling 2021) and the pressure to “pass” as non-disabled in the field when you have an invisible disability (Heath-Stout 2022). In my own work, I have continued to explore the ways in which archaeology as it is currently practiced encourages ableist attitudes, and how these elements are further connected to problematic parts of the field, such as its entrenched notions of toxic masculinity, racism, and colonialism (Fitzpatrick 2020). Ultimately, this has led me to conclude that there is still much work to be done with regards to expanding inclusivity in the field, which has only been further emphasised by the events of the last three years.
Much has drastically changed since I originally wrote about Digging While Depressed, both globally as well as personally. In early 2020, the Covid-19 pandemic saw major national lockdowns across the world, with restrictions lifted and placed intermittently due to fluctuations in hospitalisations and the rise of new variants. At the same time, the Black Lives Matter movement has seen a revival which has spread from the United States to across the globe, causing a flurry of public discussion on equality, diversity, and inclusion, and spurring the creation of many EDI initiatives across sectors and organisations, including some that tackle issues of accessibility and disability due to the interventions of Black disabled activists and other disabled people of colour. Through 2020 and 2021, many accommodations for flexible working and socialising were made during periods of lockdown, which not only highlighted the general lack of accessibility of many workplaces and events pre-pandemic, but also allowed for many disabled people to finally participate in these previously inaccessible environments (Beery 2020). However, despite cases continuing to happen in the thousands around the world, many countries have initiated a “return to normalcy,” dropping nearly all restrictions and health requirements. As such, many disabled people once again feel as though they are being excluded from everyday life (Barbarin and Dawson 2021).
As for me, I have continued to be treated for depression through medication and occasional bouts of therapy. This lead to a breakthrough in 2021 that my anxiety disorder was ultimately the underlying factor behind most of my depressive episodes, which led to my treatment being adjusted. However, I began to see a decline in my physical health at the same time (Fitzpatrick 2022); this included worsening mobility issues which has resulted in more frequent use of mobility aids (e.g., canes, limb braces), the inability to do physically demanding activities, and the recent realisation that my chronic pain was actually abnormal. I am currently in the process of getting a diagnosis from various specialists, with joint hypermobility syndrome and anaemia recently identified. As such, I have been recognising that my ability to “do” archaeology (as it is widely understood) is constantly diminishing and has exacerbated my anxiety as I enter an already-dwindling job market after graduating during a pandemic.
Looking at the last three years in both a global and personal context, there are several recurring themes that we can extrapolate into a discussion on ableism and enabling archaeology for everyone. To start, the almost immediate shift in practice across many workplaces to focus on flexible working and homeworking indicates that change is possible. Unfortunately, we have also seen how quickly these accommodations can be taken away, and how disabled people are still considered an afterthought throughout this planning. At the same time, there has also been an increased awareness for the need for further inclusivity and diversity across sectors, no doubt due in part to the Black Lives Matter movement instigating public discourse on existing inequalities, particularly for Black disabled people and other disabled people of colour. From a personal perspective, I am quickly learning just how inaccessible archaeology is, which has also been further emphasised by the removal of pandemic accommodations for many sites and workplaces. In addition, I have realised just how easy it is to become disabled in the context of how society views disability, and how quickly it has changed my perspective of what I can and cannot do in archaeology, which in turn limits my ability of doing archaeology in the ways in which it is widely practiced today.
With the context from the last few years in mind, we can return to highlighting this major issue of ableism in archaeology, one of the many remnants of the colonialist toxic masculinity that was foundational to the development of the field and its public perception. Ableism is perpetuated through a continued lack of accessibility, which lends to poor environments and workplaces that exacerbate poor mental health and well-being – and not only just for disabled archaeologists, either.
A lack of inaccessibility can lead to feelings of isolation and “Imposter Syndrome,” which can worsen poor mental health and lead to people ultimately leaving the field. But by creating inclusive and accessible spaces, we can make the field more welcoming to everyone – and we should be moving beyond the notion that archaeological fieldwork must be about hard labour, physical risk, and danger, as this perpetuates the notions of a toxic masculinity which is emboldened and measured in strength by its ableism.
That said, we should still be centring disabled archaeologists in discussions of accommodations and accessibility; in addition, it should be noted that not everyone who has poor mental health or mental health conditions identifies as disabled, that many disabled people do not have mental health conditions, and that there are many people (such as myself) who consider themselves to be multi-disabled with mental health conditions and other forms if disability. Although our individual experiences and conditions will vary, ultimately we are all impacted by the perpetuation of ableism in the field. And although I have used the word “accommodating” and “accommodations” in this paper, I want to stress that, in actuality, we need to be moving beyond “just” accommodating – instead, we should be striving towards removing the remnants of entrenched ableism in archaeological practice and theory, expanding our conceptions of what entails fieldwork and research, and reconceptualising our assumptions of what “doing archaeology” actually means.
To end this paper, I would like to propose several ways to move towards a more enabling form of archaeology for everyone, with a focus on eradicating ableism in the field. To start, I want to reiterate that we must centre the needs and experiences of archaeologists affected by ableism and inaccessibility in the field. We must move the goalposts from “just” accommodating needs and actually move towards making spaces fully accessible to everyone. And although I know that accessibility can require a substantial amount of resources, at this point there is no excuse for it to not be part of any early planning or considerations for a project or organisation – if you are committing to diversity and inclusion, that means you must be tangibly and materially committing. I also want to return to a concept I introduced in my original paper (Fitzpatrick 2019): awareness over avoidance. In other words, we should be normalising discussion of disability and mental health, which can be supported through the creation of more inclusive spaces where discussions can occur freely and without the fear of retaliation. We must also be taking an intersectional approach to accessibility as well, as the needs of BlPOC and/or LGBTQ+ disabled archaeologists may differ from white and/or cis-heterosexual disabled archaeologists. In addition, there are also issues specific to these marginalised groups that will exacerbate poor mental health, such as racism, homophobia, transphobia, and queerphobia. Finally, we need to commit to ending the normalisation of casual ableism in the field – this includes ending the celebration of suffering during fieldwork as some sort of “rite of passage,” and of pushing excavation as the only means of doing “real” archaeology. Archaeology as a field must transform and progress to meet the needs of everyone – otherwise we will continue to lack in diversity, and archaeology will truly suffer for it.
Davis, K. E., Meehan, P., Klehm, C., Kurnick, S., & Cameron, C. (2021). Recommendations for Safety Education and Training for Graduate Students Directing Field Projects. Advances in Archaeological Practice, 9(1), 74-80.
Eifling, K. P. (2021). Mental Health and the Field Research Team. Advances in Archaeological Practice, 9(1), 10-22.
Fitzpatrick, A. (2019). #DiggingWhileDepressed: A Call for Mental Health Awareness in Archaeology. Presented at the Public Archaeology Twitter Conference.
Heath-Stout, L. E. (2022). The Invisibly Disabled Archaeologist. International Journal of Historical Archaeology, 1-16.
