ALTHOUGH THE OFFICIAL rite of passage for many archaeologists is an advanced university degree, the unofficial test is fielding questions or comments regarding dinosaurs. The adventures of Indiana Jones also crop up, and some want to hear about Lara Croft the Tomb Raider. These cinema images portray archaeology as a romantic quest for goodies. Recording contexts and analyzing data do not figure into these popular portrayals. A study of public perception regarding archaeology in the United States showed that 85 percent of the respondents connected archaeology with, among other things, dinosaurs (Ramos and Duganne 2000). Both the dinosaur question and adventurer images are troubling because they reflect a level of societal ignorance about archaeology—a deficit stance (MacDonald 2002). Grahame Clark wrote that archaeology “enables us to view history in broader perspective” (1957:264). While today most would agree that archaeology does a lot of other things in addition to this, even Clark’s definition has not seemed to stick in the minds of many. Where did the dinosaurs and other archaeological myths originate? Why have they not been slain? In the past, societies have formed certain expectations of archaeology, which still linger today. Museums, local archaeology, and general outreach programs demonstrate the degree to which these historical expectations have been more recently modified. Also, there are some themes within contemporary archaeology that society does not yet know to expect. We can begin by looking at the historical aspect.
Public knowledge and mythical perceptions of archaeology originate largely from the way archaeology has evolved as a discipline (see Webster, chapter 2) and the part of society engaged with the field. Antiquarians, most of whom stemmed from the educated middle or upper classes in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and early nineteenth centuries, planted the seeds for archaeology to develop (Trigger 1989). As the discipline evolved in the nineteenth century, influential archaeologists were middle- to upper-class white men of colonizing countries or, in the case of the United States, a country with colonizing tendencies of Manifest Destiny. The predictable result was an imperialistic interpretation of archaeological data. One exception was John Lloyd Stephens, who recognized the indigenous achievements of the Mound Builders in North America and the Maya in Central America (Fagan 1996). Stephens was a U.S. citizen, lawyer, and diplomat (Renfrew and Bahn 1996), a firm part of the upper middle class. Based on scientific observation, his de facto support of indigenous cultures ran against the ideology surrounding Manifest Destiny. This was exceptional; archaeologists during this time rarely broke rank with their class of society, which meant attributing indigenous achievements to exogenous cultures (Ucko 1990; Fagan 1996; Hall 1995).
Across the Atlantic, shortly after Stephens’s work, English General Augustus Lane-Fox Pitt-Rivers made revolutionary inroads into systematic excavation methods. Sir William Flinders Petrie advanced the collection and publication of all data from his excavations in Egypt and Palestine, rather than merely the artifacts valued by his society (Renfrew and Bahn 1996). Pitt-Rivers, like Sir Mortimer Wheeler after him, had experience in the British army and this, in addition to their class and rank, may have influenced their rather detached presentation of archaeology, which is still popular in some museums (see below).
While imperialistic interpretations remained, the romanticism of the antiquarian era slowly dissipated in the nineteenth century. One notable exception to this trend was Heinrich Schliemann’s identification of Troy in the 1870s and 1880s (Renfrew and Bahn 1996). Schliemann was a wealthy banker who financed his own excavations. His flashy lifestyle, combined with the discovery of the hitherto mythical Troy, created an alluring vision of archaeology and archaeologists. With its many goodies (seen widely in Sophia Schliemann’s photo wearing Priam’s Treasure) (Daniel 1981), Troy added significant material for public mythmaking about archaeology: archaeologists are wealthy, acquisitive, globe-trotting people. In this sense, Lara Croft’s video game character is the modern PC (in both the political and technological sense) version of the Schliemann mythos.
Schliemann was not the only nineteenth-century archaeologist to capture public imagination. Giuseppe Fiorelli excavated Pompeii in 1860 and progressively favored context over art, emphasizing that all artifacts (not just the goodies) were important to understanding the city’s past life (Daniel 1981). On the Continent, readers of German were enthralled by the excavations of Iron Age Europe led by Colonel Schwab at La Téne and Georg Ramsauer at Hallstatt. In the Americas, John Lloyd Stephens wrote best-sellers about his explorations of the Mayan sites in 1841 and 1843 (Daniel 1981). Excavating in the Near East, Austen Henry Layard published reports on Nimrud and Nineveh that were widely read. However, while these sites are still icons of archaeology to the public eye, it is Schliemann who remains a household name in conjunction with his site (Silverberg 1985).
