Agency and Identity in the Ancient Near East New Paths Forward
edited by Sharon R. Steadman and Jennifer C. Ross
Equinox Publishing Ltd
.
e~ulnox London
Oakville
Contents
vii
Acknowledgments I.
Agency and Identity in the Ancient Near East: New Paths Forward Jennifer C. Ross and Sharon R. Steadman
1
I. THE AGENCY OF PLACE
2. Published by UK: USA:
~~~nCox2P8uMblislhlsng Ltd., ,
I Chelsea Manor Studios, Flood Street, London SW3 5SR an treet, Oakville, CT 06779
3.
www.equlnoxpub.com
4.
First published 20 I0
Movement Across the Landscape and Residential Stability: Agency and Place in the Southern Levantine Early Bronze Age Jennifer E. Jones
13
Agency, Architecture, and Archaeology: Prehistoric Settlements in Central Anatolia Sharon R. Steadman
27
Agents in Motion Scott Branting
47
© Sharon R. Steadman and Jennifer C. Ross 20 I 0
II. THE AGENCY OF DAILY PRACTICE
All rights reserved. No part of this publication rna be reproduced or transmitted In any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, Including hotoco In y without prior permission In writing ~rom th:~u~il;~~~:.dlng or any Information storage or retrieval system, Library of Congress Catalogulng-In-Publicatlon Data A catalogue record for this book Is available from the Library of Congress ISBN
9781845534431
(hardback)
Typeset by Forthcoming Publications Ltd www.forthcomlngpublicatlons.com
5.
6.
7.
Printed and bound In the UK by CPI Antony Rowe, Chlppenham and Eastbourne
8.
Subsistence Actions at C;:atalhoyi.il< Nerissa Russell and Amy Bogaard
63
The Scribal Artifact: Technological Innovation In the Urul< Period Jennifer C. Ross
80
Shared Painting: The Practice of Decorating Late Neolithic Pottery in Northern Mesopotamia A. Gabriela Castro Gessner
99
Early Islamic Pottery: Evidence of a Revolution in Diet and Dining Habits? Jodi Magness
117
vi
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
Acknowledgments
III. THE AGENCY OF POWER
9.
Material Culture and Identity: Assyrians, Aramaeans
a~d the Indigenous Peoples of Iron Age Southeaster~ Anatolia
TImothy Matney 10.
II.
12.
129
Object Agency? Spatial Perspective, Social Relations, and the Stele of Hammurabi Marian H. Feldman Akkad and Agency, Archaeology and Annals: Considering Power and Intent in Third-Millennium BCE Mesopotamia Anne Porter Agency, Identity, and the Hittite State Gregory McMahon
148
166
181
IV. BEYOND AGENCY 13.
Beyond Agency: Identity and Individuals In Archaeology A. Bernard Knapp
About the Contributors Index
193 201 203
The editors would like to thank a number of people without whom this project would not have been completed. First and foremost, we extend our gratitude to our authors, whose willingness to embark on the project gave us heart that it could be done, and whose ideas and words have inspired us in ways we hope this book embodies and expresses. Special thanks go to A. Bernard Knapp, for his patience and interest in the central themes of the volume, his willingness to participate in all stages of its development, and for his crucial final chapter which not only provides an excellent synthesis but moves the volume forward, 'beyond agency'. This book was 'born' on a journey through the Lake District in Turkey, a lovely vacation after a season of excavation, taken with Greg McMahon and his daughter, Megan. We thank the McMahons for bearing with us on that trip, and debating the utility of agency studies, an apt activity that foreshadowed the debates our authors engaged in while developing their chapters (and the lively conversations we had as groups when we saw each other at ASOR and other venues). Appropriately, the volume has come together in a pair of meetings at another vacation spot, the home of Bill and Cathy Siegl, jennifer's in-laws, in the Poconos. We are grateful for the hospitality of the Siegls, who are not responsible for any flaws (or broken dishes) in the final product. We also thank our husbands, who sustained us not only during these meetings, but through the entire process. An acknowledgement of Tom Levy's support for the inclusion of our volume in the Approaches to Anthropological Archaeology series is much deserved, and we close by thanking the entire staff at Equinox for their help in bringing this volume to fruition.
1
Agency and Identity in the Ancient
Near East New Paths Forward Jennifer c. Ross and Sharon R. Steadman
Defining Agency The concepts of 'agency' and 'identity' have been incorporated into archaeological theory, and sometimes practice, since the 1980s and 1990s, as part of a realignment of the archaeological endeavor under post-processualisJl1. In the theoretical literature of the 1980s, scholars advocated shifting the focus of archaeology from the reconstruction of culture and from cultural and environmental constraints upon action (often termed 'structure') to the study of individuals as active producers of and participants in society (Hodder 1986, 2(00). As is the case with much archaeological theory, agency and identity concepts have been derived from other disciplines-in this case, archaeology's sister disciplines of anthropology (BourdieuJ 977, 1990) and sociology (Giddens 1979,1984). In these fields, the study of individuals and small groups had long been emphasized, with some prominence given to verbal and material self-representation. 'Agency' may be defined as the human capacity for motivated, reflexive action having some consequence (if not always an expected or intended outcome). Agency pertains to individuals and groups; it may also, more controversially, be applied to objects (Gell 1998; see Feldman, this volume). 'Identity' studies recognize that an individual may have many simultaneous, as well as consecutive, identities during her or his lifetime (Meske II 20(1). These identities may include sex, gender, age, socioeconomic status, race, ethnicity, religion, and occupation. An individual can choose to accentuate some aspects of her identity and to suppress others; a second person might select still other features in describing the first, demonstrating the contingent and discursive nature of identity. Often identity has a material component, as an individual1l1ay produce, manipulate or use objects or spaces in expressing identity. It is this material expression that makes agency and identity so appropriate and conducive to archaeological analysis. The microscale implementation of excavation offers archaeologists a window onto the actions and self-representations of past individuals, within speciflc historical and cultural contexts. So far, archaeological work on identity and agency has been very much 'contextdependent', contingent on one's scholarly background and geographic and chronological focus (see Porter, this volume). British archaeologists have taken on l11uch of the theoretical and practical work on agency, perhaps owing to the derivation of the theory from Anthony Giddens's theory of 'structuration' (Barrett 20()1). Archaeological work on identity has beenl110re widespread, but has focused, in particular, on ethnic and gender identity (jones 1997; Meske1l2002; Meskell and Joyce 2()03 ).
2
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
For scholars workin ' h N , , glUt e ear East, concepts of agency d 'd ' h lIttle lUtO our practices and ideas Th h b an 1 entIty ave penetrated very , I ' ere as een some research on t' I ' , partlcu arly ethnicity (Emberling 1997) d d (A h rna ena expressIOns of Identity, er Eastern archaeology has long been orient:~ t gen d IS er-h
Central Questions of Agency Since its origins in the writings of Bourdieu and G'dd ' extended to archaeology by a number f I i I ens 111 the 1970s, agency theory has been o SC to open up archaeological ;xploratioll t 10 ~rhs, each offWhol11 has confronted both its potential 0 a nc er set 0 understand' f ' , , , , IlITIltatlons In terms of archaeological j"' d I " lI1gs 0 past actIon and its action. Both Bourdieu and Giddens app dlcadtI?nd~n'dt leI onzatIOn of an individual's potential for , If' regar e 1I1 IVI ua s as poss' "I ' ~ot~ntla or actIOn, particularly action that could ch h :SS111g prevIOUS y unrecognIZed lImIted through the constraints of str Ct ' h ' ange t e SOCIal system, but that potential is system, for Giddens [1984'25]) or thUh ubr~t (I.e( 'ht ~ rule~ an~ resources' that organize the social . , eat us t e matenal dISP 'r" ' f ' ' an d orgal1lze social practices for Bourdieu 1990'52 OSI I?nS 0 a socIety that generate II [ :53]). Both theonsts also saw individual action as both intentionally and u~intenti critiques, from both archaeologists ~I~~ :rl contn ,ut111~ to, the overarching structure. Subsequent l er individual intentions may be detected a d t l SOCIa sbclent~sts, have explored the degree to which , f "n le means y whIch ind' 'd I I ' 111 pre erence to others (Hodder 1998 D b 20 IVI ua s c lOose partIcular actions ; 0 res 00 2001) A ' II ' agency theory for archaeologists der' f ' , ' n espeCIa y attractIve component of 'd I Ives rom Our capaCIty to obse ' I ' I VI ua and group decisions and Ollr b'l' d lve t le matena outcomes of indi, a I Ity to etect and pursue I I" In Our exploration of agency theor d' '. ong-term c langes 111 SOCIal systems. authors to consider several questions i~l~t d ~ts a~l~catIOn/o archaeological settings, we asked the might be applied to all archaeologicai set/ 111~ e ;ssue 0 scale and whether the agency approach tion of the archaeological r;corcl I' e' I t 111~sl' e ~ sOl wanted them to address whether the resolu' . . na ena gaps 1I1 t le reco d j" , d w I10 Ie host of other constraining factors 'I d r , Imlte areas of excavation, and a a Finally, given that one-third of tIle co t "bm~g 1t d vel rs:ly affect the use of the agency model 'd' n n utIOns ea WIth anc' t I' . 'I b'l' f ,len textua matenal, many of us consl ered the Issue of whether tIle aVaJ a I Ity 0 a textual corp' I 'I' , us Impacts t le use of an agency mo d e.I The authors took up these Cll II a enges In t lelr contnbution d ff I I " t Ilar a II ow us to provide some ans I ' s an 0 erec va uable I11slghts , wers to t lese questIOns.
'b
The Issue of Scale Can agency theory be applied to all archaeolo ical settin' , hold basis, at the intra-community leve I f g " gs? Is It more SUItable on an intra-houser there a scale that is too small or too lar ,of or regIOnal and state-level analyses? A[ternatively is , , , g e or a successful app/" r" f I ' IS an Important question for the anc' t' N E " Ica IOn 0 t le agency approach? This , l e n ear ast gIven the e t ' I ' mu [tltude of scalar levels available for I'n ' 'A x enslve geograp llC area and the 'I t one end of tI N ear Eastern archaeologists might be a t' vestlgatIOn. N fi I ' le occupatIOna spectrum for cities such as Bogazkoy the enormo' l11y ,atlu ?n la m[et 111 the Levant and at the other are vast ' us capIta cIty 0 f the Hitr"t Wh' I ' , I ' [I oglca y apply the agency theoretical franlew k t I ' 'd I es. IC 1 111vestlgators might ' " " o r 0 t lelr eVI ence' those w [' ' I " past, t IlOse I11vestlgatl11g empires or th '" , . or (l11g 111 t le prehlstonc , ose examlllll1g II1termedIate stages?
NEW PATHS FORWARD
3
Fortunately the authors in this volume provided collective answers to this question of scale; the consensus is that an agency model is indeed useful at most levels of analysis, Although focusing on three very different sets of material culture, three chapters explore agency at the household or even individual level. Russell and Bogaard address the key decision points at which household residents at <::atalhoyiik deliberated regarding the acquisition and final deposition of plant and animal food within the household structure. The authors offer conjectures about what factors might motivate various decisions, i,e, what goals the household agents sought to accomplish. Their careful analysis of faunal and botanical remains shows how Russell and Bogaard can eventually evaluate nuanced differences in food-related activities from one Neolithic <::atalhoyiik household to the next and thereby address agency-based actions in relation to food at this site. Castro Gessner and Branting address agency at the individual level; Castro Gessner examines the craft-oriented practice of painting Halaf period ceramics while Branting, using a setting in a large city, focuses on individuals as they traverse the city's pathways on foot, Castro Gessner gets at the decisions individual painters must make almost on a stroke-by-stroke basis with regard to skill and the ultimate completed decoration of the individual pot. In a similar fashion Branting examines the decisions a pedestrian must make at various points while traversing an Iron Age city. Such decisions are motivated by numerous factors including the age, sex, and health of the individuals themselves, and a multitude of other layers of decisions the individual agent must make while walking from origin point to destination in a bustling city, Both Steadman and Ross address the individual actor, with regard to the house-builder and scribe respectively, but also investigate these individuals' actions and their impact at the community level. Steadman's study of Chalcolithic architecture examines the agent/builder/resident and the decisions such an individual might make in the (re)construction of a home in view of messages such actions might send to the community. Ross examines Uruk-period lexical texts made by individual scribes that feature lists of objects and materials that do not necessarily conform to the material culture in the community. Scribal action, therefore, reveals a separate sphere of knowledge from that used in daily practice by craftmakers in the community. Jones, McMahon, and Matney offer studies at the regional scale. Jones examines how human movement across the Early Bronze Age Levantine countryside creates a symbolically and materially encultured landscape; in some cases actors intentionally created visible landscape features and in others the creation of a mental map of the region developed organically. Matney takes on the Assyrian empire and McMahon the Hittite, and while both more overtly address the subject of identity and empire, each also examines the individual actors (rulers) and the motivations that shaped their actions at both imperial and local levels. Taken as a whole, therefore, the authors in this volume have answered the query regarding agency and scale: there is the possibility of application on all levels and in all periods of the Near Eastern past.