Peixotto, B., Klehm, C., & Eifling, K. P. (2021). Rethinking Research Sites as Wilderness Activity Sites: Reframing Health, Safety, and Wellness in Archaeology. Advances in Archaeological Practice, 9(1), 1-9.
My work and independent research is supported almost entirely by the generosity of readers – if you’re interested in contributing a tiny bit, you can find my PayPal here.
Please note that this blog post has major spoilers for the video game Pentiment, which I highly recommend you play before reading further as its a fantastic game!
In one part of the game, Andreas (the Player Character) has a discussion with Sister Illuminata regarding various books – depicted here with both characters inserted into the illustrated manuscripts. In this screenshot, the two characters are placed in a series of pages with Latin text depicting (on the left) a maiden spying on two lovers at the edge of a lake in the forest and (on the right) a burning, praying woman at the water’s edge looking at a couple on a boat. Sister Illuminata is depicted as the burning woman saying “Even in stories, we are maidens to be rescued and wed, cruel seducers of men, or wizened crones”, while Andreas is part of the couple on the boat.
There’s lots you can talk about with Pentiment, a point-and-click historical mystery game set in 16th century Bavaria (and I’m sure I’ll talk about this game a lot on this blog in the future!), but as an archaeologist, what interested me the most was the overarching themes of storytelling, mythology, and history – not just as separate entities, but as tangible elements often in conflict with each other and impacting the lives and worldviews of people. Archaeology in itself is just another story, after all, that finds itself similarly engaging with folklore and mythology in both negative and positive ways – and we even see this in the game as well.
That the game is set in 16th century Europe isn’t surprising with these themes in mind – at this point in time, the Reformation had thrown previously accepted ideas of the world and beyond into question, including that of class and the feudal order (Koenigsberger et al. 1989, p. 1-2). Unsurprisingly, this coincides with more people becoming literate in Europe, allowing for people to engage with new schools of thought that often clashed with official religious teachings (Konnert 2008, p. 89) – in fact, literacy would become central to the reformation movement occurring in England at the same time (Pendergast 2006, p. 44).
The Player begins the game as Andreas, an educated and literate artist working on commissions in the local monastery of Tassing, Bavaria. Throughout the game, you’re able to have discussions with people from all different backgrounds: from uneducated peasants to well-read monks, to even some members of nobility. Despite the variance of education and literacy, however, many of the conversations you have are related to history, folklore, and literature, and the ways in which these things impact people and their sense of the world around them. For instance, an early conversation with one of the nuns, Sister Illuminata, has the two characters ruminating on the depiction of women in the Aeneid (an ancient epic poem written by the Roman poet Virgil) and how it mirrors the poor treatment of women at the time in the 16th century.
In this screenshot from the game, Andreas (the Player Character) is in the middle of the meadow in the rain, surrounded by sheep and overlooking the ruins of a Roman aqueduct in the background. He is looking at an old man named Til, carrying a shepherd’s crook and wearing a flat cap who issaying, “It’s nice to feel you’re connected to those who came before you, even if its only by the land you live on”.
In another conversation with Til, a local townsperson, you can chat about the local folklore related to the Roman ruins found across Tassing and ponder the similarities between tales told of local saints and Roman mythology. Its in this conversation where Til makes a remark that I think hits upon a point that I fear is often obscured in archaeology: about the importance of local stories and how they can facilitate and strengthen connections to the surrounding land by making you feel part of a larger narrative, and how even the most fantastical folklore can draw from real, tangible elements (in this case, the local ruins and landscape of Tassing).
By Act 3, the importance of stories and histories became emphasised as the Player is entrusted with the task of painting a mural that represents the culture and history of Tassing. There is tension amongst the townsfolk with this task – some are worried about how the depiction of the past will be perceived by others, particularly those with authority. Despite this, the Player sets out to research the earliest known histories of the town, eventually making their way into the scattered bits of Roman ruins across Tassing to find out more about who once settled on these lands in the past. Of course, this being the 16th century, we’re still a bit aways from when we start to see the earliest iterations of what has been considered formal archaeological practice in the 17th and 18th centuries (Fleming 2020); as such, the Player is met with confusion and dismay at their insistence that these bits of the past (which other characters in the game will confess to finding and tossing during farm work!) could be used to further their understanding of ancient peoples.
This bit of proto-archaeology is quite interesting, with the Player being able to utilise pot sherds and Roman graffiti to extrapolate more information about Roman (and even pre-Roman) inhabitants of Tassing, even connecting some of the artistic depictions with folklore that has some of the town elders have mentioned in passing (to the chagrin of their God-fearing neighbours, as they often stray towards the paganistic). As the Player continues, they soon begin to see how some bits of evidence either confirms or contradicts others, with both textual and oral histories, stories, and folklore interconnecting into a messy web of fact and fiction.
Final warning – major spoilers for the plot of the game below!
In this screenshot, the Player Characters (Andreas, now an old man in rags, and Magdalene, a young blonde woman) confront Father Thomas (an old priest and recurring character) in the ruins of a Roman bath house. Father Thomas is saying, “But they knew of the saints and learned local legends of the region and applied them to the figures they found here.”
This all culminates in the finale of the game, where the Thread-Puller (the person manipulating others to commit the murders throughout the game) is revealed to be Father Thomas, attempting to cover up the peasants and townsfolk of Tassing from learning the truth – that the stories of their Saints, who we have learned to be so central to the lives of these people, are simply Roman myths transformed over time. Such a revelation would potentially shake the foundations of their trust in the Church, which has already been tested by the influx of Reformation ideals being circulated by literate townsfolk as well as previous conflicts over taxes between the local monastery and the peasants.
It’s a revelation that truly encapsulates the tension at the heart of Pentiment – between stories and histories, and the ways in which the “truth” can become inconvenient or even dangerous to others looking to uphold a particular status quo. And the game doesn’t present the decision to tell the truth to the rest of the townsfolk as an easy one, either – having just spent all of Act 3 witnessing the effects of a failed peasant revolt, it is made clear to the Player that there are no light consequences for having one’s worldview completely changed.
To tie it all back to archaeology, I think Pentiment really illustrates how our understanding of the past isn’t just something that exists in a vacuum, but a messy, interconnected thing that touches upon every facet of society and culture. That Father Thomas risks so much to keep the truth of these stories and their connection to the pagan past away from the townsfolk emphasises how foundational one’s sense of history is to their worldview – to counter this requires a complete rethinking not just of one’s religious views, but also one’s place in a very hierarchical world. For archaeologists, I think this works in two ways – that every interpretation we develop has an impact on how people perceive not only their ancestors, but also themselves and the way they interact with the world around them, and that every local story or myth (even if its not necessarily the “truth” as viewed from the archaeological record) impacts the way that people view the past, which in turn colours their present and future worldviews. Maybe this conversation is getting a bit too circular and abstract, but the main point that I think I’m trying to get at (and that Pentiment clearly gets at!) is that stories (histories and otherwise) are so vitally important to people – not just through a lens of understanding the past, but for understanding…well, everything, really.