With Schliemann having enlivened the public’s image of archaeologists, Howard Carter discovered the tomb of King Tutankhamen in 1922 and made archaeology even flashier. The artifacts and stories from this dig still engage international audiences today (e.g., the curse of Tutankhamen) (Silverberg 1985). Roving museum exhibits convey the excitement of this site but also reinforce the misconception that the purpose of archaeology is to find monetarily precious things. That King Tut was a relatively inconsequential ruler in Egypt shows that sites which get into the public eye are not always the most important ones to the discipline.
Most of the myths center around the practice of field archaeology, even in academia, where the most successful, well-known archaeologists are often those who have led excavations (Gero 1994; Wright 2003). Addressing big questions such as origins (Conkey and Spector 1984) earns recognition and funding today, just as it did in archaeological history.
The achievements of the people behind the scenes, especially the women who accompanied their husbands to the field as practitioners in nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century archaeology, are still unrecognized by the public. Matilda Coxe Stevenson was the ethnographer on her husband’s pueblo expeditions (Reyman 1994). Tessa Wheeler’s work supervising her husband’s excavations at Verulamium and Maiden Castle was so critical that Sir Mortimer did not continue to excavate new sites after her death (Hudson 1981). Yet with the notable exceptions of Dorothy Garrod, discoverer of the Natufian culture (Davies and Charles 1999), and to a lesser extent Gertrude Bell, a founder of modern archaeology in Iraq (Fagan 1996), most of the archaeologists into the twentieth century credited with work were men. This to a certain extent continues today within the profession, where women are more likely than men to be behind the scenes as data crunchers (see Hays-Gilpin, chapter 20).
Along with gender, social class and ethnicity are the other imbalances in archaeology. Garrod, Bell, and other women on the early excavations were from the upper or middle classes. The contributions of non-white archaeologists, whose relations with the white expedition leaders were often good and whose work was a critical part of the practice, have rarely been acknowledged (Fagan 1996), creating mainstream public images of white people making all the discoveries. The practice continues occasionally today where outside researchers rely on local laborers and academics to conduct field projects, yet remain the only ones mentioned or pictured in the publicity of the site.
Owing to their traditionally high education level, which was a product of their social class, a misplaced ideal of objectivity grew among early archaeologists, fueled by the politics of the mid-twentieth century. By the end of World War II, the National Science Foundation in the United States had laid its roots firmly in the realm of physics, and researchers desirous of funding had to comply with the resulting positivist philosophy, one of building scientific laws through hypothesis testing (Kehoe 1998; Trigger 1986). So while New Archaeology declared it was part of anthropology (Binford 1962), and anthropology declared that it discovered universal laws (Kehoe 1998), researchers began communicating to the public in the same positivistic, empirical way.
As positivism often maintains the status quo (Kehoe 1998:135), its empirical research framework and language limit the participation of people who do not think along the same lines, and is a far cry from the current ideals of employing archaeologists of different ethnicities, genders, and educational backgrounds. Both theoretical stances have implications that go beyond the boundaries of academic discourse and tread firmly into the public arena.
Museums as Reflections of Society
The power, prestige, and privilege of the white male archaeologists who dominated the discipline in the past bore heavily on interpretations, public presentation, and affirmation of power. V. Gordon Childe (1933) suggested that interpretations may reflect the bias of the archaeologist, yet only recently has there been any sustained discussion over how archaeological interpretation, along with the material remains, is what the public experiences as archaeology. Nowhere can this be seen more clearly than in museums (Anderson 1991; Walsh 1992).
Museums are one of the primary forms of presenting archaeology to the public. There is a great challenge to cater to the different publics (McManamon 1991), whose desire for knowledge is like an onion—some only want the outer layers, the visual presentation; others go deeper, into the text; and the very keen people chop to the center, interact with the archaeological presenter, and feed into the system. While archaeological museums historically presented finds in dusty glass cases, with typologies of flints, daggers, and pots neatly laid out, the modern public expects to be entertained as well as informed. Kristen Kristensen summarized this:
the demand to experience the past has moved away from bourgeois show cases with selected objects to reconstructed historical sites in the landscape and actual animated pre-historic environments; from observation at a safe distance in museums to active participation in reconstructed scenes. (Kristiansen 1992:11)
The historical trend of “bourgeois showcases” reflects the society from which people practicing archaeology in the past came when museums were first developed in Europe in the nineteenth century (Hudson 1981; Patterson 1995; Kristiansen 1981; Reyman 1994). The glass cases with rows of things and four walls laden with detailed explanations served an educational purpose. Since their audience was highly literate people like themselves, their museums acquiesced to the lofty, seventeenth-century ideal that an enriching experience is enjoyable in its own right; figuring out the typologies based on the esoteric labels was fun. For most people, though, these museums were presumably dull and alienating.