Agency and the Archaeological Record While the application of the agency approach to all levels of the archaeological past may be quite successful, the resolution of the archaeological record may hinder somewhat, or even severely, the results of the application. This is a hurdle that several of the volume's authors faced and attempted to solve using a variety of approaches, Russell and Bogaard grappled with the issue of taphonomic processes and the impact they may have on the accurate representation of food-related remains. Steadman notes that ideally, entire settlements would be exposed in order to achieve a complete understanding of agents and decision-making regarding the building of one's home vis-a-vis intended goals; in the absence of this rare occasion she undertook comparative research at contemporary sites in order to evaluate more accurately the architectural layout at her own. Jones and Castro Gessner turn to the ethnographic record to fill in knowledge gaps-Jones for the richly
4
layered moral and gendered aspects that cultures weave into the landscape and Castro Gessner to examine learning patterns within and across generations of painters. Branting simply notes that trying to examine movement through a city or any landscape is extremely challenging, whether one is applying an agency or other type of model. The resolution of the archaeological record certainly hinders the successful attainment of results from the agency approach, but this differs not at all from other model-based research programs. The resolution of the archaeological record is perhaps our greatest challenge as our discipline attempts to piece together the lives of peoples and cultures past; this has not stopped archaeologists from undertaking model-based research, it has only driven them to necessary and valuable efforts to complement the record with ethnographic or comparative research where possible. There is no doubt that the use of model-based archaeology has allowed the discipline to move far beyond a field that engages in object-by-object typological lists of form, function, and use. While an agency framework may not be the most powerful means in today's archaeology to investigate past actors, it has clearly opened many doors for researchers included in this volume. A number of the authors here have commented to the editors that using an agency model forced them to think about the past, whether focused on people, objects, buildings, texts, or landscapes, in different ways than they had previously. Feldman was moved to ask whether objects might have agency and McMahon pondered the intentions of the earliest Hittite king with regard to his multi-ethnic peoples. Ross was able not only to identify where Uruk period scribal lexical lists differed from the material record but to delve into why that might be so; Steadman asked not only whether architecture shapes societal structure, a fairly standard notion, but whether actors in return shape architecture for their own purposes. Each of the contributors to this volume used agency to forge new paths for thinking about peoples, places, and things in the ancient Near East. That alone makes an agency model a powerful tool for studying the production of meaning in the archaeological past.
Agency and the Textual Corpus More than many other geographical regions, archaeology in the Near East has been driven by the recovery and reconstruction of textual sources. Study of the ancient Near East was, for a long time, predominantly an historical discipline; the chapter by Porter, in this volume, provides a particularly apt critique of the dominance of the historical paradigm in Near Eastern archaeology. Although this situation changed with the advent of New Archaeology in the 1960s, which stressed environmental and economic change as factors in the development of ancient societies and encouraged, especially, ~xplorati?n of prehistori~ cultures, the relationship between philologists and archaeologists working In the Middle East remaInS both close and contested. The tension between textual and material culture scholars is exposed even in the scheduling of conferences of Near Eastern scholars. The ~encontre Assyrio'?gi9ue 1I1te~l1ati~l1a'e, for instance, meets each year at the beginning of July, a time when the maJ0rtty of u11lverslty-based archaeologists are in the field and unable to prepare papers or attend. At the same time, increasing numbers of archaeologists and Assyriologists find them~elves relying ?n one another's methods and results, and a spirit of rapprochement has begun to arISe (see, espeCially, the work of art historian Irene Winter, and the cooperative projects of scholars working on the Archaic texts from Uruk, including Robert Englund and Hans J. Nissen). These changing circumstances are also reflected in a number of contributions to this volume. Archaeologists who specialize in periods and areas for which texts are available have contributed a fiercely analytical attitude to the study of those texts. Specifically, they question how representative t?~se.texts are of society as.a whole, and to what degree the textual corpus represents a propagandistiC Instrument for those In power; Matney's chapter here fronts this issue in his analysis of Neo-A~syr.ian. t~xts concerning conquered territories. Agency studies encourage this questioning by regardIng IndiVidual texts as expressions of the motivations of their authors, with an intentionality
5
NEW PATHS FORWARD
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
that mayor may not be apparent to modern, or even ancient, readers and viewers. Though there is no reliable measure available for literacy in the ancient Near East, and literacy may have been extremely script-dependent, it is likely that the majority of the population during most periods would not have read or written on a regular basis. In this volume, the chapters by Magness and Ross both confront the ways in which written sources created and reinforced class distinctions, ~nd created new identities, while Porter shrewdly points out that texts can reveal the under~yIng presence and agency of countless individuals engaged in transactions, conquests, and royal actIOns. A number of authors in this volume rely explicitly on textual data in their analysis of agency and identity issues. In particular, royal texts-those produced by, for, or concerning the activities of kings-form the centerpiece of the chapters by McMahon and Porter, and inform (though less directly) the analyses offered by Feldman and Matney. Ross, in turn, deals directly with th~ produ~ tion of texts, and even the invention of the writing system, tracing the beginnings of cuneiform, In part, to an assertion of intellectual power on the ~art o~ scri~es, th~ first administrative exper.ts. In dealing with tablets and texts, the authors take paInS to Identify the Intended mess~ge and a~dlen.ce of the texts delving into contexts of creation and display, as standard archaeological practice diCtates. The a~ents behind the creation of the texts are not always named individuals, but the material traces of their work remain central to analysis. The confrontation of textual and archaeological evidence is a central theme running through this volume, and the studies offered here point the way toward new perceptions of individual agency.
Decentering Agency A number of additional themes draw together multiple contributions to the volume. In the following sections, we will treat several of these. While these themes ~re not c~nt~al to judgments ?S to the value of agency and identity studies in archaeology, they do POInt to major Issues of c?ntentlon, a.nd agreement, among scholars. In fact they contribute to new paths forward by offenng alternative entries into and application of agency theory.
Object Agency
.
Scholars seeking to define and operationalize theories of agency will f~equently.come u~ agaInst t.he problem of 'object agency': whether objects themselves may affect action, seemIngly actIn? ~o maIntain or manipulate societal structures. In this volume, Feldman's cl~apter deals most explt~ltlr (and affirmatively) with this question, but other contributors confront It ~s well. As F~ldman I~dlcates, Alfred Gell (1998) explored the particular agency of objects, and speCifically art objects, seelllg these as exercising a peculiar kind of agency not fully equivalent to human intentionalit~. . . The potential for objects to exercise agency derives from the fact that human SOCial Interactlo~s have a particularly material component to them, with objects serv~ng as.nodes in networks of socla~ actions. Feldman's contribution here elegantly explores the ways In which the Stele of Hammurabl had the capacity to both 'ensnare' and 'distance' a viewer, an agency that extended in time and space far beyond the original moments of the object's creati~n and erectio~. According to Feldm~n, this peculiar type of agency was created by a means of spatial represe~tatlon (? new use. of spatial perspective) that included the viewer in a 'triangulated' connectIOn wl~h the kIng and hiS god. An artistic strategy thus enabled the object to interact with the viewer In a way that affected the viewer's perceptions and further actions. Other authors in this volume also explore the issue of object agency, though to a lesser degree. Porter's chapter includes a discussion of the potential agency of vessels in. pa~aces of t~le 3rdmillennium BCE Syrian center at Ebla. These jars, described in terms of their nch m~tenals and significant proportions, were controlled by the palace steward, who filled and emptied them as
6
NEW PATHS FORWARD
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
oc~asions required. As Porter makes clear, the jars were acted upon by multiple human agents, in eplso.des of creation and usage; at the same time, as nodes in social interactions in the palace setting, they m. turn had the capacity to act upon and connect other individuals, and the potential to ensnare (and dIstance) others, to use Feldman's terminology, in relationships of reciprocity and exchange. Additional forays into object agency, though not explicit, are encountered in the contributions of Castro Gessner, McMahon, and Ross; these authors all consider the role of pre-existing objects (pots and texts, particularly) in the creation of new objects of the same type; they look at the ways in which people react to objects, and the choices that those objects may shape in the production and reproduction of new objects and even new people.
Chame Operatoire Chapters by Castro Gessner, Ross, Russell and Bogaard, Branting, and Steadman deal with issues relating to the chaine operatoire, or 'operational chain'; these authors demonstrate how flexible and useful this concept is within the framework of agency studies. The chaine operatoire model is most frequently used in archaeological studies of lithic technology (Sellet 1993), but has often been applied to other manufacturing processes as well (Dobres 2000; Hosler 1996; van del' Leeuw 1993). In its most basic form, it refers to the step-by-step sequence of procedures used in any productive activity; often it follows the various stages of an object's use-life, from raw material acquisition through production, use, and final discard. For scholars concerned with the socially embedded nature of technology, attention to the chaIne operatoire for a given object type may reveal the moments at which producers followed cultural rules, rules that were socialized and instilled into their bodies, and other points when they made intentional choices to stray from or modify those rules. ChaIne operatoire, then, is intimately related to the explication of structure and agency. In this volume, the most explicit use and discussion of chaIne opera to ire is offered in Castro Gessner's chapter, wherein the analysis of production stages allows the author a view into both nondiscursive and discursive production processes relating to the painted decoration on Halaf-period pottery. Castro Gessner:s close attention to these procedures allows her to posit a degree of variabilIty at the level of the artist, and sometimes at the level of the individual vessel being painted. Ross's employment of the chaIne o/Jeratoire concept is less explicit, but similarly attempts to analyze the embodied knowledge and discursive practices of various craft specialists. Similarly, Steadman employs a version of chaIne operatoire in reconstructing the structural constraints and opportunities for agency in the process of building design and construction. Russell and Bogaard provide perhaps the most original application of the chaIne opera to ire concept, as they a.nalyze su~sistence practices at ~atalhoyiik in terms of production, processing, storage, consumption, and dIscard. As they say, chaIne operatoire provides them a tool for illuminating and contextualizing choices ('decision points') in both plant and animal use. Their use of operational sequences, then, is one that extends the concept through the entire use-life of an item. It a~l~ws the~ to exami.ne episodes of food production and preparation at the household level, provldmg a mlcroscale vIew of the activities of individuals and small groups. Branting offers another tak.e o~ ~he ch~;ne operato!r~,. examini~g its use as one point in the analysis of the 'time-geography' of mdlVldual hves and actIVitIes. The time-geography concept grounds research within individual pa~hs and. in~erac~io~s. Branting advocates conjoining time-geography research with chaIne operatOlre studies m a IlImted way; he sees movement (of raw materials, people, and finished items) as an important component in the operational sequences of craft production. But his analysis could be ~x~a~ded to see entire life~spans as conjoined in both time-geography and operational chains, as mdlVl.duals move thr~ugl~ time an? space via a sequence of stops and starts, using an unending chain of objects and engagmg m a contmual sequence of interactions.
7
Subalterns and Subordinates As most of the authors here demonstrate, agency theory highlights individual choice; in some cases, this offers a high degree of insight into societal workings. This can occur in a variety of ways, but in several of the chapters that follow, special attention can be drawn to situations in which the words and deeds of rulers and elites shine a light on the agency and identity of those who serve them. The chapters by Feldman, Porter, Ross, Magness, Matney, and McMahon examine the issue of the (potential) agency of subalterns and subordinates. Matney, McMahon, and Porter all confront the issue of agency within imperial settings, th?ugh each author proposes a different methodology for pursuit of this goal. Matney's chapter ~onsld~rs the nuanced content of the archaeological record as evidence for the variety of ways 111 wlllch subordinate groups and polities accepted, adopted, and/or resisted Assyrian expansion into southeastern Anatolia and northern Syria. The commingling of imported and local goods in the archaeological assemblage of a given site actively contributed to the construction of a set of ethnic identities. Matney acknowledges the frustration of scholars trying to assess ancient social groupings, but provides an antidote in proposing various levels of alte.rity within t~e Assyrian em~ire, defined in part by site locations, subsistence, and resource use. Wlthl11 even a smgle geographIcal area under Assyrian domination, a variety of responses were possible, constituting local agency in the face of a dominant polity. . ' . Porter also challenges the tendency of historians of the ancient Near East to see domll1atlOn as imposing royal agency over a territory or social group ..She points to an underlring fact of royal agency: that it is made possible and supported by the actIOns ?f countless ~ubor.dl11ates. Sh~ asse~ts that archaeologists, focused on material data, may be better SUIted to examl11e tillS subaltern Identity and agency than historians working with (auto)biographical writings. ~cMahon w~ites of a sim!lar set of circumstances underlying the initial expansion of the Hittite empire under Al1Itta: the chOICes made by the new king in incorporating conquered peoples into his expanding empire, and the role of religion in promoting the acceptance of Hittite hegemony by newly incorporated areas. These authors clarify the degree to which neither structure nor agent is the dominant force, but each must adapt to and accommodate the other for changes to be made manifest and permanent. Simila~ly, Magness's explication of the process of introducing and enforcing subsistence changes, and cr~a~l11g a new ceramic repertoire, at the advent of Islamic expansion into Palestine, required the partiCipation of subalterns who farmed, processed food items, cooked, and made ceramic vessels. Just as an army marches on its stomach, polities subsist on their food choices. The articles by Feldman and Ross do not deal with imperial identities, but do examine the ways in which individuals at different levels of the socioeconomic hierarchy were incorporated into and reacted to power structures. Both analyze the means by which strategies of representation served, whether intentionally or not, to position subjects in particular experiential positions. These chapters are linked also by their examination of how texts reinforce these subordinate positions, and of how new forms of governance could be at once reinforced and resisted under these conditions.
Landscape and Spatial Ideologies
.
.'