A screenshot from the very end of the game, depicting the mural created by Magdalene – I chose to depict (from left to right) – Perchta and the Wild Hunt, a pagan myth often told by elders of Tassing with the inclusion of a sacrificial scene taken from archaeological remains found by Madgalene earlier in the game; the founding of the abbey; Otto, an outspoken and radical townsperson, speaking to the townspeople and peasants about the need for societal change; and finally, the Roman ruins from the end of the game, located below the town church.
Fleming, D. (2020). The Internationalization and Institutionalization of Archaeology, or, How a Rich Man’s Pastime Became an International Scientific Discipline, and What Happened Thereafter. Bulletin of the History of Archaeology, 30(1).
Koenigsberger, H.G., Mosse, G.L., & Bowler, G.Q. (1989). Europe in the Sixteenth Century. 2nd Edition. Harlow, UK: Longman.
Konnert, M. (2008). Early Modern Europe: The Age of Religious War, 1559-1715. Toronto, CA: University of Toronto Press.
Obsidian Entertainment (2022). Pentiment, video game, PC. Redmond, WA: Xbox Game Studios.
Pendergast, J.S. (2006). Religion, Allegory, and Literacy in Early Modern England, 1560-1640: the Control of the Word. Burlington, VA: Ashgate Publishing.
My work and independent research is supported almost entirely by the generosity of readers – if you’re interested in contributing a tiny bit, you can donate here.
This is a transcript from a talk I gave in April 2022 as part of the ARCHON workshop “Digging Archaeology through Social Media”.
A slide from the original presentation detailing my extremely weird journey into social media as an archaeologist.
Introduction
Archaeology still has a diversity problem.
It is difficult to find up-to-date demographic information regarding the archaeological workforce across the world, but the information that is available does not present a progressive image of the discipline. In the United Kingdom, for example, results from a 2020 survey revealed that only 3% of archaeologists are not white. In addition, only 18% identify as non-heterosexual, and only 11% consider themselves disabled (Aitchison et al. 2021). Data from a 2014 survey showed that among European archaeologists, only 1.1% considered themselves disabled (Aitchison et al. 2014). The last survey of the United States archaeological workforce indicated that only 2% identified as non-white (Zeder 1997); however, it should be noted that this survey was administered in 1994 and that there has likely been some progress, as the last survey for membership demographics in the Society of American Archaeology (2011) showed that 16% identified as non-white.
Although we can recognise that the field has become more diverse in comparison to prior decades, it is also painfully obvious how slow progress has been. There is a myriad of reasons as to why archaeology has been slow to diversify, of course – it can be difficult to get into the field to begin with, as many jobs require at least an undergraduate level degree. Universities themselves come with their own barriers as well, and not all of them will even offer archaeology as a degree. Even if you do find a place on an archaeology course, there are further barriers to gaining experience – for example, not all programmes will give you fieldwork training, and will expect you to pay separately for field school, which can often be prohibitively expensive. Once in the workforce, archaeology can be difficult to maintain employment in as well, with low pay and difficult working conditions in commercial sectors, and few tenure-track or otherwise stable positions in academia.
Outside of the logistics of working in archaeology, another issue that hampers diversity efforts is the lack of visibly representation – arguably the most well-known practitioners of the discipline (outside from fictional ones) with the biggest platforms are already well-represented individuals in the field: white, cis-heterosexual, non-disabled men. It is difficult for marginalised people to imagine themselves in a field that does not seem to have anyone else like them.
But perhaps the biggest factor that lends itself to such a lack of diversity in the field is that archaeology still maintains many problematic attitudes that can be traced back to its roots as a colonialist and imperialist endeavour. Archaeology is still seen by many outside of the field as a discipline empowered by looting and violence and has been weaponised in both the past and present to oppress and marginalise others. Unsurprisingly, this can be seen as a significant turn-off for marginalised people, particularly those who come from historically looted communities and formally colonised territories. Archaeology is seen as a very “white” field as well, not just in its lack of racial and ethnic diversity, but also in how little importance is given to non-white, non-western histories in the western/European institutions that serve as major epicentres for the discipline. On a more interpersonal level, problematic attitudes that serve to empower the notion that archaeology is only for white, cis-heterosexual non-disabled men are still prevalent through sexism, homophobia, queerphobia, transphobia, racism, ableism, and classism. These attitudes have historically shaped the way the field is practiced and taught and encourages problematic behaviours in the workplace as well – as such, it is difficult to imagine that the environment it creates is appealing to marginalised people.
Diverse Archaeology in Social Media
However, this issue of diversity and representation is slowly being tackled – particularly by the marginalised people in the field who are underrepresented. Perhaps the place where this is most apparent is on social media. As mostly accessible platforms in the digital space, social media has allowed for many underrepresented archaeologists to become more visible and express their perspectives and opinions in a medium without the restrictions often imposed by more “formal” methods of dissemination and communication. These formal platforms, such as academic journals, can also be seen as gatekeepers, often led by those who are already over-represented within the field whose biases shape the way archaeology is presented through publications. Social media, for the most part, lacks many of these institutional barriers, although this obviously lends itself to dangers in pseudoarchaeology and misinformation. But again, this means that those who do not fit the archetype of an archaeologist, as dictated by the problematic attitudes entrenched in the field, can actually find platforms for their unique voice and perspective that is sorely lacking in archaeology.
Such diversity among social media presence in archaeology can be separated into two main types: groups/accounts that are specifically dedicated to supporting and uplifting individuals from a particular marginalised identity, or individuals from certain marginalised backgrounds that are outspoken about their honest experiences in the field, and often discuss these experiences at length through a variety of mediums (e.g., vlogging, blog posts, podcasts). So although many social media accounts are specifically created to “represent” specific perspectives that are underrepresented in the field, others are simply speaking their truths in public. They are not asking to be seen as representatives of their particular background, of course, but by sharing their experiences and problems they have faced in the field, their input shapes the demands for archaeology to be better. Ultimately, their visibility on social media can serve as both evidence for the ways in which the field is lacking, as well as inspiration for others to strive towards success regardless; both of these outputs can potentially help in increasing the diversity of archaeology.
On social media, disabled archaeologists, for example, have been to amplify the need for a more accessible approach to archaeology and push for further consideration of accommodations as part of everyday archaeological practice. In the meantime, many disabled archaeologists have taken the initiative and created their own means for accessibility, using social media to promote them and lobby for wide adoption of similar practices – this includes Theresa O’Mahoney and the creation of the Enabled Archaeology Foundation, as well as Amelia Dall’s translation of archaeological terminology into American Sign Language. By promoting these practices via social media, disabled archaeologists are able to normalise the provision of accommodations and greater accessibility of archaeology as a practice and as a discipline.