Distance between the visitor and archaeology is still in practice today around the world, particularly in local museums or national museums in countries where budgetary constraints are prevalent. Archaeologists working within a hierarchical or politically constrained environment may need to be seen as the expert and therefore make the subject, and hence the museum display, seem complicated. This sort of agenda keeps archaeology firmly behind glass cases.
Despite this, it is fair to state that the trend for museums in many different countries is increasingly on the participation of and appeal to diverse sections of society (McManamon and Hatton 2000a; Merriman 2004; Stone and MacKenzie 1989; Stone and Molyneaux 1994). Technology, where feasible to incorporate, is a great asset to widening access. One notable example of this is at the Matrica Museum in Százhalombatta, near Budapest, Hungary. Part of the museum is an open-air archaeological park which presents reconstructed Bronze and Iron Age houses described in German, English, and Hungarian. There are numerous Iron Age tumuli in the park (Poroszlai and Vicze 1998), and one is open to the public. A raised walkway dissects the tumulus. Visitors walk into the center of the tumulus at which point the outside doors close and seal them in as a multimedia explanation of the in situ archaeology begins. Outside the tumulus, the challenge of presenting environmental archaeological evidence (Ijzereef 1992) is met through reconstructing the landscapes as they would have appeared in the different time periods. Open-air museums have existed since the nineteenth century, and given that they were first used to highlight aspects of landscape (Mels 2002), it is fitting that archaeological environments are presented in this holistic and inclusive way. Most importantly, it allows for members of society to experience aspects of prehistory using other senses and skills besides reading.
A senior archaeologist in charge of a successful public site in North America once advised, “Don’t worry about being right. You can always change your interpretation later. The main thing is to keep the public’s interest.” This point is highly controversial, and its source remains unnamed upon request. The issue of authenticity is at the fore of what archaeologists working in the public arena contemplate (Jameson 2004; Stone and Planel 1999). Authenticity of presentation is sometimes deemphasized in order to create displays which appeal to the targeted public audience (Jones and Pay 1990). How important is it to maintain public interest in archaeology, and at what point does one compromise on data presentation, vocabulary selection, and argumentation to keep that attention? Without the financial funding levels of such fields as engineering, chemistry, or biology, archaeology is forced to satisfy public interest, since it continues through the goodwill of funding bodies, museum visits, and donations. Even the legislatures in wealthy countries now funding massive archaeological projects ultimately depend on public support. Looking forward, the challenge is to keep and develop this interest while maintaining the public resource.
One way to develop this public support is through museums, which generally aim their exhibits at selected parts of society that can be categorized according to age, ethnicity, gender, or educational level (which often correlates with income and potential donations). In countries where the average income prohibits the expense of visiting a museum, exhibits aim at tourists or wealthy local visitors. In these cases, the material culture presented often promotes the ideological past that best suits the current political agenda (Ferro 1981; Gero and Root 1990; Meskell 1998).
Museums as harbingers of archaeology have been accused of stereotyping and of having the “winners” in history controlling representation (Blakey 1990; Creamer 1990; Paynter 1990; Sommer and Wolfram 1993). Given that different cultures perceive the past differently (Bielawski 1989; Layton 1989; Parker Pearson et al. 1999), variations in time-depth perception have little chance of being represented if the presenters do not come from or interact with the cultures containing them. Indeed, one criticism Aboriginal communities have made is that museums represent their culture as static and time-locked without regard to contemporary context (Bolton 2003). Happily, this historical trend is changing.
Museums based in imperializing countries are reaching out in new ways to source communities in the formerly colonized countries (Peers and Brown 2003). Source communities are not just the groups from which artifacts were originally collected, but also the descendants of these communities. The heart of this trend is that
In this new relationship, museums become stewards of artefacts on behalf of source communities. They are no longer the sole voices of authority in displaying and interpreting those objects, but acknowledge a moral and ethical (and sometimes political) obligation to involved source communities in decisions affecting their material heritage . . . At the core of these new perspectives is a commitment to an evolving relationship between a museum and a source community in which both parties are held to be equal and which involves the sharing of skills, knowledge and power to produce something of value to both parties. (Peers and Brown 2003:2)
This new relationship goes beyond outreach to source communities. In some cases, source or native communities control the museum and interpret the artifacts. For example, the Athabascans in Stevens Village, Alaska, guide tourists down the Yukon river to visit their cultural center, thereby controlling information dissemination (Nuttall 1997). Aboriginal communities in Australia are setting up their own community museums (Bolton 2003). Control by source communities sometimes extends to the research process itself (Anawak 1989; Allison 1999), but this relies heavily on effective communication between archaeologists and the local communities.