Several of the contributions deal explicitly with agency, identity, and their connectIOns WIth space and landscape. The avalanche of scholarship on landscape archaeology and spatial analysis is testament to the value spatially based studies offer for our understanding of the past. Steadman's contribution deals most explicitly with spatial analysis at the community level and how decisions about the use of space can conform to, or step beyond, social norms. Jones and Branting also address the use of the landscape overtly in their chapters. Jones examines the 'en.cultured landscape' that Earl.y Bronze Age Levantine residents created, both intentionally and orgamcally, the latter sllnply by their
8
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
daily use of it. The end result is a landscape embedded with physical and ideological markers (both visible and invisible) that create a mental map of one's 'homeland'. Branting investigates how agents traversed the landscape of a heavily built Iron Age Anatolian city. He notes that the decisions an agent makes about pathways and direction are affected both by physical and symbolic barriers, only some of which are identifiable archaeologically. Though Jones is working on a regional level and Branting within a defined urban settlement, both identify similar challenges and yet achieve gratifying results when examining agency at the landscape level. Matney and McMahon both deal with imperial landscapes, and though in both cases they are concerned with rulership of differing ethnic groups, an underlying factor is the need for Assyrian and Hittite kings to manage those multiple identities/ethnicities as they exist within a broad landscape. Matney deals with these issues by examining the material culture record for the clues it might yield to how both the Assyrians and the indigenous populations managed their landscapes. McMahon addresses such questions from a more ideological point of view, delving into the Anitta text and attempting to see the king's intentionality expressed within his formulaic words. Anitta wished to unite his spatially expanding and ethnically diverse empire by uniting all groups within a religio-political belief system that would appeal to all no matter their position in society or location within the empire.
Agency and Identity, Intersections and Challenges It is possible to argue that employing an agency approach requires that one explore identity as well-a theorem advanced in some areas of cultural studies (e.g. Holland et al. 1998; Goddard 2000) and in some archaeological studies (e.g. Diaz-Andreu et at. 2005). The chapters in this volume explore the theoretical model of agency in some detail; most include either a discussion of its origins and structure, a section explaining how it can or should be applied, the problems with its construction or application, or all of these together. To a large extent the eloquence of the contributors relieve this volume's editors from engaging in a lengthy introduction to the concept of 'agency'. The same is not necessarily true of approaches to 'identity', though the intersection between agency and identity is indeed addressed in several of the volume's chapters. As has already been touched upon above, archaeological approaches to identity require a researcher to consider many avenues for investigation. Is identity best viewed in line with 'ethnicity' (e.g. Jones 1997; Emberling 1997), or broader concepts of social (such as gender, status, and age) and political identity (e.g. Gardner 2007; Shennan 1989; Meskell 2001, 2002; Bernbeck and Pollock 1996), or should it refer more specifically to individuals and self-perceptions of their own place within society (Fowler 2004)? Though several authors address ethnic, political, and social standing (status) in the context of distinguishing aspects of identity, few of the authors address gender identity explicitly. However, gendered perspectives are embedded in many of the imaginings of individuals potentially discovered through the models employed. Beyond these issues of scale and the analysis of individual and group identity, a recent volume advances the idea that the national! ethnic/social identity of archaeologists may well affect their interpretation of identity in the past (Kane 2003). Many studies, including those cited above, are devoted to the specific search for identity in the archaeological past; the present volume takes a slightly different approach to this issue. The question here is whether contributors to this volume have addressed the intersection between agency and identity, and the answer is that indeed several chapters highlight this intersection. Both McMahon and Steadman approach individual identity as it may have existed within ethnic, political, and religious constructs, though at very different levels on a social complexity spectrum. In her examination of agency and architecture, Steadman touches on the question of what identity an individual resident-builder might have sought to create, or to confer onto him or herself.
NEW PATHS FORWARD
9
The location and orientation of a prehistoric Anatolian house might serve as a step toward launching an individual toward a position of religious, or political, 'leadership' within the larger context of how such identities are understood in that society. Though Steadman addresses the intersection of agency and identity in the most explicit terms, she is not alone in her interest in this issue. McMahon also investigates the creation of identity as an intention, or even a goal, to be achieved by the first Hittite ruler. King Anitta was faced with an emerging empire that comprised varying ethnicities and belief systems. By examining the Anitta text, McMahon explores how this new king sought to unite an empire; using words and ideas, Anitta attempted to merge the differences between his people by creating a shared religious and ethnic identity. Anitta as agent intersects with Anitta the king and builder of a new 'Hittite' identity for himself and his people. Matney, like McMahon, examines how an empire negotiated effective rulership over multiple ethnic groups, here for the 1st-millennium Assyrian empire. Matney's review compares the Assyrian perception and treatment of the northern reaches of the Assyrian empire, as expressed through textual data, to material culture and its indications of Assyrian presence, or influence, among the many groups in the region. In essence Matney seeks to understand separate identities and their integration within the framework of an imperial structure. Magness, although dealing primarily with agents in regard to the change from Romanized to Islamic diet in Palestine during the early Islamic period, also brings forward issues of identity. What Magness expresses, though in far more elegant terms, is that 'you are what you eat'; the food one cooks, as well as the dishes it is cooked in, and eaten from, are an important part of identity because the process of acquiring the proper foods for the proper (preferred) diet defines who you are and what you desire. Thus Magness examines not only the who and why of the agents who effected this change in the diet of early Islamic Palestine, but also the subsequent shift, among elites and commoners alike, of identity away from membership in the Romanized world to one more in line with Persia and the east. The chapter by Ross also examines group definition, both internally and by external observation, as different sets of craft practitioners adapted and contributed to societal developments in early urban Mesopotamia. What Ross's examination reveals is that scribal practitioners came to define and distinguish other crafts in ways that marked their own activities off as separate from and superior to other groups. This took place despite the shared embodied practices that united the various craft specialists. Feldman also considers the ways in which objects contribute to the formation of viewers' identities; specifically, her chapter examines the creation of a subject's identity using royal art.
Agency and Identity Models in Ancient Near Eastern Research While it is possible to explore various additional approaches to agency and identity in archaeology, including issues of archaeological methodology and reporting, it should by now be clear that the authors in the volume address these problems in a rich variety of ways. In this, the present volume steers clear of traditional approaches to the archaeology of the Near East, which stress historical and cultural evolutionary perspectives that do not allow researchers to acknowledge variability, materiality, and specific actors in the archaeological record. The agency framework offers opportunities, quoting Jones (this volume, p. 24), 'to write new and compelling accounts' that recognize cultural stability and social change in the ancient Near Eastern past.
References Asher-Greve, Julia M. (1998) The essential body: Mesopotamian conceptions of the gendered body. In Gellder alld the Body ill the Allciellt Mediterralleall, edited by M. Wyke. Gender & History 9. Oxford: Blackwell, pp.8-37.
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AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
Barrett, John (2001) Agency, the duality of structure, and the problem of the archaeological record. In Hodder 2001:141-64. Bernbeck, Reinhard and Pollock, Susan (1996) Ayodhya, archaeology, and identity. Current Anthropology 37.1:S138-42. Bourdieu, Pierre (1977) Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. -(1990) The Logic of Practice. Cambridge: Polity Press. Diaz-Andreu, Margarita, Lucy, Sam, Babic, Stasa, and Edwards, David N. (eds.) (2005) The Archaeology of Identity: Approaches to Gender, Age, Status, Ethnicity and Religion. London: Routledge. Dobres, Marcia-Anne (2000) Technology and Social Agency: Outlining a Practice Framework for Archaeology. London: Blackwell. -(2001) Meaning in the making: agency and the social embodiment of technology and art. In Anthropological Perspectives on Technology, edited by M. B. Schiffer. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, pp. 47-76. Emberling, Geoff (1997) Ethnicity in complex societies: archaeological perspectives. Journal ofArchaeological
Research 5:295-344. Fowler, Chris (2004) The Archaeology of Personhood: An Anthropological Approach. London: Routledge. Gardner, Andrew (2007) An Archaeology of Identity. Walnut Creek: Left Coast. Gell, Alfred (1998) An and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Giddens, Anthony (1979) Central Problems in Social Theory. Berkeley: University of California Press. -(1984) The Constitution of Society. Berkeley: University of California Press. Goddard, Victoria A. (ed.) (2000) Gender, Agency and Change: Anthropological Perspectives. London: Routledge. Hodder, Ian (1986) Reading the Past. 2nd edn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. -(1998) Creative thought: a long-term perspective. In Creativity ill Human Evolution and Prehistory, edited by S. Mithen. London: Routledge, 61-77. -(2000) Agency and individuals in long-term processes. In Agency in Archaeology, edited by M.-A. Dobres and J. Robb. London: Routledge, pp. 21-33. -(ed.) (2001) Archaeological Theory Today. Cambridge: Polity Press Holland, Dorothy, Lachicotte, William, Jr., Skinner, Debra, and Cain, Carole (1998) Idelltity alld Agellcy ill Cultural Worlds. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Hosler, Dorothy (1996) Technical choices, social categories and meaning among the Andean potters of Las Animas. Journal of Material Clllture 1:63-92. Jones, Sian (1997) The Archaeology of Ethllicity: Constructing Identities ill the Past and Presellt. London: Routledge. Kane, Susan (ed.) (2003) The Politics of Archaeology alld Identity in a Global COlltext. Boston: Archaeological Institute of America. Meskell, Lynn (2001) Archaeologies of identity. In Hodder 2001: 187-213. -(2002) The intersections of identity and politics in archaeology. Allllual Review ofAllthropology 31 :279-301. Meskell, Lynn and Joyce, Rosemary (2003) Embodied Lives: Figurillg Anciellt Maya alld Egyptiall Experiellce. London: Routledge. Sellet, Frederic (1993) ChaIne operatoire: the concept and its applications. Lithic Techllology 18:106-12. Shennan, Stephen (1989) Archaeological Approaches to Cultural Idelltity. London: Unwin Hyman. Van der Leeuw, Sander (1993) Giving the potter a choice: conceptual aspects of pottery techniques. In Teclmological Choices: Transformatioll in Material Cultures sillce the Neolithic, edited by P. Lemonniel'. London: Routledge, pp. 238-88.
I. THE AGENCY OF PLACE
2
Movement Across the Landscape and Residential Stability Agency and Place in the Southern Levantine Early Bronze Agee Jennifer E. Jones
Introduction This chapter arose from a conference paper that I gave in 2006 at the annual meeting of the American Schools of Oriental Research. Although my initial presentation did not consider the role that agency theory might have in fostering more person-centered accounts of social change in the Early Bronze Age (EBA), I found applying this approach a welcome challenge. Agency theory has not received much attention or use in the southern Levant as archaeologists have more commonly sought to build large-scale interpretive models within a systems or evolutionary framework. My interest in thinking about agency theory and the EBA derives in part from my theoretical inclination to combine rigorous testing based on available data with imaginative efforts at cultural reconstruction. I find myself pulled in seemingly contradictory intellectual directions that, in fact, complement each other well: one of truth testing and the other that recognizes the existence of multiple potentially valid narratives. In this chapter, I will examine how applying agency theory to the EBA of the southern Levant may lead us to more compelling understandings of ancient life. In broad terms, I am interested in EBA social landscapes, a focus I have developed amidst a flourishing body of ethnographic and archaeological work (e.g. Basso 1996; Wilkinson 2003). More narrowly, I will use the concepts of mobility over the land and stability of occupational residence to examine the ways that productive activities and the expression of ideological beliefs allowed people to create a net of linkages. Drawing from anthropological writings in contemporary settings, I envision mobility, on the one hand, and long-term occupation, on the other, as dynamic entities that create a web of relationships between people and their landscapes. Agency theory leads us to ask whether people had the capacity to act outside of the limits of their social structure. On the one hand, sllch an approach may lead archaeologists to seek situations
* I am grateful for the opportunity to participate in this volume. The unflagging enthusiasm and intellectual engagement of the editors throughout this project stand as a model of professional practice. Thanks also to Tenby Owens for her suggestions and encouragement during the writing of this chapter.
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AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
where we can identify the actions of individuals in the archaeological record via mortuary practices, texts, or iconography (Flannery 1999; and see Feldman, Ross, and McMahon, this volume). During the EBA, though, texts are absent and materials bearing iconographic elements rarely survive. In addition, the dominant mortuary practices were secondary inhumation or cremation and storage of dozens of individuals in charnel houses, practices that prevent us from identifying individuals or assigning grave goods to a particular skeleton. So the EBA archaeological dataset largely consists of ceramic and lithic artifacts, faunal and botanical materials, as well as domestic structures and fortification walls. Alternatively, in the absence of identifiable individuals, we need to ask whether agency theory offers explanations for large-scale diachronic social change in the EBA (for similar treatment of the Chalcolithic, see Steadman, this volume). The southern Levantine EBA has attracted research efforts over the last century precisely because it offers just such an example of major social change. Strikingly, at this time people moved into larger, more densely populated settlements than they had previously occupied. The advent of fortification walls around these larger settlements, complete with gates and towers, reflects, at a minimum, changes in how people scheduled their work. More broadly, these large construction projects lead us to ask whether the organizational mechanisms required to build and maintain them represented a qualitative or a quantitative change from those of previous eras. At the end of the EBA, a reversal of these developments occurred, namely the abandonment of large settlements, a cessation in large-scale building efforts, and the movement of the region's population into small sites. The fluctuation of population density and site size, and the possibility of changes in organizational and leadership mechanisms offer us a compelling point in time to experiment with applying agency theory. By considering why and when people moved around the land in the course of their lives, I argue that we can begin to see linkages and interconnections between places and people. In Europe and the People Without History, Eric Wolf (1982) argues that examining processes that crosscut national and cultural boundaries are the proper anthropological unit of study. In particular, he reconstructs th~ develo~ment ?f the ~apitalist mode of production at a global scale rather than from the vantage POl11t of a sll1gle Site, regIOn, culture, or nation. In my case, while the act of moving is not a cultural pro.cess per se (but see Branting, this volume, for movement as such), it links people at local and regIOnal scales. Rather than living in isolated settlements, passively experiencing abstract social events that archaeologists label 'increasing' and 'decreasing' complexity, people created and lived those social changes. They made a living from a landscape filled with occupied and abandoned settlements; firelight emanating from sites on the horizon linked them visually to the presence of others in their social milieu. They traveled over a landscape dotted with burial places (dolmens) ritual sites (menhirs), and areas where stages of craft and agricultural production occurred. ' In the remainder of this chapter I review the culture history of the southern Levantine EBA and elaborate on systems and evolutionary theory, which have been the dominant approaches used to date. These approaches subsume variability in the material record in the search for macroscale ex~lanatio~s of ~oci.al change. Al~o s~lbsumed is the role of individuals or competing interest groups, which has IInpitcatlOns for appitcatlOns of agency theory. Next, I consider how a dual focus on movement over the landscape combined with residential stability may provide a way for us to il.nagine a b~?ad~r set of relationships between people and places. My archaeological case study, the site of e1-LelJun 111 Jordan, follows next. I concentrate here on the evidence at el-Lejjun that relates to features ~f work life and ideology that are crosscut by either movement or residential stability. I conclude With final thoughts on the possibilities and limitations of agency theory to provide explanations for social change in the EBA.