For archaeologists who are part of the LGBTQ+ community, social media allows them to call out issues with regards to how sexuality is handled in archaeological interpretation and theory. In addition, social media allows for the creation of safe (digital) spaces for LGBTQ+ archaeologists to discuss their particular needs in the field, especially given the rise in hostility against LGBTQ+ individuals across the world. This includes advice for closeted or newly out individuals, as well as warnings against spaces that may be dangerous for them to work in. Organisations such as Queer Archaeology are able to not only act as a network for people working in queering archaeology (as a theory) to discuss ideas, but also provide support and resources to those who also identify as queer or otherwise LGBTQ+.
Similarly, there are many groups and organisations on social media for archaeologists of marginalised genders. Most are centred around women in archaeology, with TrowelBlazers being one of the most well-known organisations on social media for their work on promoting the work of women archaeologists who have otherwise been obscured by patriarchal interpretations of history. However, there has also been attention given to examining the issues faced by other archaeologists of marginalised genders, such as non-binary, gender-fluid, and gender-nonconforming archaeologists. Ultimately, these archaeologists have helped to bring more nuanced interpretations to conversations regarding gender in archaeology and how we view gender in the past, as well as call for further discipline-wide support in combatting patriarchal harm and violence in the field.
For BlPOC in archaeology, social media provides an opportunity to challenge the overtly white narrative of the past, especially with regards to histories of colonialism and enslavement. Having a platform on social media allows BIPOC to disrupt predominately white spaces and set the foundation for other racially minoritized archaeologists to enter the field, showcasing that archaeology isn’t just for white people. Their vital contributions to online discussions on racism in the field allow for white archaeologists to self-reflect on how their biases and actions may be perpetuating racism in the field and help push for a more anti-racist discipline.
Of course, these groups are not the only ones underrepresented in general discourse surrounding archaeology – other prominent individuals on social media have been able to express their experiences in being first generation academics, non-academics, volunteers, commercial workers, ex-archaeologists, hobbyists, and migrants. Social media allows anyone to discover what it is like to be an archaeologists from various regions, religions, and cultures, studying across different periods of time, different regions, different groups of people, and different materials. Archaeologists are able to tell their own stories and experiences and showcase how varied the world of archaeology can be.
My Social Media Story: Breaking the Archaeologist Archetype
Social media has also played a significant role in my development as an archaeologist as well. In 2017, only four months into my PhD, I had a nervous breakdown that lasted for another few months and completely disrupted my studies. After receiving the medical help I needed, I realised that I needed to make up for lost time and decided that perhaps the best way to do so was to “get myself out there” and create a Twitter account specifically for promoting my research. At the same time, I also started a WordPress website and Instagram – I wanted to create as much of a presence as possible, knowing that I was already at a disadvantage in British archaeology as a queer, disabled Chinese American migrant woman and that I would ultimately need to make my own opportunities if I wanted to find any form of success in the field.
I will admit that it took a while to find my own voice on social media – I mostly wrote about basic things about zooarchaeology and updates on my PhD studies. But around 2018, I developed more confidence in my ability to express myself and my opinions, leading to more blog posts and Tweets on more serious and personal topics, such as racism, ableism, and immigration. Finding my voice was arguably the most important part of my journey as an archaeologist, as I not only was able to realise that I had the skills to write in a way that was accessible to non-specialists, but that I could also tackle serious and complex topics and convey them in a nuanced manner. This visibility has ultimately led to many opportunities – in 2018 I was asked to create a zooarchaeology-themed podcast for the Archaeology Podcast Network, and since then I have also been invited to write articles for various websites, speak at events, and even won awards for content I’ve created for YouTube and for my blog.
Of course, there has been some downsides to having a social media presence. During my PhD studies, there was often concern from my supervisors that my outreach and communication work on social media was a distraction from my actual research. And I also experienced extensive harassment from others, including racist and sexist comments on Twitter and on my website, as well as threatening emails from strangers. But despite this, social media has always been vital to my development as an archaeologist and has only increased in its importance as I move outside of archaeology due to the lack of employment opportunities. I still want to remain in the field, of course, but in the meantime, I am happy to be able to still engage with archaeology through social media.
Social Media Solutions: Is It Worth It?
So, with all of these examples in mind, we come to the final question – is social media a worthy tool for diversifying the field? On one hand, social media is relatively accessible, in that it is often free and relatively easy to use if you have an Internet connection. Although building up a following and developing an audience will take time and dedication, it can be done through social media without the need for dealing with disciplinary gatekeepers who do not share the same priorities as you and your community. In addition, social media allows for you to not only connect with people from across the world, but also make relationships and potentially develop an invaluable support network. You can also find your own community online, consisting of others with similar experiences who can provide support and comfort when you may be feeling otherwise isolated in the field. By becoming more visible online, you may eventually find yourself acting as a source of inspiration for others from similarly marginalised background, continuing a cycle of increasing diversity. More practically, a social media presence can lead to opportunities for further work – this may include collaborations with other social media accounts, consideration for projects, and invitations to participate in events. And perhaps most importantly, once you have achieved a formidable following, you can act as a voice for change and bring further attention to issues in archaeology that those who are already well-represented in the field may not have been able to identify.
On the other hand, social media is not accessible for everyone – not only from a disability perspective (e.g., transcriptions, captions, alternative text), but also with regards to language barriers as well. In addition, there is still a significant amount of digital poverty throughout the world. As such, this creates biases in who actually has access to the Internet, which is furthered by the biases in what sort of content gets popularised online – often English language content, from the West, or at least from the Global North. Perhaps the biggest risk in increasing your visibility online is the fact that you may be left open to increased harassment from others, especially strangers. Although there a mechanisms in place across most social media platforms to deal with negative comments and trolling, there is still risk for more harmful forms of harassment, such as having private information revealed online. Finally, it should be noted that there is still a degree of stigma associated with social media, particularly among senior professionals and academics – many still do not take social media seriously as a form of dissemination and communication and may even look down upon those who utilise it as part of their professional persona. Although these attitudes seem to be changing given how many projects and institutions now focus resources on their social media management, it is still apparent that not everyone in the field considers social media to be something worth investing time or expertise into.
Ultimately, social media is a platform, and as such it comes with the risks involved whenever you decide to publicly present yourself. However, if used wisely, social media can not only help promote yourself and your work but empower you to push for tangible change in the field and make archaeology more equitable for everyone.
Social Media Solutions: Diversify Your Feed!