Communities founding or solidifying their own identities can present their representation through museums. In the Gulf States, recently formed nations exist in an area which has been successively occupied by many different peoples. Museums in these Gulf States work toward installing a sense of pride (Potts 1998), in the vein of what Trigger (1984) outlined in his seminal article regarding the relationship between archaeology and nationalism, colonialism and imperialism. This use of museums extends also to understanding regional identities within a nation, as is the case in Nigeria (Willett 1990).
The trend of open-air museums referred to by Kristiansen is prevalent in industrialized countries (Ehrentraut 1996), where museums are considered a political priority (Hitchcock et al. 1997), or where wealthy benefactors intend to profit from the entertaining visits (see below). Open-air museums such as at Százhalombatta focus on participation and interaction between visitors and often comprise live demonstrations. Unlike a conventional museum, this entertainment often retains the attention of children even when primarily aimed at adults. In addition to reaching more cross-sections of the public, open-air museums can display the archaeological context of excavated houses, settlements, and artifacts, which helps demythologize the archaeological interpretation. Open-air museums, along with more conventional museums, can involve local communities (Knecht 2003; Merriman 2004). In Asia, popular open-air museums focus on both elite and ordinary lives in the past, and often on specific ethnic communities (Hitchcock et al. 1997). In Switzerland, the best attended museum exhibit ever was an open-air reconstruction of prehistoric lake villages (Ruoff 1990). Although not without controversy, open-air and conventional museums are one of the principal ways in which society and archaeology interact.
Local Archaeology: Identifying Personally with the Past
Local archaeology has a tremendous potential for society. It is the front line of education, outreach, and interaction. A successful local archaeology program makes members of society identify personally with the archaeology (Binks 1989; Davis 1989). Whether people identify with the material culture, the archaeologist, or the interpretation, local archaeology has the potential to demythologize the topic.
Societal expectations of local archaeology vary widely according to geography and ethnicity. People living in areas where there has been little exogenous mixing of peoples (i.e., many European countries) often expect the material remains of the past found locally to apply to their own history. This differs greatly from the United States, where many people connote archaeology with monuments in Egypt and Mexico, instead of their own country (Bense 1991). Of course, the majority of Americans are nonindigenous, so while they may relate to historical remains of the same ethnic group or of personally familiar activities, they perceive prehistoric remains as belonging to other people. In countries where there is little in the way of funding or personnel trained to lead formal programs, connections between the material past and individuals vary, but are not necessarily connoted with archaeology per se.
Mapunda and Lane (2004), working in eastern Africa, suggest several different methods through which archaeologists can reach out to local communities. They point out that conventional methods, such as radio, newspapers, and television, do not always work, particularly where the language of choice is not a local language or where there is a lack of electricity or literacy. They point out that instead of using local people simply for their skills and labor, archaeologists should instead aim to teach locals about archaeology during their interactions. Local people should choose who is to help on the site, and one person should act as an ambassador who communicates and builds trust between the local and nonlocal participants. Exhibitions should be held on days of rest, such as Sundays and public holidays. Every season village elders, teachers, religious leaders, key informants, and other important people should assess how well the project has worked and what could be improved. Finally, low-cost publications, such as covering two sides of A4 paper, should be written with illustrations in the local language to disseminate results (Mapunda and Lane 2004).
This heavy emphasis on contact and participation of local communities is important (Derry 2003; Watkins 2000; Swidler et al. 1997), for local archaeology programs often hinge on successful outreach. In the Rhode Island Marine Archaeology Program (RIMAP), archaeologists work with local divers to identify and record underwater sites (Robinson and Taylor 2000). Divers undergo a training course taught by archaeologists and then report back finds they come across during their recreational diving. In this way, archaeologists obtain survey information that would otherwise be expensive, and the divers get a sense of participating in a productive pastime. So benefits often flow both ways, not only in this context but in others where public programs contribute to the production of academic research (Platonova 1990; Richardson 1990; Gardin 1994).
Another similarly collaborative approach is the Portable Antiquities Scheme in England and Wales. Metal detecting in these countries is legal. Archaeologists engaging with metal detectors take the stance that “we recognise that what you do is legal and we would like to record your finds for public benefit and also educate you about good practice” (Bland 2004:288). This scheme has been very successful, particularly in light of documenting contexts of finds in agricultural areas (Bland 2004).