MOVEMENT ACROSS THE LANDSCAPE AND RESIDENTIAL STABILITY
15
The Early Bronze Age in the Southern Levant The four phase EBA is known for a cycle of population aggregation into fortified settlements and the ultimate abandonment of those sites and disaggregation of the population into smaller pl~ces. The phase of greatest population aggregation, in the Early Bronze Age II and III periods, persisted for about 800 years (3100-2300 BCE). After this time, population disaggregated for about 300 years, a phase archaeologically termed the Early Bronze IV period (2300-2000 BCE). This terminal phase was followed by the Middle Bronze Age, which saw a dramatic resurgence of aggregation into large sites and the renewed construction of extensive fortification walls. Thus, the EBA cycle of aggregation and disaggregation played out over a larger tapestry of human movement in the region. In terms of scale, EBA aggregated sites are commonly 10-25 ha in area. Using a Near Eastern derived estimate of 200-250 people per ha (Kramer 1982), populations in these sites would have ranged from a low of 2000 to a high of 6250 people. In contrast, the larger sites in the disaggregated phase were 5 ha, containing 1000 to 1250 people. More commonly, though, sites in this latter period were 0.5-3 ha in size, so people would generally have lived in communities ranging from 100 to 750 people (Palumbo 2001). As the aggregated phases of the EBA are the first time that people in this region occupied such densely populated settlements, research has centered on these places as the beginnings of urban living Goffe 1993; Falconer 1994; Falconer and Savage 1995). Likewise, the abandonment of the largest sites and population movement into dramatically smaller settlements has been seen in terms of societal and urban collapse. In an analysis of data from the aggregated EBA, though, Philip (20~1) questions whether the population sizes in the larger settlements qualify them as 'urban', with the lI1terreiated parts and functions implicit in this term. If he is right, then we may have a case where population aggregation and the building of large scale construction projects reflect a marked change in people's workloads, but neither caused the development of nor was the result of urban social organization. In light of the ongoing discussion about the nature of EBA large places, I use the terms 'aggregated' and 'disaggregated' to describe the shifts in site size and population density that we see at this time. In detail, the EBA begins with the Early Bronze I (EB I) period, when inhabitants of the region lived in small villages and cultivated typical Near Eastern domesticated plants and animals. Settlement sizes grew in the Early Bronze II and III (EB II, EB III) periods, which also marked the start of the construction and maintenance of thick-walled fortification systems with gates and towers. At the site of Arad, for example, the wall is up to 2.5 m thick, while that at Ai is up to 5 m Goffe 1993). In the Early Bronze IV (EB IV) period, people moved into pastoral encampments in the arid margins of the region or settled in farming villages, many of them new, in the well-watered agricultural areas (Broshi and Gophna 1984; Dever 1980; Esse 1991). The types of plants and animals consumed remained the same as in the aggregated periods despite the settlement changes. Notably, cultivation occurred even among pastoralists living in the arid regions (Haimen 1992). A broad outline of the EBA thus includes changes in the number of people living in a settlement and the duration of occupation, set against a backdrop of material culture similarities that are sufficient to include all four periods within one archaeological era. Evolutionary theory and hierarchical approaches have strongly influenced scholarly work on southern Levantine complex societies. One example is a focus on elites in models that seek to explain the aggregation of the EBA population Goffe 1993). In this formulation, powerful leaders manipulated labor, monopolized power, and controlled the production and distribution of resources. A trend in recent research is to draw on concepts from heterarchy or to consider
16
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
MOVEMENT ACROSS THE LANDSCAPE AND RESIDENTIAL STABILITY
17
decision-making at the household level (Chesson 2003; Falconer 1994; Falconer and Fall 1995; Philip 2001). These approaches share the following elements: a focus on horizontal rather than vertical links between social units; the existence of subgroups with diverse interests; and the social tension that is created when power is spread across society. In part, the shift toward heterarchical approaches has arisen from a lack of fit between theoretical expectations and archaeological data. Finding archaeological correlates for the presence of EBA elites, for example, including elaborate residential architecture, prestige goods, wealth items, or differential burial treatment of individuals, has proven elusive Goffe 1993; Philip 2001). Greater interest in the role of human decisions has also fostered interest in local actions rather than macroscale evolutionary mechanisms as explanations of social change. Scholarly efforts to explain data from the disaggregated phase are relevant to this discussion because these two phases are seen as opposites in terms of social complexity. Typically, the explanatory framework for the EB IV period inverts that used for the aggregated phase, stressing social collapse and despecialization within an evolutionary context (Palumbo 2001). The end of the 3rd millennium thus forms a temporary hiatus in a broad historical trajectory tending toward more complex forms of social organization (de Miroschedji 1989; Dever 1995; Richard 1987; Richard and Boraas 1984, 1988). Much effort has also been spent developing unitary models to explain the totality of social and settlement changes seen in the disaggregated period. One example is the pastoral nomad model, an early and influential effort. Drawing on ethnographic analogy it states that the EB IV period is one in which regional complexity declines to a tribal level where mobile pastoralism is the dominant subsistence regime (Dever 1980). Variations of this model have proliferated, and the heterarchical and local-scale approaches seen in EB II-III research have yet to be adopted by those working in the EB IV period.
Culture history, systems theory, and evolutionary theory have had a profound structuring impact on the type of data we collect in the EBA and how that data is summarized. These approaches focus our attention on similarities in the material record from one site to the next, the universal experience of cultural entities, and how societies or systems are integrated and function. Logically excluded are consideration of non-normative actions, variation in the material record, and competing interests within a society or household. Given this methodological and theoretical legacy, one can reasonably ask whether archaeologists working in the southern Levant will find agency theory a compelling enough approach to use. I believe that paradigms that have as their focus non-normative actions and the conflicting roles of segments of society will need to find wider application, perhaps in tandem with agency theory. Marxist- and feminist-inspired research programs, for example, offer a breadth and depth of theoretical work and an openness to non-normative actions. Worldwide applications of these theoretical approaches abound. An example from the southern Levant is the work of Jane Peterson (2002) who used skeletal data to track the gendered division of labor across the transition to agricultural life. Although not explicitly grounded in Marxist or feminist theory, Meredith Chesson's work (1999, 2003) in the aggregated periods focuses on the role of households and lineages as arenas of craft production and social action. Envisioning agent-centered actions and intrasocietal groups may allow us to break away from normative explanations of EBA settlement changes. I move toward this goal by using an additional conceptual tool to break down the established archaeological boundary between the aggregated and disaggregated periods: the dynamic connections formed between human movement across the landscape and long-term residence in an area.
Agency Theory and the Early Bronze Age
For the southern Levant, as for many regions, the intertwining of long-term habitation and movement over the land built connections between people and places. For archaeologists, movement across the ancient Near Eastern landscape is a recognized aspect of the lives of pastoralists and occurred as people exchanged crafts and acquired resources. Survey and excavation, however, tend to direct archaeological attention to sites as residentially stable nodes. In the southern Levant, people made a living from a landscape populated with occupied and abandoned settlements, dolmen fields, ritual places, and areas where stages of craft and agricultural production occurred. Connections to place developed from living in settlements, and from moving over the landscape to plant and harvest crops, to bury the dead, to acquire raw materials, to trade, and possibly to visit religious places where standing stones, called menhirs, had been erected. The editors of a recent volume entitled Travels in Paradox argue from a contemporary perspective that a culture's understanding of place is formed temporally and spatially (Minca and Oakes 2006:20). A diachronic presence on the land allows people to build historical connections with the landscape, and makes it a repository of storytelling and history. Moving over the land connects people to each other and to the land, including its resources, its appearance, and the distances and efforts involved in moving around it. The authors suggest that the connections people make to spaces and to other people when moving over the land contribute as much to their sense of place as do notions of bounded ness and separateness from others (Minca and Oakes 2006). Using the concepts of stability and mobility as a framing device allows us to conceive of a broader 'set of relationships between people and places', to use a phrase from Julian Thomas (2001: 181). The landscape is more than just a canvas on which people gather food and make items, the remnants of which archaeologists will ultimately call artifacts and place into classification schemas. Landscapes are richly interwoven with history and memory, and movement develops a group's conception of place (Casey 1996:23).
Certain realities of archaeological practice in the southern Levant hinder our ability to use agency theory. Methodologically, a great deal of effort has been devoted over the past century to developing ceramic typologies that would have region-wide temporal sensitivity. Such typologies would allow us to identify contemporaneous strata and sites across the region and to discern a variety of intra-period changes in settlement patterns, architectural construction, and economic and productively focused activities. Far from being an unimportant exercise, developing such sequences could clarify patterns in the archaeological data related to the cycle of aggregation and disaggregation. Though the benefit of having such a capability is clear, efforts to develop comprehensive typologies have foundered due to a variety of methodological and practical difficulties. Even if we could develop better analytical ways to create types, the effort is antithetical to agency theory. Although not unique to the southern Levant, the loss of variability that occurs in creating types presents a systematic problem for applications of agency theory, as individual choices are lost (Barrett 2001; Dobres 1995; Johnson 2004). The dominant strains of theory that archaeologists use to interpret the events and material culture of the EBA are evolutionary and processually oriented variants of ecological and systems theory. Based on a normative viewpoint, we see efforts to characterize how people lived during the aggregated or disaggregated period as a whole. For example, what was the level of craft specialization or political complexity in the EB II-III as opposed to the EB IV period (Richard 1987)? Such totalizing approaches have sought to build broad-scale models that focus neither on the role of groups or individuals within society, nor their agency in episodes of culture change. Even analyses that hypothesize that the abandonment of the aggregated settlements arose from the failure of urban-based elites to maintain power do not postulate who these elites might be; their gender or the extent to which they exercised agency or faced resistance are not part of the analyses.
Movement as a Framing Device for the Early Bronze Age
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AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
Ethnographic cases can provide a sense of the intricate linkages that people make between each other and the land and how movement builds connections to place even for residentially stable groups. The detailed descriptions of the interweaving of movement with community, history, gender, and even morality that are possible ethnographically can also inform our necessarily more sparse archaeological accounts. Viewed from contemporary examples, landscapes are more than ecological spaces that have relevance for food gathering or as sources of raw materials for craft production and trade. In the highlands of Papua New Guinea, for example, men remain in their natal villages and women marry exogamously (O'Hanlon and Frankland 2003). Men are equated with trees and literally with 'rootedness' in their home village, while women travel 'marriage roads', which are both metaphorical and actual routes. When a woman marries, she will either follow previous women from her village along an existing 'road' or her marriage will create a new path that other women may in turn follow when they marry. The marriage 'roads' are thus a map of relationships between communities and individuals centered on women. In Wisdom Sits in Places, Keith Basso (1996) describes how place names prompt the western Apache to remember stories that teach moral lessons. Apache think about these places when they are confronting a problem or remember places whose lessons apply to their actions. Remembering and applying the stories to one's life leads people toward a morally correct life and to wisdom. So people's ability to remember the stories is driven by their long-term residence in that place and the passing on of the stories, but their use of these memories to correct their behavior is fostered by their moving over the land, seeing and remembering places. A twofold focus on movement across the land and stable occupation of a piece of land is a natural fit for archaeology. Residential stability is an expected component of how people form attachments to land. Sites can be occupied for hundreds of years and living in one place for an extended period of time gives rise to subsistence and productive prowess: an ability to work, often very creatively, to make a living, and to live Ollt ideology in a given place. Groups also move across the landscape for a variety of purposes, including to gather food or other needed raw materials, trading with others, marrying, and moving to new settlements. Although pastoral mobility is perhaps obvious, we should not forget that sedentary agricultural farmers also move within the landscape surrounding their community. Incorporating a sense of movement into our reconstructions is a way for archaeologists to think beyond the immediate boundaries of a site or a region. We see evidence in archaeological remains that ancient people traveled to and received trade goods from far away places. The requirements of modern archaeological methods and practice in the southern Levant, though, lead us to specialize in either the aggregated or disaggregated phases and often to work for decades at individual sites. Despite this intellectual specialization and the settlement changes, the two phases have similarities in material culture that would otherwise lead us to assume a common culture. Among the pervasive similarities are pottery shapes, ground and chipped stone tool types, and domesticated plant and animal regimes. The specialist division creates a sense of difference between the two sections of the EBA and gives rise to the sense that they represent distinct and different social entities. In order to achieve a view of the past in terms of webs of human connections with spatial dimensions, we need to strengthen any conceptualization that leads us to imagine links between people across geographical space. Movement creates these links and supports an archaeological conception of the region as culturally unified, rather than comprising distinct and different social entities. Within a movement-based viewpoint, agency theory offers us the opportunity to envision humans creating social change, rather than passively experiencing change brought about via generalized internal or external forces. I argue that any framework that erodes the traditional disciplinary boundaries between the aggregated and disaggregated phases will foster more realistic and compelling accounts of human life. Creating such accounts meets the recommendation of John Barrett,
MOVEMENT ACROSS THE LANDSCAPE AND RESIDENTIAL STABILITY
19
who urges archaeologists to investigate the historical realities of people's lives and opportunities for agency 'rather than simply invest labor in the cataloging of material remains in the hope that the burgeoning catalog will someday represent something that we recognize as the past' (2001: 157).