So, how can you utilise social media to both promote and support a more diverse archaeology? The answer depends on your positionality and power within the field. For those of you who are already well-represented in the field, my advice would be to follow those from backgrounds different from yours – this includes groups and projects dedicated to sharing and exploring different perspectives on archaeology. In exposing yourself to differing opinions and experiences in the field, you can begin to do some self-reflection on how your own experiences may already be well-represented in archaeology, and how these experiences may turn into biases that effect your interpretations and research. Similarly, consider how much space you take up in archaeological discourse, and determine if you have the ability to provide a platform to someone more underrepresented in the field – for example, you could retweet material from someone else with a smaller follower count, lets someone else take over your account for the day and use your platform for their needs, or even sponsor and/or organise online events that centre marginalised people and promote it on your account. In addition, if important conversations are occurring online, instead of immediately jumping in with your opinion, you can stop and reflect on whether or not you could instead uplift the voice of someone else who is more relevant to the discourse. Perhaps most importantly, you should think of how to translate your online allyship into tangible support and promotion of underrepresented people outside of social media.
For those who are from marginalised backgrounds, my advice would be to find your people first. As I previously mentioned, my own experiences in developing my social media presence would have ended prematurely due to isolation and harassment if it wasn’t for the friendships I made, as well as the broader support network I’ve developed with archaeologists from similar backgrounds and experiences. In addition, it is useful to find organisations and groups that are dedicated to supporting certain marginalised backgrounds – not only can they provide resources and advice, but there could also be opportunities there to volunteer with them and further increase your visibility in the field as part of a larger group. In developing your approach to social media, you should also think about what you want to represent – are you focusing on your research and work in archaeology? Do you want to present the viewpoints and experiences of people with your background? Although it is not necessary to have a “niche”, it is useful with regards to how you want to present and market yourself and your social media persona. You should also consider what your expectations are for developing an online presence – are you aiming to spread awareness, or developing a gigantic following? These things will take time, so don’t be discouraged! But also recognise that any goals or expectations you may have will require dedication and time, so plan accordingly. In the meantime, try and take as many opportunities as you have capacity for – even if it is something as small as writing a guest blog post, opportunities that allow you to expose yourself to other audiences are vital in developing a following. And finally, don’t be afraid to speak your truths online – by being honest in our experiences in the field, we can identify the areas in need of further work and growth. But at the same time, you need to recognise your own personal boundaries and where you feel most comfortable in taking risks.
Social media is not a magical solution to all of archaeology’s problems, of course, and there is much to be done to make the field more progressive and inclusive. However, social media can be a powerful tool for change, if used correctly. As archaeologists, we need to accept the vital role that social media plays in our everyday lives, as well as the influence it wields over society and culture today. Archaeology must adapt with the changing times if it wants to survive as a discipline – and that may include learning exactly what a “TikTok” is.
References
Aitchison, K., German, P., and Rocks-Macqueen, D. (2021) Profiling the Profession 2020. Landward Research Ltd.
Aitchison, K., R, Alphas., V, Ameels., M, Bentz., C, Borş., E, Cella., K, Cleary., C, Costa., P, Damian., M, Diniz., C, Duarte., J, Frolík., C, Grilo., Initiative for Heritage Conservancy., N, Kangert., R, Karl., A, Kjærulf Andersen., V, Kobrusepp., T, Kompare., E, Krekovič., M, Lago da Silva., A, Lawler., I, Lazar., K, Liibert., A, Lima., G, MacGregor., N, McCullagh., M, Mácalová., A, Mäesalu., M, Malińska., A, Marciniak., M, Mintaurs., K, Möller., U, Odgaard., E, Parga-Dans., D, Pavlov., V, Pintarič Kocuvan., D, Rocks-Macqueen., J, Rostock., J, Pedro Tereso., A, Pintucci., E.S, Prokopiou., J, Raposo., K, Scharringhausen., T, Schenck., M, Schlaman., J, Skaarup., A, Šnē., D, Staššíková-Štukovská., I, Ulst., M, van den Dries., H, van Londen., R, Varela-Pousa., C, Viegas., A, Vijups., N, Vossen., T, Wachter., and L, Wachowicz. (2014). Discovering the Archaeologists of Europe 2012–2014: Transnational Report. York Archaeological Trust.
Society for American Archaeology. (2011). 2010 Needs Assessment Survey. Association Research Inc.
Zeder, M. A. (1997). The American archaeologist: a profile. Rowman Altamira.
My work and independent research is supported almost entirely by the generosity of readers – if you’re interested in contributing a tiny bit, you can find my PayPal here.
Hello everyone, and welcome to what may be the worst blog post I’ve ever posted on this website.
So, last Christmas my wonderful and supportive family decided that what I truly deserved was to get mercilessly dunked on by gifting me the meanest thing you can gift an archaeologist (well, second meanest thing, I think the first meanest thing is a copy of Graham Hancock’s Fingerprints of the Gods)…a toy FOSSIL excavation kit. Ugh.
The blue box for the aforementioned toy fossil excavation kit, which depicts a disembodied hand using a plastic pick to chip away at a block of white plaster to find miniature fossils, such as ammonite and a nautilus. It even says in white text at the bottom of the box: “Be a PALEONTOLOGIST ! Excavate 6 fossils!”
Well, it’s been sat in my office for over 6 months and I figured…you know what? I think it’s time to crack this thing open and turn it into a blog post about how to excavate properly despite it being 1) several years since I last excavated and 2) a literal toy.
But the demand to produce content beats in my eardrums, so here we are…with a slab of what I think is plaster or something? And we’re gonna excavate the hell out of it.
A photo of the white slab of plaster that will be serving as our excavation site for today. It is placed on a black tray (which I normally use for my zooarchaeological work) and next to it is the smallest metal trowel you’ve ever seen (which I think is really for paint, but today it’s a trowel!).
So, for better or worse, trowelling is the dance that keeps archaeology alive (or something like that, I rarely do it these days). And believe it or not, there’s actually a proper technique to doing it! Rather than hacking and stabbing away at the ground, you actually want to slightly angle the trowel towards the ground and scrape it back towards you – in a sense, you’re literally cutting away the ground in layers, which is important for maintaining stratigraphic layers and contexts. The Bamburgh Research Project has a pretty handy video tutorial if you’re looking to see this technique (and other troweling techniques) in action.
A photo of (miniature) trowelling in action –here I’m holding my small trowel at an angle to the block of plaster, make somewhat uniform striations to the bottom of the block and creating a pile of “soil heap” (aka plaster debris) near my body in the process.
As you carefully peel back layers and layers of ground, you’ll (hopefully!) begin to see features appear – in the case of my weird plaster and plastic excavation site here, it was bits of (fake) fossils poking out from the ground. From my experience on different real life excavation sites, the use of brushes can be a contentious topic but given the very, very, very low stakes of this particular excavation, I’ll take the chance and use a cheap paintbrush to reveal some more of the features just peeking out from the stratigraphy.
In this photo, I’m taking a small paintbrush to the fossilised features just slightly poking out from the recently excavated “ground”.
One of the most difficult things you learn when you start excavating is to overcome the urge to just start immediately hacking away at the ground around an in situ find and attempt to dig it up – not only are some finds best left in the ground, but this is also a very good way to accidentally destroy fragile remains! I definitely have never accidentally torn up an animal bone through mindlessly trowelling, I can assure you of that…
Anyway, what you do need to do is to continue your careful trowelling technique around these features – it’ll take a lot more time to uncover these features more fully, but it also makes you do it more carefully as well.