Interaction at a local level with the public not only helps chart sites but also ideally protects them (McManamon and Hatton 2000b). In Canada and the United States, volunteers for the Site Steward Program watch over local sites (King 1991) to curb site destruction from development, agriculture, and (in some areas) the illicit antiquities trade, a global problem caused by poor legislation, greed, and lack of education and economic opportunity (Brodie et al. 2001; O’Keefe 1997; Renfrew 2000). The latter occurs predominately in war-torn (Naccache 1998), politically unstable (Medina 2000), or impoverished areas (Alva 2001) where locals may identify personally with the remains but are forced to use their ancestors to put food on the table. The Site Steward Program also guards against pot hunting (King 1991), which is a pastime that sometimes is based on economic need (Hollowell-Zimmer 2003) but most often reflects societal ignorance about the importance of context.
Unfortunately, looting occurs in places like Northern Ireland (Hamlin 2000), where local programs are popular and the residents relate directly to their past. Even if one identifies with the past personally, there is something intrinsically tempting in the goodies beneath or on the surface. Site stewardship is very important (Lynott 1995); if local watch programs cannot always prevent looting through vigilance, they may be able to curb it through education and instilling an appreciation of what is being lost (Hollowell-Zimmer 2003). Local archaeology programs are, along with museums and to a certain extent university courses, at the fore of connecting people with the past. Local archaeology programs can be where local businesses, governments, and archaeologists meet. Such is the case for the privately funded ArcheoTirol, a program which funds local excavations, research, and outreach in the Austrian Tyrol (Tomedi 1999). Local businesses funded the Canadian Main Street Program, a successful event organized by Heritage Canada Foundation to preserve historical vernacular architecture (Dalibard 1986). The key to successful outreach is a willingness to reach out in new ways to different parts of society.
Although archaeology helps break down myths at the local level, at the global level they are often reinforced via mass media and the Internet. Theoretically these modern mediums of communication should widen access to archaeology. Whereas historically archaeology was accessible to upper-middle-class people from imperializing nations through print, talks, or site visits, now people can learn about the past without leaving home or speaking to a soul. In the United States, 56 percent of those polled said they learn about archaeology through television (Ramos and Duganne 2000). In the United Kingdom, the popular archaeology television series Time Team has been broadcast on commercial television station for years. This show has contributed to the public awareness of and interest in archaeology in the United Kingdom. It also proves that archaeology can be an economically viable enterprise on television. Although archaeologists are regularly featured on the show, it is hosted by a celebrity, and this underlies the need for archaeologists to better market themselves and the profession (Smardz 1996).
Often television broadcasts, while doing good things such as raising public interest and awareness, fail to discuss grounding principles (excuse the pun) such as context. Instead, they tend to focus on widely recognized case studies that often resemble Indiana Jones/Lara Croft on a quest: alluring objects are sought at the expense of (1) place and (2) the labors of archaeologists behind the scenes. Validity is inconsistent in the popular media, which often must produce a sellable product at the expense of accuracy. The pressures on television editors are similar in publishing: success is not measured by education but rather popularity. In aiming for the masses, it is easy to replicate and validate stereotypes (Gero and Root 1990) or even outright falsehoods (e.g., “fingerprints of the gods”).
If enthusiasm for the subject sometimes conflicts with the scientific ideal, archaeologists can counter by connecting in innovative ways using the printed word. Novels such as Pitts and Roberts’s Fairweather Eden bring the story behind the data to life. Narrative can also be useful in transmitting ideas between archaeologists of different subdisciplines (Wallace 2003). Even poetry has been suggested as a means to connect with the public in the interpretation of historical houses (Brooks 1989). Popular science books (e.g., Diamond, Guns, Germs, and Steel) attract the educated and interested public, though many cross into the field of physical anthropology. These books, such as Johanson and Edgar’s From Lucy to Language, quench public thirst for origin theories, but do less to break down the myths and broaden society’s view of archaeology beyond this popular topic. Despite these efforts, nonarchaeologists seem to have a way of writing that appeals more broadly to the public, Jean Auel’s Clan of the Cave Bear series being one case in point (Fagan 1987).
Although television programs and books are distributed worldwide, the Internet constitutes perhaps the most accessible means of transmitting ideas about archaeology. It provides the means for archaeologists and members of the public to interact (Hodder 1999; McDavid 2003). It is increasingly accessible to people in nonindustrialized nations and economically disadvantaged people within industrialized nations. While the Internet may be used for negative purposes, such as the auction of unprovenanced artifacts, on the whole it is a useful way to learn. Many academically funded excavations disseminate information on the Internet, and professional societies now maintain websites on basic archaeological principles for schoolteachers and other interested members of the public. The levels of information vary, but on the whole society today has the potential to interact and learn about world archaeology on an unprecedented scale.