The Early Bronze Age Case Study: el-Lejjun, Jordan In 2003 I began a long-term research project at the site of el-Lejjun focusing on craft production and landscape issues. The site is located in south-central Jordan between the modern towns of Kerak and Qatrana (Figure A). It sits along a ridge with a precipitous drop on the northern and western sides to the Wadi Fityan; a perennial spring lies to the east (Figure I). The area has attracted people over the millennia: there are Paleolithic flints, a Roman/Byzantine legionary fortress, Ottoman barracks, and modern burials in the immediate area. Three archaeological survey teams have dated the site to the aggregated EBA and described the artifact types and architecture visible on the surface (Albright 1934; Glueck 1934; Miller 1991). Three test units by Meredith Chesson and her team in 2000 constitute the first excavation done at the site (Chesson et al. 2005). The preservation of faunal and macrobotanical remains was verified, in addition to the expected ceramic and lithic artifacts which are present in the surface assemblage. Calibrated dates for two C14 samples collected from floor contexts in the units date to the EB II period and range from 3088 to 2884 BCE.
Early Bronze Age el-Lejjun and Environs Khlrbet Fityan (Dan)
Barracks (Ottoman)
N" -
100m
Figure 1. Map of Early Bronze Age eI-Lejjun.
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MOVEMENT ACROSS THE LANDSCAPE AND RESIDENTIAL STABILITY
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
21
I have organized the following presentation around the broad themes of work and ideology. For each theme I will discuss aspects of the archaeological record at el-Lejjun that illustrate how using stability and mobility as framing devices may offer us opportunities to visualize a more agentcentered EBA. At this settlement, residential stability grounded people in this landscape via the construction of a fortification wall, the presence of a monumental line of menhir stones, and the cultivation of grapes and olive trees. Movement across the land to acquire resources and visit the menhir line built connections over broader distances.
as OIJ;S, Capra, or OlJis/Capra. A further 231 specimens are identified as medium artiodactyls (medium-sized ungulates) (Chesson et al. 2005). The spring at el-Lejjun would have provided a common meeting point for herders frol11 the immediate region. As they took animals out to pasture, herders would map themselves onto a broader social net created by the movement of people over the landscape. This net could provide social connections for future relationships, such as marriages, or for future needs, such as providing an option of villages and towns that one could move into.
Work
A line of standing stones, or menhirs, lies outside the fortification wall at el-Lejjun along the north side of the settlement (Figure 1). In the southern Levant, menhirs occur singly or in groups. The stones at el-Lejjun are notable because they appear to have survived reasonably intact; developmellt and cultivation have toppled many other known examples over the past century. Although difficult to date directly, menhirs in this region are assumed to belong to the Chalcolithic-Early Bronze Age time range based on their location relative to surrounding settlements. Speculation regarding the potential functions of menhirs is tied in part to Old Testament references to stones being erected and includes possibilities such as commemorative stones, representations of ancestors or deities, and boundary markers (Avner 1990). The menhir line at el-Lejjun contains seventeen stones positioned in a north-south line, eleven of which stand upright (Figure 2). An additional stone lies fallen about three meters east of the main line. Individual stones range fI'OIllI.OO to 2.25 111 in height, 0.50-0.75 III wide, and 0.20-0.30 III thick. Flat rocks lying at ground level surround the base of several stones and may have been intended as supports or stabilizers. Close examination of the line reveals that it consists of three discontinuous groups, positioned approximately three meters apart. The uphill group contains foul' upright stones, the middle group contains five fallen ones, and the downslope group contains eight stones, seven of which are upright.
Ideology I use the term work to encompass a wide range of activities that residents did to support themselves. Examples include planting and harvesting; gathering raw materials to make pottery, baskets, and stone implements; raising herd animals and processing their hides, wool, milk, and meat; and gathering stone to build structures and the fortification wall. Estimating the number of people who would have lived at el-Lejjun and determining the length of occupation allow us to visualize certain variables related to work. For example, the area inside the fortification wall is approximately 10 ha (Figure I). At 200-250 people per ha, approximately 2200-2750 people could have lived at elLejjun. In terms of the length of occupation, our current radiocarbon dates from el-Lejjul1 reflect a span of several hundred years within the EB II period. At 25 years per generation, an estimated eight generations of people lived at the site. This length of occupation would allow the generations of people who would have lived, worked, and died at el-Lejjun to build a narrative history of living in that place that reached far back into time. Within the context of this ll1ultigenerational occupation at el-Lejjun, examples of stable or 'rooted' elements, to borrow O'Hanlol1 and Frankland's term, include the physical efforts to build and maintain the fortification wall and investments in growing grapes and olive trees. The effort needed to build and repair the fortification wall would have required people to include it in their work schedule for some time. The wall is one meter wide, built from two rows of large stones. Rectangular towers project from the wall; two examples that are measurable from their surfacc remains are ten meters wide and extend three meters frol11 the face of the fortification wall. The stones used to build the wall and the towers are similar to material available in the geologic strata on the hilltop, so they were readily available. The work would have involved prying stones out of the outcrop and moving them into place. Taken together, the wall and towers represent a considerable focus of work efforts and constructing and maintaining them likely impacted the scheduling of other tasks. Long-term agricultural investments at e1-Lejjun are evident in the macrobotanical data. The preservation of botanicalmatcrial, along with animal bone, is a welcome discovery and bodes well for further research into the subsistence regime at this site. Among the seeds recovered to date arc grass pea, common pea, barley, einkorn, emilieI', olive, and grape (Chesson et aI. 2(05). Thesc latter two species, in particular, rcquire long-term care and tcnding to grow to productive maturity. Olive trces, for example, can require up to two decades to yield a fully mature fruit crop (Fall, Lines, and Falconer 1998). The tcnding of olive and grape plants at cl-Lejjull is evidence for a stable, placebascd presence and a long-term investment in this landscape. Work-related aspects of life at el-Lejjun that promoted llIobility and connections across the landscape include harvcsting stone for ground-stone querns and herding sheep and goats. The qucrns at cl-Lcjjun are a dark grey vesicular and non-vesicular basalt. Such material is available in surface basalt flows in several places in the vicinity of thc sitc, including 19 km to thc northwest and 3.5-12 km to the west (Koucky 1987; Shawabkeh 1991). The available faunal data provide a glimpse into husbandry practiccs at the site. Among the 553 individual faunal spccimens, OIJ;S and Capra account for 78<)1) (87 of Ill) of those identifiablc to genus; this includcs specimcns identified
Figure 2. Menhir linc at cl-Lejjun.
22
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
The menhir line at el-Lejjun is a well-photographed feature, often documented by visitors with antiquarian or archaeological interests. That the line may have been built over time, and is not in its final form, is less recognized. The stones are composed of either limestone or a chert-rich limestone which appears to be local in origin based on similarities in appearance to strata located immediately upslope of the menhir line. As the stones in the line are unshaped, they appear to have been pried from these strata, then shifted downhill and erected. A Department of Antiquities representative, Mr. Jihad Darwish, and I found evidence of this construction sequence in 2003 while following up on a report by two late 19th-century travelers of a quarry area and several unerected menhirs (Brunnow and Domaszewski 1905). After examining the rock tumble near the strata above the menhirs, we found two stones similar in size and shape to the standing stones (Figure 3). The unerected stones suggest that the line we see today at eI-Lejjun is not in the final form envisioned by the builders, but that people intended to add more stones to the monument, rendering it a dynamic and changing physical entity on the landscape.
MOVEMENT ACROSS THE LANDSCAPE AND RESIDENTIAL STABILITY
23
The menhir line was either an EBA feature begun and added to by the residents at el-Lejjun, or a preexisting feature that residents either continued to build or left alone. In other words, the site's occupants either added to the line or otherwise used it while the site was occupied, or the line was a symbol of a bygone era. In either case, the menhirs represent a stable element of the landscape via the effort involved in harvesting the stone and the addition of stones to the monument over time. The line was viewed and known by successive generations and became a fixture of the land and of people's imagination and ideological frameworks. At thc same time, if the pilgrimage analogy is appropriate, people would have moved toward the monument from near and distant places to mark particular events. The location of the line, on a slope below the hilltop, below the fortification wall, and facing the adjacent canyon, raises questions about the intended audience. Notably, the stones are not visible from inside the fortification wall. To see them from the hilltop, you must cross over the foundation remains of the fortification wall and move downhill until the slope of the ground reveals the line. The clearest vantage point for the stones is from the bank of the canyon opposite EBA cl-Lejjun. This area also leads to the spring that emerges where the canyon opcns out into the plain below the site. As a source of water in an otherwise arid area, thc spring would have been a known and prominent point on the landscape. Since the stones are visible from across the canyon, wc should considcr the possibility that the intended audience was people coming to thc spring at el-Lcjjun. [f the stones were a pilgrimage site thcn other menhirs may havc bcen havc bcen linked into a pilgrimagc cycle that drew people to elLcjjun for periodic ritual practiccs.
The Place of Agency Theory in the Early Bronze Age
Figure 3. Menhir stone in quarry.
Monumental stones providc an cnduring physicalmarkcr on the landscape, a locus of mcmory, storytelling, and history. Peoplc creatc thcm, add to thcm, movc toward and away from thcm. Thcsc fcatures are fixturcs on the land, incorporatcd into lorc cvcn when the original reasons for thcir construction have passed out of mcmory or been absorbcd into successive ideological traditions. If we think of the menhirs as a possiblc pilgrimage site, wc can conceive of them as combining clcments of both stability and mobility from a landscape perspective. Pilgrimages link group members with certain places and amplify common cxpcricnccs of the group over diverse class, gcographic, or ethnic origins. Pilgrims visit thc places and perform rituals as an affirmation of thc continuity of their experience and of their distinctivcness from othcrs (Ostel'l'iethI997; Stoddard 1997).
Archacologists facc a numbcr of conceptual challcnges whcn cnvisioning pcople actively dcaling with cach other and thc world around them. Part of the challcnge wc face in the southern Levant is using thcorctical approaches that allow us to conceivc of humans rather than a systcmic whole, thcory that allows us to scc variation in individual human response, rathcr than norms of behavior. Environmcntal strcss and the inability of lcadership mechanisms to maintain control or to integratc socicty arc the two l110st common cxplanations for the shift from aggregated to disaggregatecl EBA settlcmcnt pattcrns. Thesc cxplanations rcflcct broad-scalc pattcrns that offcr little traction for thc morc pcrson-oricntcd and social-conflict cxplanations favorcd by agcncy thcory or post-processual approachcs. Agcncy thcory prompts us to cnvision individuals. Thc ncar lack of identifiablc individuals in thc EBA archacological rccord compcls mc to think about groups of pcoplc, whcthcr households via domcstic structurcs, or cxtcndcd 'familics' via chama I houscs and secondary burial data. Whilc individuals likely cxcrciscd agcncy, thcy arc subsumcd in our datasct. Examining subscts of EBA socicty will lead us in profitablc dircctions vis-ti-vis agcnc)' thcory. A focus on groups, whethcr bascd on gcndcr, agC, or social status, allows us to bridge an intcrcst in thc actions of individuals with thc dcsire to build macroscalc cxplanations of social changc. [n part, this is bccause considering groups and thc competing intcrcsts that arisc in groups offers an altcrnativc to normativc conccptions of thc EBA. Barrett, for cxamplc, argucs that subgroups of social actors have different cxpcricnces based on the material conditions of thcir surroundings and the lifc course of their particular group, the 'biography of differcnt groups of agcnts' as he refcrs to it (20(H: 156). Making a ground-stonc qucm, planting and tcnding and harvcsting grain or olivcs arc not cxperienced in thc same way by diffcrcnt peoplc. Are you a yOllng mothcr, or an old man, or recovering from an injury that wcakcns your stamina? Are YOll comfortably working within a supportive economic unit or are YOLI cxpcriencing cconomic unccrtainty?