In this photo, more of the fossils can now be seen having been carefully uncovered by using that trowelling technique discussed previously.
Previously I mentioned the word in situ before – translated literally from Latin, it means “in position” or “on site”. Archaeologically, it refers to artefacts or remains that have been left in the place where it had been deposited – basically, it hasn’t been moved once excavated. Of course, archaeologists do tend to recover and remove artefacts and remains from excavation sites eventually, but there are various reasons why you may keep something in situ, even temporarily. It might be that the artefacts or remains in question are far too fragile to remove. It may also be that you’re looking to further analyse the relationship between artefacts/remains and the place they have been deposited in.
Regardless, archaeologists may try to capture in situ finds by photographing them, and that’s where my favourite part of excavation comes into play: photo-cleaning! It’s a very meticulous and careful cleaning of in situ finds and other archaeological features for the purposes of photographing them and somehow I absolutely love this process (to the point that I became the go-to photo-cleaner at the first site I excavated at). I just find it very relaxing and even meditative, to be honest. Maybe the lack of photo-cleaning in my life is why my mental health is so bad? Who knows!
A close-up photo of some of the “fossils” after some careful trowelling and photo-cleaning with a paintbrush – you can see more of the nautilus fossil on the left, and a bit of another fossil in the centre. In the foreground on the right side is an out-of-focus image of a partially recovered shell.
While all of this excavating is happening, you’ll probably end up with a lot of excess soil (or, in this particular case, plaster) taken off from trowelling and brushing. In a normal site, this would be scooped into buckets and run through a sieve in order to catch any smaller finds before being dumped into what is called a “soil heap”.
For today’s toy excavation, I’ll confess that I didn’t think a cheap little excavation set would also include microscopic microfauna remains in the plaster, so I didn’t really do any due diligence by sieving. I hope you can all forgive me.
A photo of the massive pile of plaster dust on a black plastic tray that accumulated during this “excavation”.
At this point we’ve basically finished up our excavation work and can now move on to the post-excavation work – for real excavations, this can range from cleaning finds to identifying and analysing them with a bit more depth. But for us? Yeah, we’re just gonna dump these crappy little plastic things into the bathroom sink.
Like excavations, post-excavation methods can vary between projects and supervisors, even to little tasks such as a cleaning. For example, many zooarchaeologists swear by using toothbrushes for cleaning animal bones – however, I’ve always been taught to avoid them like the plague as they can produce microwear on bones that can be mistaken later on for archaeological characteristics. Instead, I mostly use sponges – particularly make-up sponges.
A photo of the various plastic fossils (including a shark tooth, a shell, ammonite, nautilus, and a sea urchin) covered in plaster debris next to a pink make-up sponge.
After everything is cleaned up, you’re now able to do whatever sort of analyses you’ve had planned for your finds and can also photograph them (with appropriate scales of course!). Or, if you’re excavating a cheap toy like I am, you can take a bunch of photos for your blog and then toss the fossils into a plant pot as decoration that will probably get forgotten about in a few weeks.
Frankly, I’m not even sure that’s really not too different from some archaeologists who have boxes and boxes of archaeological finds in storage somewhere…
A photo of our excavated “fossils” (left to right): a nautilus shell, a shark tooth, a scallop shell, a sea urchin, and an ammonite. They’re lined up on black paper with a photo scale in centimeters on the bottom.
Anyway, thanks for joining me on the most archaeological fieldwork I’ve done in the past five years.
My work and independent research is supported almost entirely by the generosity of readers – if you’re interested in contributing a tiny bit, you can donate here.
2023 marks the 5th anniversary of ArchaeoAnimals, a podcast I’ve been hosting alongside my friend and fellow archaeologist Simona Falanga on the Archaeology Podcast Network. Back in 2018, I was approached by the Archaeology Podcast Network after a recent guest appearance on the Women in Archaeology Podcast and asked if I would be interested in hosting my own podcast. At the time, I was two years into my PhD and still in the process of finding myself as an actual professional and expert in the field – this was also about a year into me blogging on here, so I was also just starting to find my voice as a communicator of archaeology-related things as well. As someone who had been a devout podcast consumer since the mid 2000’s, taking that next step into podcasting felt natural in some sense – but also was quite terrifying as well. Fortunately, I’ve been lucky to have my fellow host, Simona Falanga, whose actual keen expertise in zooarchaeology balances out my own rambling, nonsensical nature, as well as our producer, Tristan Boyle, whose been crucial in ensuring that our shows are tightly designed to be informative and fun without going completely off the rails and devolving into boring iterations of facts.
This was our original podcast cover art from 2018, depicting a partial cat skull above a crossed set of calipers and a toothbrush – the ultimate zooarchaeology tools.
Archaeology podcasts have existed for a while now, with two of the earliest shows first published back in 2005 (Archaeological News and The Wessex Archaeology Podcast). Today, there’s over 100 shows (at least, based on my last survey of podcasts on Spotify) available focused on archaeology and archaeology-adjacent topics. And in my opinion, it’s great to see – archaeology has long struggled with how best to engage with the general public directly, and podcasts have always had potential for being a vehicle for public archaeologists (Amundsen & Belmonte 2018). Of course, much of the archaeology podcast audience consists of other archaeologists, but this can also be useful, particularly for students and early career archaeologists who could benefit from “behind the curtain” discussions about the field (Boyle 2017). Podcasts are uniquely embedded into social media (itself an important contemporary tool for archaeologists) in a way that can support building both an audience as well as community – something that can also be done within podcasts themselves as well by having guests, which can not only encourage interdisciplinary conversation but also provide the audience with different viewpoints and expertise on certain topics (Slotten 2022). Overall, there is a flexibility and informal nature inherent in podcasts that provide archaeologists with a means of disseminating research in a way that can be engaging, informative, collaborative, and, perhaps most importantly, not boring.
But why, in particular, a zooarchaeology podcast? Well, zooarchaeology remains a (comparatively) unknown subdiscipline within archaeology that most people outside of the field have never even heard of. And yet, it’s also an incredibly important one – after all, although humans are important to understand as part of exploring the past, we’re only one species out of millions! But it’s also a great way to discuss the complexities of archaeological research, particularly how subdisciplines like zooarchaeology can work together with others to develop rich, nuanced understandings of the past – for example, previous episodes of ours have also touched on experimental archaeology, palaeobotany, archaeological science. The ubiquity of animals in not just history but also in media and culture has also allowed us to get a bit more flexible with what constitutes as a “valid” topic for an archaeology podcast, with some episodes detouring into video games, films, and even mythology.