The Internet’s ties to globalism are clear-cut. Yet the goals of the Internet highway’s profiteers to “promote a world culture” (Gates199:263, as cited in Hodder 1999) conversely contribute to the desire by many people to find their own personal or group’s identity within this global world. A perceived ancestral past helps to justify this identity-searching pursuit, which is a common one for communities living within the boundaries of a larger nation-state (Smith 1995; Watson 1990).
In national politics, those in power need the past to justify their country’s existence. The expectations and use of the past by nationalists believing their cause to be a type of religion (Anderson 1991; Gellner, 1983) are now well documented for many parts of the world (Atkinson et al. 1996; Díaz-Andreu and Champion 2996; Kohl and Fawcett 1995). Individuals are often the focus of nationalistic and ethnic material culture, glorifying the achievements of a particular society or person with statues, monuments, or graves. Though static markers, the relationship of these material culture testaments to their society is purposeful and changeable. In fact, such change includes destruction of anything that does not fit contemporary nationalistic or religious beliefs (Layton et al. 2001). Ideology is as powerful a force as politics, environment, or economics in the destruction of archaeological sites. In the former Soviet Union, for example, pre-Soviet national monuments and belief systems were all played down by that regime. More recently in Afghanistan, in front of the world’s (mostly protesting) eyes, the Islamic Taliban government destroyed the largest Buddha statues in the world, which were carved into a remote cliff around the sixth to seventh centuries A.D. (Golden 2004). Among the elites protesting were UNESCO and G10 countries, most of which do not have Buddhist majorities, demonstrating that ideological monuments are seen as part of a world heritage. Ideology gives meaning to the material past but also destroys it (Golden 2004; Layton et al. 2001; Meskell 2002); considering how ideologies change with time, one wonders how ideological monuments from past societies survive.
Even on a smaller scale, the artifacts of daily life may be controlled in a way that justifies the desired national identity at the expense of an unwelcome one. For example, around the World Heritage Site of Carthage, Tunisia, street signs connected with the Punic (i.e., indigenous) period of glory are new, made in tile and placed in prominent places for tourists, whereas street signs with Roman names are left old and rusting. In this way, globalism increases access to archaeology but, conversely, leads sometimes to its destruction (Wallace 2006).
In the past few decades, immense inroads have been laid into alternative archaeologies that address such previously ignored topics as gender, sexuality, disability, children, and the disenfranchised, much of which is discussed in other chapters of this volume. So far, public knowledge of these types of research is limited, but alternative archaeologies are an excellent opportunity for a diverse array of people to identify more personally with the material past, and create the past through their own interpretations of the archaeological data. There is a time lag, however, and research arguments can be outdated by the time they reach public consciousness. Children around the globe are taught about man the hunter and woman the gatherer, outdated concepts that trickled down from academia into public conceptions of a gendered past (see Hays-Gilpin, chapter 20; and Jordan, chapter 26). In order for alternative archaeologies to become part of the mainstream while still current, archaeologists may need to communicate at the local level rather than allowing their research to trickle down from academia.
Themes such as outreach, education, globalism, and identity can be applied to case studies. Here they are applied to Lithuania, a country which was occupied for most of the twentieth century. It was occupied by the Soviets in 1940, and then the German invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941 put Lithuania under Nazi government jurisdiction until 1944. Although 220,000 Lithuanians of Jewish descent were killed during the Nazi era, most Lithuanians today are coming to terms with the more recent Soviet suppression which happened during the Soviet rule from 1944 to 1991, when Lithuania joined the United Nations. During this second period of Soviet rule, around 275,000 Lithuanians died and/or were exiled to Siberia (where many perished), while another 140,000 were forced to relocate from Klaip da on the Baltic coast to other parts of the country, and 200,000 Lithuanian Poles were deported to Poland. From 1940 to 1991, roughly 30 percent of Lithuanian inhabitants were either killed or deported from its borders (Aleksaite 2001). Today, roughly a decade after the Soviet withdrawal, it is possible to view the material expressions of how Lithuanians are coming to terms with this collective trauma.
The most moving of these is the Museum of Genocide Victims, housed in the former KGB headquarters in Vilnius and funded partially by private individuals and the Baltic American Committee of Greater Cleveland. Outside the museum is a small memorial of cobblestones and mortar, with a cross at the top and most of the cobblestones inscribed with a name of a fallen person. This memorial is a living one, much as at other places for collective remembrance like the Sepulchre or Kensington Palace in London, the Vietnam War Memorial (Pendergast and Graham 1989), or Smetana’s grave in Prague. No bird droppings can be found on it. Instead, the exterior memorial is adorned with fresh flower bouquets. Some openly pray while others have a moment of silence as they walk past it on the street, either individually or in groups.