24
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
Following Matthew Johnson, I think that we need to decide 'how agency theory helps to create a more compelling account in a certain situation' (2004:246). Any framework that allows us to write new and compelling accounts of the causes and consequences of the shift from aggregated to disaggregated settlements is welcome. One can only imagine the social changes that occurred as a large part of the region's inhabitants moved from their settlements, leaving behind homes and neighbors. Empathetic techniques, particularly storytelling, allow me to think more broadly about the experiences of individuals and groups in society. These accounts do not have to be fatally flawed by ethnocentric bias (for contrary concerns, see, e.g., Brumfiel 2000). We can stretch our ideas beyond our customary theoretical envelopes by envisioning the 'material conditions of people in the past' (Thomas 2001: 181). Visualizing conditions and lives in the past allows us to use our imaginations to bring broad-scale explanations down to the level of humans in action. From this sort of thinking, we can ask new questions of archaeological datasets and explore avenues that may not have occurred to us previously. One example is that in the course of writing this chapter I realize that I have not questioned whether EBA aggregation and disaggregation reflect structural changes. The assumption that changes in population density reflect such change is commonly held among archaeologists working in the region. And it certainly seems reasonable that a region-wide population dislocation could have an effect on a diverse array of social variables, from family life to the scheduling of work. Structural change, though, may be an even more profound event than the rearrangement of population density over a few hundred years in the EBA. I began this chapter by asking if agency theory could allow for productive archaeological reimaginings of the southern Levantine EBA. I remain cautiously optimistic that agency theory is worth applying to this case study. I am cautious because of the confusing definitions of the proper focus of agency theory within the literature, and my suspicion of the false intellectual lure of the next great theoretical tool. I am optimistic because working with new ideas and unfamiliar theoretical approaches has invigorated my own thinking about the EBA. Using the lenses of movement and residential stability as additional framing elements compels me toward considering the ways in which people formed connections to place and broad social networks grounded in the landscape. In the end, the use of both agency theory and post-processual approaches may give us productive directions through which to hypothesize about a range of social variables that logically fall outside the purview of normative, macroscale models. These would include the presence and role of social subgroups, the possibility that competing interests existed in society, and the possibility that individuals acted outside of their structural roles to bring about culture change.
25
Brunnow, Rudolf and Domaszewski, Alfred (1905) Die Provincia Arabia, Vol. 2. Strasbourg: Verlag von Karl J. Trubner. Casey, Edward (1996) How to get from space to place in a fairly short stretch of time: phenomenological prolegomena. In Senses of Place, edited by S. Feld and K. Basso. Sante Fe: School of American Research Press, pp. 13-52. Chesson, Meredith S. (1999) libraries of the dead: Early Bronze Age charnel houses and social identity at urban Bab edh-Dhra', Jordan. journal of Anthropological Archaeology 18: 137-64. -(2003) Households, houses, neighborhoods and corporate villages: modeling the Early Bronze Age as a house society. journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 16: 79-1 02. Chesson, Meredith S., Makarewicz, Cheryl, Kuijt, Ian, and Whiting, Charlotte (2005) Results of the 2001 Kerak Plateau Early Bronze Age survey. Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research 59: 1-62. de Miroschedji, Pierre (1989) le processes d'urbanisation en Palestine au Bronze Ancien: chronologie et rythmes. In L'urbanisation de la Palestine /'age du Bronze Ancien: bilan et perspectives des recherches actuelles, edited by P. de Miroschedji. BAR International Series 527. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, pp. 63-79. Dever, William G. (1980) New vistas on the EB IV-MB I horizon in Syria-Palestine. Bulletin of the American
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Schools of Oriental Research 237:35-64. -(1995) Social structure in the Early Bronze IV period in Palestine. In The Archaeology of Society ill the Holy Land, edited by T. E. levy. New York: Facts on File, pp. 282-96. Dobres, Marcia-Anne (1995) Gender and prehistoric technology: on the social agency of technical strategies.
World Archaeology 27:25-49. Esse, Douglas (1991) Subsistellce, Trade, alld Social Change in Early Brollze Age Palestine. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 50. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Falconer, Steven E. (1994) The development and decline of Bronze Age civilization in the Southern levant: a reassessment of urbanism and rural ism. In Development and Decline in the Mediterranean Bronze Age, edited by C. Mathers and S. Stoddert. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, pp. 305-33. Falconer, Steven E. and Fall, Patricia L. (1995) Human impacts on the environment during the rise and collapse of civilization in the Eastern Mediterranean. In Late Quaternary Environments and Deep History: A Tribute to Paul S. Martin, edited by D. W. Steadman and J. J. Mead. Hot Springs: The Mammoth Site of Hot Springs, South Dakota, Inc., pp. 84-101. Falconer, Steven E. and Savage, Stephen H. (1995) Heartland and hinterlands: alternative trajectories of early urbanism in Mesopotamia and the Southern levant. Alllerican Antiquity 60.1:37-58. Fall, Patricia L., Lines, lee, and Falconer, Steven E. (1998) Seeds of civilization: Bronze Age rural economy and ecology in the Southern levant. Annals of the Associatioll of Americall Geographers 88.1: 107-25. Flannery, Kent V. (1999) Process and agency in early state formation. Call/bridge Archaeological joumal9.1 :3-
21. Glueck, Nelson (1934) Explorations in Eastern Palestine, I. Allllual of the American Schools of Orielltal
Research 14:1-113.
References Albrig~t, William F.
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(1934) Soundings at Ader: a Bronze Age city of Moab. Bulletill of the American Schools of
Ortental Research 53:13-18. Avner, Uri (1990) Ancient agricultural settlement and religion in the Uvda Valley in Southern Israel. Biblical Archaeologist 53.3: 125 -41. Barrett, John C. (2001) Agency, the duality of structure, and the problem of the archaeological record. In Hodder 2001:141-64. Basso, Keith (1996) Wisdom Sits in Places: Lalldscape alld Lallguage Amollg the Western Apache. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Broshi, Magen and Gophna, Ram (1984) The settlements and population of Palestine during the Early Bronze Age II-III. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 253 :41-53. Brumfiel, Elizabeth (2000) On the archaeology of choice: agency studies as a research stratagem. In Agency ill Archaeology, edited by M.-A. Dobres and J. Robb. london: Routledge, pp. 251-55.
Haimen, Mordechai (1992) Sedentarism and pastoralism in the Negev highlands in the Early Bronze Age: results of the Western Negev highlands survey. In Pastoralism ill the Levant: Archaeological Materials ill Anthropological Perspectives, edited by O. Bar-Yoscf and A. Khazanov. Madison: Prehistory Press, pp. 93-
104. Hodder, Ian (ed.) (2001) Archaeological Theory Today. Cambridge: Polity Press. Joffe, Alexander H. (1993) Settlement and Society ill the Early Bronze I alld 1/ Southem Levant: Complementarity alld COlltradiction in a Small-scale Complex Society. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Johnson, Matthew (2004) Agency, structure and archaeological practice. In Agency Uncovered: Archaeological Perspectives 011 Social Agellcy, Power, alld Beillg Humall, edited by A. Gardner. london: UCl Press, pp. 241-47. Koucky, Frank L. (1987) The regional environment. In The Romall Frontier in Celltral jordan: Interim Report 011 the Limes Arabicus Project, edited by S. T. Parker. BAR International Series 340. Oxford: Biblical Archaeological Reports, pp. 11-40.
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Kramer, Carol (1982) Vii/age Ethnoarchaeology: Rural Iran in Archaeological Perspective. New York: Academic Press. MacDonald, Burton, Adams, Russell, and Bienkowski, Piotr (eds.) (2001) The Archaeology ofjordan. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Miller, J. Maxwell (ed.) (1991) Archaeological Survey of the Kerak Plateau. American Schools of Oriental Research Archaeological Reports 1. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Minca, Claudio and Oakes, Tim (2006) Introduction: traveling paradoxes. In Travels ill Paradox: Remapping Tourism, edited by C. Minca and T. Oakes. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc., pp. 1-21. O'Hanlon, Michael and Frankland, Linda (2003) Co-present landscapes: routes and rootedness as sources of identity in highlands New Guinea. In Landscape, Memory and History: Anthropological Perspectives, edited by P. J. Stewart and A. Strathern. London: Pluto Press, pp. 166-88. Osterrieth, Anne (1997) Pilgrimage, travel and existential quest. In Stoddard and Morinia 1997:25-39. Palumbo, Gaetano (2001) The Early Bronze Age IV. In MacDonald, Adams, and Bienkowski 2001:233-69. Peterson, Jane (2002) Sexual Revolutions: Gender and Labor at the DawlI of Agriculture. Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press. Philip, Graham (2001) The Early Bronze I-Ill Ages. In MacDonald, Adams, and Bienkowski 2001: 163-232. Richard, Suzanne (1987) The Early Bronze Age: the rise and collapse of urbanism. Biblical Archaeologist
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Agency, Architecture, and Archaeology Prehistoric Settlements in Central Anatolia Sharon R. Steadman
50.1:22-44.
Richard, Suzanne and Boraas, Roger (1984) Preliminary report on the 1981-1982 seasons of the expedition to Khirbet Iskander and its vicinity. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 254:63-87. -(1988) The Early Bronze IV fortified site of Khirbet Iskander, Jordan: third preliminary report, 1984 Season. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 25: 107-30. Shawabkeh, Khalid (1991) The Geology of the Adir Area: Map Sheet No. 3152 II. Amman: The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, Ministry of Energy and Mineral Resources, Natural Resources Authority, Geology Directorate, Geological Mapping Division. Stoddard, Robert H. (1997) Defining and classifying pilgrimages. In Stoddard and Morinia 1997:41-60. Stoddard, Robert H., and Morinia, Alan (eds.) (1997) Sacred Places, Sacred SIJaces: The Geography of Pi/grin/ages. Baton Rouge: Geoscience Publications, Department of Geography and Anthropology, Louisiana State University. Thomas, Julian (2001) Archaeologies of place and landscape. In Hodder 2001:165-86. Wilkinson, Tony J. (2003) Archaeological LandscalJes of the Near East. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Wolf, Eric R. (1982) Europe and the People without History. Berkeley: University of California Press.
Introduction The inspiration for the subjects discussed in this chapter came from discoveries at my own site, <;:adtr Hoytik, in central Anatolia (see Figure A). Although not yet fully explored, initial exposure of an area on the south side of the mound suggested that a fairly large and well-provisioned Late Chalcolithic house (ca. 3600 BCE) burned down near the end of the 4th millennium (Steadman et al. 2007,2008). In the subsequent 'Transitional Period' (ca. 3100-3000 BCE) residents built a new house. It was not, however, built directly atop the previous Late Chalcolithic house, on the same structural pattern, but rather was oriented on an angle turned 90 degrees (north/south as opposed to the previous east/west direction of the Late Chalco lithic house) (Steadman et al. 2008). I was intrigued by this potentially significant shift in house orientation. I began to consider what factors might have occasioned the rebuilding of a house on a different axis and soon realized that I was examining individual motivations. My ruminations revolved around the residents of a single house and decisions they, or even one member of the household, might have made that resulted in an entirely reoriented home. Within the context of general continuity in a settlement's architectural orientation, what would make a house builder construct a house in a different orientation from usual (whether that builder lived in the original house, or was a new builder-resident)? While the inhabitants of the structures were the focus of my inquiries, I also acknowledged that such decisions must have been made within the context of societal norms, or perhaps in spite of them. It was, it seemed, an ideal topic to explore within the context of agency and identity. The study of architecture is the vehicle employed here to address individual decision-making processes in prehistoric contexts. Decisions and actions carried out by an individual in a relatively small community, however, may reverberate across the settlement and indeed such a case may have occurred at <;:adtr Hoytik, as discussed below. In the research undertaken here, therefore, material culture, especially in the form of architectural remains, serves as a very useful dataset for exploring motivations and rationales in prehistoric contexts, not only at the individual level but intra-site as well. The challenge is to identify correctly the motivating factors behind house form and style decisions made by individual builders and residents. How and where one builds one's house is dictated by a combination of societal constraints and individual desires. Property lines and topographical features may restrict location and even size and
28
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
height, but which direction the front door faces, the shape of the house, or what will be viewed from the windows can be arranged by the house builder. There are myriad factors that would influence a housebuilder to construct a house that varies from the norm, and only a few of these can be explored here. Choosing which to focus upon was not exceedingly difficult since my choices were grounded in the changing circumstances of the Chalcolithic (especially as they were manifested at <::adlr Hoyiik) and in the data we have retrieved about potential ritual activities at the site. This study investigates two possible motivating factors that might cause residents of central Anatolian prehistoric villages and towns to make goal-oriented decisions about the style and orientation of their homes. One involves the realm of religion, a cultural institution that is a powerful motivating force in countless cultures, and rests at the root of many decisions to undertake extraordinary changes in all manner of material culture. A second area worth investigating is that of changing sociopolitical structure, or more particularly the processes that surround the emergence of leaders within a village, town, or larger settlement. Individuals intent upon competing for positions of power may undertake goal-oriented decisions intended to enhance their positions in the societal structure. Although further excavation of the Late Chalcolithic areas of the <::adlr HoyUk remains will be necessary for confirmation, preliminary data suggest that it may have been a combination of these factors that resulted in a Transitional period reoriented house at this site.
Agents, Identity, and Architecture The field known as 'agency' in archaeology (Gardner 2008; Archer 1996,2000; Dobres 1995; Dobres and Hoffman 1994; Dornan 2002) has allowed us to explore the decisions and subsequent actions undertaken by both individuals and social groups vis-a.-vis results they intended to achieve through those actions. As has been described in various ways within this volume, the agency theoretical framework, at once both common sense and innovative, has its roots in Giddens's structuration theory and Bourdieu's symbolic systems in practice theory (Giddens 1979, 1984; Bourdieu 1977, 1990). Essentially, agents act based on their own societal and historic knowledge of how the world works; they believe their decisions will have the desired outcome because they understand the basic rules underlying the structure of their world. Occasionally these actions result in unintended consequences and outcomes (VanPool and Van Pool 2003 ) creating change agents regardless of whether the actor's goals were achieved. Wobst points out that the agency model allows archaeologists to shed their "'behaviorist" straight-jackets' and to begin 'to talk about people actively constructing their futures' (2000:40). This focus on 'people', or a person, highlights several controversies in agency-based research. One point of contention concerns the author(s) of agency; can archaeology realistically hope to identify only social groups as agents (e.g. elites), who are more easily detected in the archaeological record (Beekman 2005; Pauketat 2000; Barrett 2001), or are individual agents visible in that record as well (Robb 1999a; Hayden 1995; Johnson 2000; also see McMahon, Branting, Porter, Castro Gessner, and Feldman, this volume)? Another issue is the subject of identity; are there points of intersection between the search for agency and identity in the archaeological record (Stark 1998; Shennan 1996; Gardner 2002; Matney, this volume), especially regarding ethnicity or social change (Emberling 1997; Jones 1997; Dietler and Herbich 1998; Shennan 1989; Sinopoli 2001; Magness, this volume)? Finally, those who research agency question whether agents' actions and decisions can be understood in larger cross-culturally defined frameworks (e.g. Joyce 2000; Handley and SchadlaHall 2004; Pauketat 2000; VanPool and VanPool 2003), or if agents must be viewed within the context of their own unique cultural structure (BrumfieI2000; Jordan 2004; Thomas 2000). This study attempts to address the first two of these controversies directly, and the third in a more oblique fashion.