Since we published our first episode back in 2018, we’ve had many listeners get in touch to express their positive feelings about the podcast. Although many are archaeologists themselves, some listeners are not even remotely connected to the field on a professional level, and are mainly enthusiasts who have never even heard of zooarchaeology before. And I guess that really emphasises the importance of this – and really, any other – podcast. In a time when “fake news” and pseudoarchaeology is becoming a much more prevalent threat, particular with the proliferation of social media in everyday life, having channels for experts to speak about their research directly to others is vital. Although Simona and I have made the decision to end the podcast in 2024, its been an honour to have a small role in increasing outreach and understanding of archaeology over the past five years. And who knows? Maybe we’ll inspire some future zooarchaeologist to get just as annoyed at fish bones as I once was.
Also, we’ve gotten fan art of the show, so I think that’s proof we’ve been successful, right?
Amundsen, C. P., & Belmonte, C. (2018). How to Podcast in Archaeology: A Guide for Archaeologists Doing Public Outreach. Advances in Archaeological Practice, 6(3), 259-266.
Boyle, T.J., (2017). Middens and Microphones: Podcasting as Digital Public Outreach in Archaeology. Advances in Archaeological Practice, 5(4), 388-392.
Slotten, C. (2022). Podcasting as public archaeology. Journal of Community Archaeology & Heritage, 9(2), 134-137.
My work and independent research is supported almost entirely by the generosity of readers – if you’re interested in contributing a tiny bit, you can donate here.
Yes, okay this game came out in 2019, and I actually played it for the first time in 2021, but I didn’t actually write a review then, so I’m writing one now based on a recent playthrough. So, if you haven’t played it in the past four years since it was released, beware of spoilers for the game in the blog post below.
Our main character, Aliya, is here to give you support if you’re no longer actively working in the field – once an archaeologist, always an archaeologist!
Heaven’s Vault originally came out in 2019, developed and published by Inkle Studios. In the four years since its release, many archaeologists have already written their takes on the game (e.g., Reinhard 2019, Haneuer 2021, Draycott 2022), so nothing I’ll probably say in this post will be particularly innovative, because frankly? I agree with most of these takes: that Heaven’s Vault is a fantastic addition to the catalogue of archaeology-inspired video games and is arguably the only game to produce an experience that most closely resembles the reality of archaeological investigation (albeit set in the distant future and in space with robots, something that I haven’t experienced myself!).
Deciphering ancient writing is most of the gameplay – and something I’ve literally never come across in my actual archaeological work, but it’s definitely fun!
Heaven’s Vault is very much concerned about a specific archaeological approach, and perhaps that is what makes it a more imperfect depiction of archaeology; that said, I also understand that this decision is based on developing easy-to-understand gaming mechanics, and I doubt anyone playing the game outside of the discipline wants to run lipid analysis on sherds as part of the fun (or maybe they do! I don’t know what the youth enjoy!). As I’ve written about in the past, archaeology in games is often used as an excuse for certain types of side questing mechanics like collectables; the mechanic that creates the main methodology of archaeological investigation in Heaven’s Vault is through translation. Starting with a couple of pre-translated words, you’re tasked with linguistic puzzles, using context clues and similarities between characters of script to propose translations that are often critiqued by surrounding characters as well as your player character. Over time and repeated exposure to certain characters of script, you’re able to make decisions on what is the “definitive” translation of certain words, slowly building up your dictionary of known words to help identify new ones. And although this isn’t representative of how all archaeologists work, I still find this mechanic to be accurate in the way in ultimately illustrates the process of interpretation – slow, but steadily brings the bigger picture into focus as you gather further evidence through careful consideration of artefacts, bioarchaeological investigation, and comparative information from the broader regional and temporal context. To refer to the archaeological process as “solving a puzzle” may be a bit of a cliché at this point, but it is true in my experience – it’s about finding the connections that each archaeological find has to another and recognising the way it ultimately fits into a bigger picture of how we understand the past.
Wanna have a brief existential crisis? The timeline mechanic for the game has you covered!
Perhaps the best part of the game, in my opinion, was the way it handles the concept of time. In the game’s menu, you’re able to see a timeline – not just of the in-universe history, but also of your actions so far in the game. I’ve previously written about how archaeologists conceptualise time in the past, and this timeline is such an incredible addition to that discussion. That it also includes your own actions as part of the broader narrative is also a really interesting approach to a more self-reflexive form of archaeology that considers how excavation and curation practices are ultimately connected within the history of a particular artefact (and, within the story of Heaven’s Vault, shows how the past can influence the present and future, as the information you gather during the game is meant to help you make the final decision at the end). It’s something I think real world archaeologists to reflect upon more – I think some of us often feel removed from our work (in an idealistic, scientific type of way), when in actuality, our research is just another addition to the long history of these artefacts that we excavate and handle.
As I mentioned in the preface to this blog post, I’m actually writing this review after my second playthrough of the game, which means I was able to play using a New Game+ mode. For those who may not know, this is a mechanic that’s become quite popular in the past decade to encourage replays of video games, often by allowing you to retain elements of your previous playthrough (i.e., levels, skills, experience, items, etc.). In Heaven’s Vault, New Game+ allows you to bring across some of the translations you identified in your last playthrough. In my second playthrough, I’ve not only discovered new artefacts but also made new breakthroughs including a more definitive understanding of the ancient pantheon of Gods and the events of the past that have ultimately set the Nebula on its course to where you currently are within the game. It’s a fascinating way to illustrate how our understandings of things change over time, and how each era (read: playthrough) potentially brings with it further knowledge of the past to apply towards the present and future.
Heaven’s Vault may not be an exact replica of what it is like to be an archaeologist, but I don’t think that’s the point at the end of the day, As an archaeologist myself, even if I was unable to relate to the approaches used to undertake archaeology in the game, I could still find relatable in the broader experience of archaeological investigation – the game perfectly illustrates why many of us become archaeologists, as well as the many ethical issues that we sometimes face along the way as we reflect upon our role in interpreting the past and how it ultimately impacts the present and the future. And frankly, as a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to video game collectables? I’m very excited to undertake my third playthrough in the near future and continue to build up my dictionary of ancient script.
Draycott, J. (2022). Not male, not pale, and definitely not stale: Aliyah Elasra and archaeology in Heaven’s Vault. In J Draycott (ed)Women in Historical and Archaeological Video Games, 9. Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg, p. 341-360
Haneuer, S. (2021). Archaeogaming: How Heaven’s Vault Changes the “Game”. in A Abar et al. (eds) Pearls, Politics and Pistachios: Essays in Anthropology and Memories on the Occasion of Susan Pollock’s 65th Birthday, Heidelberg: Propylaeum, p. 631-642.
Inkle Studios (2021) Heaven’s Vault, video game, Nintendo Switch. Cambridge: Inkle.
My work and independent research is supported almost entirely by the generosity of readers – if you’re interested in contributing a tiny bit, you can donate here.
The following text is an expanded version of a Twitter conference paper I presented in 2019 for the Public Archaeology Twitter Conferenceon ‘zine making as an alternative form ofscience communication for archaeology.