The outside of the building is also noteworthy, for attached to the outer walls are rectangular concrete plaques with the names of different people who were executed within the walls. The explanatory plaque (also in concrete) says in both Lithuanian and English, “May the names of Lithuanian patriots, shot to death in this former KGB building, bear witness to duty fulfilled to the mother land, its honor, freedom, and independence.” That ex-patriots funded this museum shows that there is both patriotism and an active interest in ensuring that no one forgets the fallen.
Inside the museum, one views the different rooms used for paper processing, interrogation, torture, and execution, each with written explanation in Lithuanian and English. Cloth coverings must be worn over shoes of those who enter the execution chamber. The descent into this chamber ends abruptly and unexpectedly with a raised glass floor. Underneath the floor is a sandy surface with the possessions of the executed strewn about in a seemingly random fashion, including a pair of smashed spectacles. A museum docent summarized the reasoning for the raised glass floor aptly, “It would not be moral to walk on the surface over which the blood ran.” Written explanations are in Lithuanian, with a small book in English summarizing the text.
The Museum of Genocide Victims aims to make a big impact on visitors, so that they understand the trauma inflicted on the victims within the walls. It is a “hot” museum experience (Uzzell 1989). Lithuanian institutions, such as schools and the national military service, utilize the museum’s in situ setting to educate and remember. Institutionalized visits such as these focus on the younger population, some of whom were too young to clearly remember the Soviet era. Although the museum has been receiving many foreign visitors, the paucity of English explanation within the innermost hub, the torture chamber, to an outsider reflects a boundary of mourning: you may look in but only those directly related to the shock understand.
Contrasting with the Museum of Genocide Victims is Stalin World, which can be described best as a controversial depository for Soviet-era statues. Statues of Lenin are most prevalent, but there are also a couple of Stalin statues, which is interesting since icons of Stalin were removed after he died and have no place in the memory of many living Lithuanians. After Lenin, the most commonly occurring statue is of Vincas Mickeviius-Kapsukas, a Lithuanian who opposed independence and aided the invasion of the Red Army in 1917. Most of the statues are of Lithuanians who committed acts of genocide or repression on behalf of the Soviets.
Monuments in this park are removed even more from their original context than in the Museum of Genocide Victims, and there is a duality of purpose reflecting the present trend to entertain as well as educate. One reads gruesome explanations of the atrocities committed on plaques next to the statues while jovial Soviet-era music plays in the background. Children play in the park, but overseeing the play are severely uniformed docents, who are quick to act if any playing (or picture taking thereof) appears to get out of hand. People sip tea and enjoy refreshments in a purpose-built area next to a statue of a Soviet soldier. There is also a small zoo, in case one gets bored. The zoo, restaurant, and playground are all within sight of some of the statues, and most of the people congregate in that central area with only a cursory look into the other pathways leading to the other statues.
Many Lithuanians do not object to the principle of the park, but rather the person who built it (a man who had links to the Soviet regime and profited greatly after independence). Indeed, the creator’s wealth is on display to every visitor, since his mansion is en route between the park entrance and the main section of the museum. Yet objections arise also from the tasteless commercial tendencies of the park: one can buy ice cream sold from one of the railcars that transported Lithuanians to their Siberian exile. Proposals to create a rail tour of the park using these cars was rejected, much to the appreciation of those still living who rode in them originally.
At least one Lithuanian feels it is a good thing to keep the statues as a reminder of the past. A recent newspaper article (Daily Telegraph, March 12, 2005) quoted a Lithuanian woman’s reaction to the park. Formerly a member of the pro-Soviet Young Pioneers, she said, “As a child you believe what people tell you . . . It is very odd suddenly seeing all these figures from my childhood. Now I see how strange it was. But it’s our history. We can’t forget it.” This person seemed to use the statues as a way of remembering and reflecting on the past using hindsight. One wonders, however, if the general atmosphere of the park, with music playing and Soviet Young Pioneer actors parading, does not contain some residual nostalgia for the Soviet era (Lowenthal 1985). Parents bring their children to remember, yet how much can be remembered from the playground and zoo, which are within sight of only a few of the statues? To its credit, there is more for children to do there than at the Genocide Museum (even if most of what children can do has nothing to do with the statues). Yet the amusement park atmosphere of the museum is most inappropriate. The argument could be made that the music played is similar to that heard in the public squares in which the statues were originally displayed. Alternatively, the music and park setting is out of keeping with the severity of the crimes described on the plaques. It is the removal of original context that makes this duality of jovial and severe possible. The KGB museum, like Dachau or other places of oppressive acts, could not use such an approach.