AGENCY, ARCHITECTURE, AND ARCHAEOLOGY
29
This chapter also seeks to contribute to agency studies focused on materiality as well (Taylor 2008). The agency framework has been employed in research on a variety of material culture types, including lithics production (Morris 2004; Sinclair 2000), mortuary ritual behavior (Gillespie 2001; MeskeIl2003), and, of course, technology in general (Dobres 1995,2000; Gravina 2004; Dobres and Hoffman 1994). Many studies have focused on agency within the context of power structures (Flannery 1999; Robb 1999a; Berggren 2000; Kovacik 2002; Chapman 2003), and other innovative approaches have explored interrelationships between agency and material culture (Hoskins 2006; Tilley 1999; Robb 1999b; Thomas 2000), the agency of art (Mitchell 2006; Layton 2003, 2006; Gell 1998), and the intersection between gender studies and agency (Lesick 1996; Nelson 2004; Sorenson 2000). Though many have recognized the utility of architecture for understanding social structure and symbolic meaning within a culture (Lawrence and Low 1990; Hugh-Jones 1995), the built environment has not been subject to the application of the agency theoretical framework. It is the intention here, therefore, to address this lack. The relationship between architecture and human behavior has been explored by a number of researchers in a variety of venues. The nonverbal systems of meanings embedded in architectural structures not only prompt particular behaviors but also reinforce them from one generation to the next (Fletcher 1981; Hillier and Hanson 1984; Rapoport 1988, 1990; Chippendale 1992), ensuring consistent patterns of behavior. Beyond simple architectural layout, including internal partitioning, access into and between houses, and placement of structures relative to one another, symbolic meaning expressed in the structures themselves serves as a mnemonic device for societal values, beliefs, and appropriate actions (e.g. Glassie 1973, 1975; Donley-Reid 1990; Waterson 1990; Steadman 1996, 2000). Architecture, then, can be a powerful vehicle to express the agency and identity of an actor or actors who wish to conform to societal codes, or who, alternatively, seek to break out of them. In regard to the actions taken by agents, this study seeks to identify the decision-making processes within a single household, thereby identifying the agency of individuals rather than larger social groups. A housebuilder must make decisions at every stage of the construction sequence influenced by social practices, a process that can be described within the context of the chaIne o/Jeratoire approach used in a number of contributions in this volume (see Russell and Bogaard, Ross, Castro Gessner, and Branting). These decisions can then manifest themselves in the built environment, and subsequently be recognized archaeologically. It is thus the assertion here that architecture can be a successful vehicle for revealing the motivations of individuals in the archaeological record. The placement, layout, and orientation of structures in the larger context of community and culture may have been meant to send a number of messages about an individual builder's intentions or goals. Rationales employed that underlie architectural decisions might involve competitive leadership activities, elements of religion 01' religious change, or ethnic and social change within the community. Though architectural ethnic markers, in some cases, might be the most visible archaeologically, it is the former two areas of research that are the subject of this chapter. In the case of prehistoric villages, the archaeologist is probably dealing with a resident and builder who are the same individual. Using architecture as an analytical tool allows the researcher to get at the builders, or at least the future resident who commissioned the building of the structure, and thus the intentionality behind that construction. In this way the individual agents may be found, the decision-making strategies they undertook outlined in the framework of the built environment, and hints at an agent's self-identity in the context of his or her place in the community provided.
30
AGENCY, ARCHITECTURE, AND ARCHAEOLOGY
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
Agents in Conservative Settings In order to make an argument regarding archaeology, architecture, and agents, it is necessary to identify the places where these intersect with one another. The nature of the built environment, as noted above, is one that offers repetitive patterns that signify meaning to the occupants (see Jones, this volume). Such patterns are frequently reflected in rebuildings through generations of occupation, leading to the notion that village architecture is 'conservative' in resisting change. It is both the repetitive patterns, and any alterations in them, that can be elucidative of agents and agendas.
The Conservative Nature of Villages Archaeologists tend to spend a great deal of time in villages rather than cities, since sites are often out in the hinterland. That is certainly the case in the Middle East. Villages tend to have a normative 'village architecture', and sometimes there are specific attributes characteristic of particular villages, such as a house color, or orientation in certain directions. It is expected that new houses will fit in with, or look like, the other houses in the settlement. When we gained permission to build an excavation house in Peynir Yemez, the village nearest (:adtr HoyUk, we met with the mukhtar (village leader) who made it clear that our house should look like a village house. We, of course, complied. A brief glance across Turkey and the Mediterranean gives us the same architectural expressions of conformity in prehistoric times. Neolithic Khirokitia, on Cyprus, offers a village of circular structures built with similar methods and style (Le Brun 1984, 1989). Early Bronze Age Demirci HoyUk in northwest Anatolia features megaron-style houses all facing inward, built in a type of 'wagon-wheel' format, with the only significant differences being variations in size (Korfmann 1983). Examples abound in the archaeological record of village conformity; we as archaeologists even rely on this principle when we seek to compare house types and architectural nuances from one culture to the next, using differences or similarities to assign attribution of a newly excavated site to one culture or another. Roger Matthews perhaps expresses this cultural mainstay best in his description of Neolithic (:atalhoyUk: I want to stress the evidence for the consistently structured nature of material culture at \=atalhoyiik. It seems that virtually every building follows a code of practice that dictates its construction and layout as well as its use and abandonment (2002:92).
Matthews lists some of these behaviors, and then goes on to say, My point is that the adherence to sllch codes of practice has something to tell us about social behaviour at \=atalhoyiik. The entire archaeological record from \=atalhoyiik seems to have something to say about the materialisation of ideology (2002:93).
It is not just in Turkey that such conservative attitudes toward village architecture might be found, even though initially it might not be so apparent elsewhere. In his work in the Taishan region of the Guangdong province in China, Jonathan Hammond initially thought villages were quite heterogenous, some looking more Chinese and others sporting more Western-looking characteristics. His second assessment reveals quite the opposite: 'On close examination, however, despite superficial appearances, one finds that virtually all Taishan villages reflect the same pattern of layout, have the same component parts, and are sited in the landscape the same way' (Hammond 1995 :555). In the archaeological record the superficial differences visible to Hammond may have been invisible to the archaeologist who would only have seen the foundations, orientations, and building materials, all showing conformity. Architectural conservatism is diachronic (though archaeologically, depending on settlement remains, it may often be observed only synchronically in any given village or town). In South
31
America, Jonathan Damp's excavation of early Valdivian villages, dating to 3500 BCE, has revealed U-shaped village plans; even the houses themselves in many cases are U-shaped. These, he and others suggest, are the precursors to later ceremonial centers such as U-shaped Chavfn de Huantar. The conformity of the early South American village, therefore, is not only due to architectural conservatism common in villages, but stems from ideological patterns as well (Damp 1984). That architectural conformity, especially in residential structures, is well-attested (though, of course, not universal), is not a particularly hard case to make. The few examples offered here could be substantially expanded if space were available. The reason for making such a case is to explain this author's surprise when village residential conformity was apparently spurned at (:adtr HoyUk, initiating the inquiries undertaken here. If residents construct a house that is obviously different from existing and previous structures and forms, is this relevant archaeologically? In other words, what information might be gleaned from such actions?
Motivations of the Agent: The Architectural Toolldt The goal here is to investigate how agents might use architecture as a tool to accomplish their goals. Focusing on the architecture as an analytical tool allows us to get at individual agents, that is, the builders or at least those who commissioned the building of the structure, especially in a prehistoric village where builder and resident are likely the same. In this way you can retrieve the intentionality of an individual in the archaeological record, rather than the larger social group. Why did a housebuilder at late 4th-millennium (:adtr HoyUk (either the same resident from the original house, or a new builder) decide to substantially change the house plan? Various explanations are possible. Reasons could stem from environmental concerns such as wind direction change; ethnicity and concerns with proper orientation according to one's beliefs; responses to readjusted architectural patternings in the overall town layout; or simply whim or fancy. While some of these are realistically observable archaeologically (town layout) others are more difficult (ethnicity) and some are impossible to tease from the archaeological record (whim and fancy). To proceed on the premise that an agent adjusted or substantially changed architecture to achieve a goal or goals, such motivating factors must first be defined. This is not always easily determined in archaeological settings, as is the case at (:adtr HoyUk. What so consumed a prehistoric housebuilder/resident at a site like (:adtr that a significantly different residence was constructed? Based on some analysis of our data thus far, possible motivations might well have involved religion and power relations including the presence of emergent leaders. These motivations, therefore, become the focus of consideration here.
Architecture and Power There is nothing new in the suggestion that architecture and power have an intimate relationship. Palaces, churches with soaring steeples, and massive government buildings are all meant to convey the notion of a powerful ruler, entity, or nation. For instance, Nicolae Ceausescu, the socialist president of Romania from 1967 until his execution during a popular uprising in 1989, decided, in the early 1980s, to impress the world by knocking down one-third of Old Bucharest in order to build his new parliament. He razed nearly thirty major religious buildings and 30,000 residences to build his monument (Danta 1993). It is the second largest building in the world (the u.S. Pentagon is the largest) and covers nearly 65,000 square meters. It certainly stands as a testament to the ability of one man to change the landscape of a city. In the same fashion Pierre L'Enfant wished to design a United States Federal capital complex 'proportioned' appropriately for a 'powerful empire' (Kostof 1991 :209); in other words, big, flashy, impressive, and if possible, overwhelming, are watchwords for constructing the central architectural node of a powerful kingdom, nation, chiefdom, or political
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entity. L'Enfant was not the first to equate power and architectural setting. The Shang Dynasty palace at Anyang, Zimri-Lim's Palace at Mari, and the Northwest Palace at Nimrud are all illustrative of ancient correlations between power and architecture. These examples on the national and imperial scale illustrate methods used by kings and powerful rulers to demonstrate not only visually their ability to build impressive architectural monuments, but also to suggest that any political agent who can do so should be respected and, certainly, obeyed. Moving from the national to the local scale, architecture still functions as a method to send messages embedded with notions of power and status. In any study of social stratification within a settlement, architectural markers for social inequality can include house size, labor investment, and house contents, all features that have become standard indicators in archaeological contexts (e.g. Netting 1982; Blanton 1994; Steadman 1996; Ames 2008). Other indicators may include demarcations such as fences or boundaries, setting houses of higher-ranking individuals on higher ground, limiting and/or promoting movement to certain areas, or contrasting house shapes dramatically (i.e. 'round' for non-elites and 'rectangular' for elites) (Wason 1994; Branting, this volume). Any and all of these factors, in place of or in addition to size and 'energy expenditure' (Wason 1994: 138), may herald the presence of a socially, economically, or politically ranked society (or a combination of all of these). An interesting example of this is found in the Mississippian culture of North America, particularly at its best-known center, Cahokia. Typical markers of social stratification are found in this culture, including differentiation in burial methods and associated goods, size of houses, and relative value of house contents. There are two architectural circumstances relevant to the discussion here. In the earliest Mississippian stages (ca. 750-950 CE) houses in outlying communities were first arranged around central courtyards where communal storage areas could be accessed, and where communal activities (including religious ceremonies) took place (Mehrer 1995). As social complexity increased some houses became larger and incorporated private storage pits. By the end of these two centuries each community included at least one 'nodal homestead', a household that was quite large, with extensive storage areas, and which included a very large open area suitable for hosting a large gathering of people (Mehrer 1995). The architecture, then, tells a story of the consolidation of economic, political, and possibly religious power into the hands of a few, or even one, resident within these communities. Another interesting feature of the residential architecture at Cahokia and its outlying communities is the 'vertical' location of houses. Inside Cahokia's palisaded center, earth was mounded to create flat-topped platforms on which residential structures were built. Other houses in the center but outside the palisade were built on the natural landscape, and a third category of houses, those belonging to farmers, were found in the 'bottom lands' in outlying regions at lower elevations where the agricultural fields were located. Such differentiation in house placement may reflect a 'vertical' cosmology as well as the Mississippian social hierarchy (Emerson 1997a). Those living on top of the mounds were likely the Mississippian elites who may have been considered spiritually closer to the cosmological upper world, while those in Cahokia living on the natural landscape may have represented the 'ordinary' people of 'this' layer; the farmers at the lower levels of society, perhaps associated with the underlayer of the cosmos (such a 'lower' layer may have represented elements of a fertility principle in Mississippian cosmology), lived in homes at the lowest elevations (Emerson 1997a, 1997b). In this example the normal indicators of power and social status-house size, contents, and labor investment-are accompanied by location within the settlement (either inside the palisade walls, within city limits, or in the countryside) and the actual elevation of the house itself. The Chinese Neolithic Yangshao period (5000-3000 BCE), in the Central Plains (Huang Ho River) region, offers another interesting case in point. It is during this period that agricultural intensification occured; by the mid Yangshao period burial evidence suggests that agricultural work
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passed from the hands of women to men (Zhongpei 2005). The question of whether this was accompanied by a shift from matrilineal to patrilineal kinship and descent is still a matter of some debate (Pearson and Underhill 1987; Zhimin 1988). What the burial and architectural evidence does indicate fairly clearly is that early Yangshao society was organized into kin or family groups (heralding the roots of the later Chinese clan system), and that these were, to some extent, hierarchically ranked (Chang 1986; Zhimin 1988). There is some variation in burial gifts in the large cemeteries-at several sites including Jiangzhai and at Banpo in the Shaanxi Province, some individuals had very richly furnished graves (Chang 1986; Zhongpei 2005). The architecture at early Yangshao settlements is of particular interest here. At both Banpo and Jiangzhai, architecture ranged in size and shape, and buildings were placed in clusters that may have correlated to kin or clan groups. Buildings were circular, square, or rectangular, and arranged around an open central plaza (Chang 1986; Zhongpei 2005). At Jiangzhai clusters contained approximately 20 houses, each with one large rectangular house, one or two mid-sized circular or square residences, and then smaller houses of either shape, the latter suitable for housing only three to five people (Zhongpei 2005). A recent study of the Jiangzhai village layout suggests that the hierarchy of social organization is expressed not only in the clustering of house groupings and house sizes, but in the actual placement within and across groupings; in effect the entire spatial environment and arrangement of houses reflected and reinforced Chinese Neolithic segmentary society (Lee 2007). It is interesting to note that this same study identifies architectural elements that suggest defiance of that societal structure, heralding its collapse (perhaps into patrilineal kinship structures) in the later Chinese Neolithic (Lee 2007). Architecture can be a vehicle by which archaeologists identify a singular individual and perhaps even discern his or her position in that community, or the society as a whole. If a secure match could be made between the richest burials and the largest houses in early Yangshao villages, this would be a case in point (however, the cemeteries were separated from the houses). In essence the same indicators used to identify social ranking in a community can be applied to individual homes that stand apart from the rest of the community. In 9th- to 10th-century feudal England, settlement changed from a more dispersed residential pattern to planned nucleated villages (Saunders 1990). It was at this time that feudalism became well ensconced as the predominant land management system in England, and lords of feudal estates sought methods to demonstrate social and particularly economic power over peasants. Feudal lords constructed villages with specific layouts in which the large manor house and its grounds dominated the village and was frequently in close proximity to, or even encompassed, important village resources such as the town mill; a mill located within the lord's estate allowed him not only to demonstrate his power over the peasant economy, but even to extract rent from them for its usage (Saunders 1990: 193-94). The manor house was not only larger, better built, and often located near other important buildings such as the church, it was demarcated by a road system, ditches, and earthworks to suggest a sort of 'off limits' notion to resident peasants (Saunders 1990). In feudal England lords built entire villages with the intent to demonstrate their power on a spatial and visual level, a strategy also apparently employed at Cahokia. Whether palace, manor house, or one of several elite residences, structures can demonstrate the presence of power held in the hands of the builders. The agency available in architecture allows the archaeologist to perhaps take a step further, and explore the possibility of using architecture, and its associated space, as a vehicle to power, not merely the manifestation of it. A village resident, within a constellation of other decisions designed to adjust his or her position in the settlement, may undertake the alteration of a home to create the illusion or demonstrate the reality of a growing power base. Some of those decisions are irretrievable archaeologically, but the alteration of the building, depending on the nature of the change, can be a clue to an agent's intent. The key is to identify the reasoning behind the architectural change: what goal did the agent mean to achieve,
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what message of power might have been sent by such actions? Viewing architecture not as a manifestation of power but a vehicle to it allows investigators to delve much deeper into individual intent in the prehistoric past.