Setting the mood with one of the coolest looking slides I’ve ever made (from the original Twitter presentation)
Over the past two decades, archaeology has seen a shift towards “outside-the-box” thinking. From queer theory to archaeogaming, the discipline has begun to embrace non-traditional approaches to the ways in which archaeologists engage with the theory and practice of archaeology. And yet, can we say the same for our methods in archaeological outreach and communication?
In some ways, we can; with the popularity of platforms such as YouTube and Twitter, archaeologists are now able to utilise multimedia, in particular visual media, to increase their outreach and experiment with new forms of engagement. However, I would argue that there are some methods that have been mostly ignored by the archaeological community as a whole, despite the huge potential these methods have as tools for public archaeology. With a growing interest in alternative approaches to the discipline (Morgan 2015), perhaps it is time that archaeologists learn how to become ‘zine makers.
‘Zines can be traced back to as early as the 1930’s in the form of “fanzines”; these booklets were produced by science fiction fans and circulated across clubs as a means of distributing critiques of recent literature and publishing new works. The ‘zine format as we understand it today, however, was popularised during the 1980’s with the development of “do-it-yourself” (DIY) and punk subcultures that emphasised pushing against the mainstream, corporate media through creating your own material (Duncombe 2008: 11-12). To the general public, ‘zines are arguably most associated (at least, aesthetically) with the “Riot Grrrl” movement of the 1990’s, which combined the punk scene with the burgeoning third wave of feminism (Piepmeier 2009: 2).
Today, ‘zines live on defiantly against a society whose media intake can now be found almost entirely online. Many ‘zines are distributed and published digitally through websites, such as sproutdistro.com and zinedistro.com. Online shopping platforms, such as Etsy, have also become hot spots for small, independent ‘zine makers to peddle their wares. And, perhaps in spite of our overall reliance on the Internet, there are still in-person ‘zine fairs and swaps organised around the world.
But what exactly is a ‘zine? Given the free nature of expression that is central to the concept of a ‘zine, it can be hard to pinpoint a definition that can broadly encompass all media that identifies as such; over the last decade, this has become even more difficult, as the Internet allows for ‘zines to overcome the restrictions of cut-and-pasted paper publications and become full-fledged multimedia pieces. Perhaps the best definition of the ‘zine comes from the forefather of ‘zine studies himself, Stephen Duncombe (2008: 18): “’zines are decidedly amateur”. While this may sound dismissive, Duncombe quickly clarifies that this is not the case at all; to say that ‘zines are “amateur” is to say that they are made with love, from love, and by love. ‘Zine makers are not making a profit, nor are they professionals working within a professional context – instead, they are working against the cult of professionalism and formality through the emphasis on their individuality and amateurism.
Since their first iteration, ‘zines have been produced and distributed with the intent of education the masses – whether it’s about the best science fiction stories of 1935 or the main tenets of anarcho-communism, ‘zines are hyper-focused pieces of media that allows for free and further exploration of certain subjects. With this in mind, it should come as no surprise that ‘zines have been experimented with in an academic context.
The application of ‘zines within the classroom goes beyond just reading material, however. The process of writing and creating a ‘zine has been observed to be a useful activity in students applying and expressed learned knowledge (Wan 1999: 18-19). As a final project, ‘zine making can also be used as a creative outlet through which students can synthesize an entire course worth of information and express their own conclusions (Desyllas and Sinclair 2014: 300). For subjects that are entwined with political activism and social justice, ‘zines can be a meeting ground between the educational and the personal; additionally, the informal format of ‘zines can also create a space where students feel as though they can harness and express their own, individual voice (Creasap 2014: 155), in contrast to the more formal, standardised publications in academia (i.e. journals, edited volumes, etc.). Perhaps most importantly, ‘zines can be weaponised against an increasingly neoliberal, commodified academy and help in returning focus to a relationship based on knowledge exchange between student and teacher (Bagelman and Bagelman 2016).
Although ‘zines are becoming more popular within academic circles, there have been very few written specifically on archaeology. Artist Peter Driver (2013) has produced a series of ‘zines as part of his work as artist-in-residence for the Basing House excavations. These booklets, which were ultimately distributed as souvenirs for the archaeological team, captured Driver’s thoughts and observations as a non-archaeologist watching the process unfold over a span of three weeks; the resulting artwork included drawings of the excavators at work, diagrams of the stratigraphy reflected in the trenches, and even some speculative illustrations of what the Basing House may have looked like prior to its destruction.
Over the past two years, archaeological ‘zines have been used as a means of introducing more radical, alternative archaeology into the zeitgeist. For example, in 2017, Meghan Walley (2017) edited together a ‘zine called “inDIGnant”, which was distributed at that year’s Society for American Archaeology conference. Walley’s initiative was inspired by a collective frustration she and other students felt at the lack of radical, social justice-oriented literature in archaeology. The resulting ‘zine is a collection of essays, poetry, and visual media that tackle topics such as queer archaeology, Indigenous rights, and ableism, with the hopes that publication in this format will lead to further exposure and discussion of these important subjects in the larger archaeology community (Crocker 2017). Possibly the most recently published archaeology ‘zine comes from the relatively new sub-discipline of archaeogaming. Florence Smith Nicholls and Sara Stewart (2018) have published a ‘zine that is both an introduction text into the basics of archaeogaming theory as well as space of exploration for both the author and illustrator, allowing them the freedom to elaborate and illustrate concepts of archaeogaming that interests them.
‘Zines are clearly ripe for utilisation in the academic sector, but more specifically, within archaeology. Although there are some examples of archaeological ‘zines in distribution, I would argue that the format is still underestimated not only as an alternative form of communication and education, but also as a way to involve others in engaging with archaeology. ‘Zines can become highly collaborative projects, especially within public and community archaeology, and allows for both archaeologists and non-archaeologists alike to flex their various skills and expertise. As more academics become less enchanted with normative methods of publication and communication, perhaps we are due for an “alternative turn”, where ‘zines and DIY culture help usher in a new period of accessible and creative exchanges of knowledge.
References
Bagelman, J. and Bagelman, C. (2016) Zines: Crafting Change and Repurposing the Neoliberal University. ACME: An International E-Journal for Critical Geographies 15 (2).
Creasap, K. (2014) Zine-Making as Feminist Pedagogy. Feminist Teacher 24 (3), 155-168.
Crocker, E. (2017) Getting the Dirt on Punk Archaeology: InDIGnant Zine Hopes to Change Archaeological Culture. The Overcast,
Desyllas, M. C. and Sinclair, A. (2014) Zine-Making as a Pedagogical Tool for Transformative Learning in Social Work Education. Social Work Education: The International Journal 33 (3), 296-316.
My work and independent research is supported almost entirely by the generosity of readers – if you’re interested in contributing a tiny bit, you can donate here.
animalarchaeology.com 