Finally, the Lithuanian National Museum has a more traditional view on presenting the recent oppressive past: glass containers displaying finds and describing people. Very moving in terms of the recent past was a temporary exhibit by one of the people exiled to Siberia, which featured sketches of life as an exile with brief descriptions of what was sketched: definitely a “hot” exhibit, to again use Uzzell’s (1989) terminology.
The new archaeological wing to the museum deals with prehistory and history. Although the approach is traditional and noninteractive, the displays and explanations are state-of-the-art. For a time, visitors could observe the excavation between the new and old wings of the museum and this provided some opportunity for interaction. Yet if interaction and active interpretation is not the principal force here, there is a significant emphasis on communicating with global communities via multilingual displays and versions of the museum’s Internet site (www.lnm.lt). A significant written overview of the history and prehistory of the country is also available for purchase in English for those visitors wanting to read more about the artifacts and research behind the exhibits (Kiaupa et al. 2000). This multilingual material was made available soon after independence, and this too shows a strong emphasis on communication and outreach.
One Lithuanian academic informally reported that not as many Lithuanians as originally hoped visit the inside of the National Archaeology Museum, although there was a strong interest in the museum’s excavation. Excavations in Lithuania tend to be quite small, about twenty square meters, and are funded largely as rescue efforts by local authorities. Some larger digs are beginning to take place through developer funding and collaborations with foreign universities (Menotti et al., in press). On the odd occasion when excavations are open for public display, they are well attended, especially by younger Lithuanians. Yet excavations often remain closed to the public, partially out of the problem of size (one local archaeologist commenting, “What would there be to see?”), but also out of a fear that public interest will lead to looting.
This juxtaposition between the relatively forthright archaeological museum presentations and the closed archaeological excavations in Lithuania is interesting. It is perhaps a small artifact of Soviet-era repression, where control of information was the key to livelihood, power, and security. Archaeologists maintain tight control over the dissemination of information in a museum display through the text, choice of artifacts, and presentation. In an excavation, control is more limited and constrained by chance in terms of what is being uncovered when visitors come to view the site. They may hear the archaeologist’s explanation but walk away with their own views and interpretations. The purpose of this chapter has been to emphasize that this is a positive trend some archaeologists are embracing. It promotes personal identification with the past, which in turn increases public support of archaeology. An archaeologist’s job is not threatened but secured by such an interest. At the end of the day, the years of theoretical and practical training archaeologists undergo ensure their place as formally qualified experts.
This case study of different aspects of heritage display in Lithuania shows how presentation, monumentality, conservation, and archaeological practice have been determined by history, nationalism, and society. Presentation of the recent past is at the forefront of many Lithuanian agendas and takes different forms, from the shocking to controversial to conventional. The diversity of remembering experiences reflects strongly those in control of the presentations—here ex-patriots (in the true sense), a post-Soviet millionaire, and the academic elite.
The presentation of the distant past is also done in a way which keeps the museumologists and archaeologists firmly in control of data and interpretation. This aspect of control is contingent on the political history, since elsewhere in the world archaeologists are beginning to let go of their implicit right to control data and interpretation (Derry and Malloy 2003; Gathercole and Lowenthal 1990). Says one colleague, “The statues and rhetoric changed but the mentality stays the same,” a sentiment common for post-Soviet countries (Janik and Zawadzka 1996).
The Lithuanian case also highlights how theoretical approaches to archaeological practice require ideal conditions which are historically and financially (Politis 1995) contingent. They may not be advocating measures of accessibility proposed by archaeologists in other countries, but this reflects the traditional political, financial, and philosophical constraints of doing research and public archaeology in their society. Most archaeologists advocating public access to data come from privileged backgrounds in societies that have traditionally promoted freedom of thought (Eggert and Veit 1998).
In this sense, though archaeologists are more diverse today than in the past, there is a danger that public archaeology programs still lack relevance to many people in society. For this reason, there is a strong, internationally acknowledged need to begin outreach and interaction at the local level. Public archaeology programs have a greater chance than those not involving the public to connect the finding to heritage today. This may not be relevant to more theoretical use of the data, but is nonetheless a critical step in the archaeological process. In the end it is this feedback from local communities which may ultimately slay the dinosaurs.
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