Architecture and Religion That religion impacts architecture is an easier principle to demonstrate than almost any other; architecture features prominently in any study of the archaeology of religion (e.g. Hayden 2003; Inso1l2001; Whitley and Hays-Gilpin 2008; Steadman 2009). One need only to refer to the Berber house as described by Bourdieu (1973) in which the meanings expressed in every defined space are imbued with cultural meaning underlain with religious symbolism. In the Berber house it is the interior that offers so much entrenched meaning. Archaeologically that meaning would indeed be hard to detect. The layout and nearly identical placement of artifacts in each house would signal that some constellation of symbolism was present, but the detail available through ethnographic interview would of course be lacking. Nonetheless, recognition that symbolism, probably religious in nature, was present in the architectural formation would provide a first step in identifying individual agents, particularly if one or a few houses did not appear to conform to the 'norm'. Were residents of the 'non-conformist' houses intentionally building, or organizing the interiors of, their houses differently, and if so for what reasons? A few of many possible explanations might be that they were non-believers, or residents from different cultural or ethnic groups, or individuals seeking to change the belief system from within. Alternatively, perhaps they were specialized individuals in the society. In the Batammaliba culture in Africa, some individuals gain great power from the animals they kill in the hunt; this power is reflected in the architecture of their homes, where doorways may be remodeled and decorations such as earthen horns are added to the home (Blier 1987:165-68). In this example the concepts of religion and power are combined in architectural expression since those with power derived from animal spirits are also considered powerful individuals in the community. The architectural additions on Batammaliba homes bring to mind the 'bucrania' on <;:atalhoyUk's walls and benches. Perhaps such markers are not meant to signify that the building is sacred, but that the one who lived within it was special. Complex systems of symbolism can dictate very precise guidelines for residential patterns. For instance, in the American southwest the Tewa and Keres villages are laid out in such a way as to reproduce the culture's understanding of the cosmos. Houses are oriented to cardinal direction and represent symbolic replicas of landscape features such as mountains, rivers, valleys, and so forth. All of these elements embody myths and stories sacred to the culture (Snead and Preucel 1999; Tilley 1994:63-66), making the entire built environment of the village one permeated with religious symbolism. In such a setting a misplaced or improperly built house would be glaringly obvious to residents; those who constructed the house might well be sending a powerful message to the community about their intentions with regard to the religion, the power structure within the village, and their place in these. Depending on the embedded patterns in such built settings, a non-conformist house may well be recognizable in the archaeological record, signaling the opportunity to address the message the individual agent(s} behind the suspect house meant to send. Religious change can also impact architectural patterns, either in the actual rendering of the buildings, or at the very least alterations within them. A dramatic example comes from post-Soviet Russia. The Cathedral of Christ the Savior was built in Moscow to celebrate the departure of Napoleonic forces. Construction began in 1839 and was completed in 1860. After the 1917 revolution and the death of Lenin, the Soviets chose this site for the construction of the 'Palace of the Soviets', a testament to socialism, the 'new religion' of the nation (Paperny 2002). The church was demolished. The palace was never built, but the intention, the agency, is clear here.
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This example is on the state level and resulted from religious change imposed upon a culture. The Chinese Neolithic Yangshao villages, already mentioned above, may have been laid out not just according to strict social organizational principles, but along cosmological guidelines as well. In the later Bronze Age Shang Dynasty the cosmological concept of Sifang (Four Quarters) shaped the Chinese understanding of the universe and may have had a significant impact on their built environment, including the plans of their major cities (Wang 2000; Allan 1991). Roots of Sifang or even Feng Shui principles may have also permeated the Yangshao village structures (Sun 2000; Liu 2004). Feng Shui translates to 'wind' and 'water' but has a deeper symbolic meaning that manifests itself in geomantic principles that guide the flow of qi, or a 'cosmic current' of positive energy (Bruun 2003). A proper architectural orientation and furniture pattern within a house can increase qi, as can the house's location within the environment. The very regularized patterning of the Yangshao villages may have conformed to ancient Chinese geomantic or astronomical principles (perhaps even pre-dating Feng Shui) designed to achieve the most positive flow of energy. The layout of the village, and the very shapes of the houses, may have conformed to this religiophilosophical notion of the proper use of space. Someone in the present day, taking up a Feng SI1Ui philosophy, might undertake the rearrangement of furniture in the home or even remodel the layout so that the interior conformed more naturally to geomantic principles. A radical move might be to knock down the previously non-conforming house and build one entirely within a Feng Shui framework. Certainly the architectural alterations would be recognizable archaeologically, if not the reasons for them. In ancient Banpo or Jiangzhai, a built structure that failed to comply with proper patterns would be easily recognizable to residents (as it apparently was to Lee [2007]). The action of building contrary to 'norms' might send clear messages to contemporary residents but present numerous possibilities to the archaeologist: did the resident experience a change in belief system, or defy the existing one? Was the housebuilder a new resident with a 'foreign' set of beliefs? These, or any number of other explanations, might be generated to explain architectural non-conformity. As Tuan (1975) has so elegantly explained, humans live in a 'place' and that place has meaning for them, whether it is their bedroom, their home, or their nation-state. That humans find place experiential has a direct correlation with elements of religion and architecture. This can lead an investigator to the subject of the symbolic landscape and the impact this might have on the built environment. There has been a significant literature built on the phenomenology of landscape in archaeological context (Tilley 1994; Ashmore and Knapp 1999; Carmichael et al. 1994; Steadman 2005). The built environment is often a reflection of, or a reaction to, the surrounding landscape; more often than not the elements underlying the relationship of the two are religious in nature. One need look no further than the TemfJlo Mayor at the Aztec capital Tenochtitlan; the monumental structure may have represented the sacred Mount Tlaloc, making both visible to all in the city (Aveni et al. 1988). Already noted above are Tewa and Keres villages that illustrate a universality of the cosmos by effecting particular orientations on the landscape, imbuing natural topography to represent important elements of their sacred stories. The intersection of landscape and monumental structure or entire village is clear, but that intersection can also occur with the individual house. This is clear in the Cahokia example where the very elevation of houses, and their placement within and outside the community, may have represented not only social but cosmological factors embedded within the society. These elements are also apparent in the feudal English estate. Not only was the manor house separated from the peasants' homes, but the church was as well. Built by the lord, the church was placed in proximity to the manor house signaling a physical correlation between power and religion (Saunders 1990; 193). The peasants were allowed and even encouraged to attend church. It was the lord, who had built the church and lived next to it, who was the 'chief parishioner' and who was
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perhaps considered to have the ear of God. The placement of architecture on the estate clearly illustrated the feudal lord's power over every aspect of peasant life-economic, social, and religious. In many of the examples presented in this section architectural expressions of power and religion were inextricably intertwined. Though they were discussed as separate motivating factors, it is clear that they are in no way mutually exclusive. In the following section the archaeological data illustrate how individual agents may have made architecturally based decisions designed to highlight both positions of power and association with religious principles within their communities.
Agency, Architecture, and the Anatolian Plateau One of the main limitations for those wishing to focus on architecture as a window into prehistoric behavior is that many excavations reveal only portions, even fractions, of the entire settlement. The Anatolian plateau boasts several prehistoric sites that offer sufficient architectural remains for indepth study (e.g. DUring 2006). The following section presents 'snapshots' of various occupational levels at a few comparative sites on the plateau, including HoyUcek, Hacllar, and Kuru\;ay (Figure A). Though examined at a synchronic level, the subtle or sometimes overt hints of agency and intentions at these sites can be used to interpret the more diachronic architectural patterning at the author's own site, <;:adlr HoyUk. Courtyard
Hacllar Hacllar, located in the Burdur region of the southern Anatolian plateau, was excavated by James Mellaart from 1957 to 1960 and offers Aceramic Neolithic to Early Chalcolithic remains (Mellaart 1970). The Hacllar II Early Chalcolithic level (Figure 1a), dating to the later 6th millennium, is of interest here as the previous Hactlar III level had experienced some burning and it is possible residents abandoned the area to rebuild their village on a slightly higher area of the landscape a few meters away. The rebuilding of Hacllar II, therefore, offers the opportunity to examine social attitudes possibly expressed in this Early Chalcolithic village's architecture. Mellaart terms Hacllar II a 'fortified settlement' because an outer wall, sometimes forming the back wall of houses, surrounds the village (1970:25). The Hacllar lIa (earlier phase) settlement consists of several quarters including two domestic quarters (west and east), a workshop area, and several structures termed 'shrines'. The excavator notes that the village seems to have been divided into the 'richer' (western quarter) and 'poorer' (eastern quarter) residents with the workshop area separating the two (1970:34). The eastern quarter has one narrow entrance into the settlement in the northern wall. This entrance led into the structure Mellaart identified as a shrine, the 'most interesting building of the Hacllar settlement' (1970:35). It is quite large compared to other structures, measuring 8 X 6 m when most others in the eastern quarter are two-thirds or half that size. Five individuals were buried under the floor of this building, two pairings of female and child, and one single burial; it was the only building with subfloor burials in the Hacllar II settlement (Mellaart 1970:36). The shrine offered the only access to the village well, located in the northeast corner of the settlement. The shrine was easily accessed from either the workshop area or the domestic quarter. It does not appear to be associated with any particular residence or other structure, save for the village well. Houses in the eastern quarter were fairly uniform in size and in domestic accoutrements such as querns and stone pounders. The shrine and well are the most unusual structures in this area of the settlement. The western quarter offers a different architectural layout. The residences there were substantially larger than those in the east. There were two village entrances in the western quarter, one in the north and one in the south. The north entrance led between the walls of two houses into the open courtyard in the center of the quarter. A possible granary and two large (communal?) bread
I
Bread Ovens
--5 meters
···rv Bldg 3a
8 Bldg 1
•- --
II Hearth/Oven 5 meters
Figure 1. top (a) Hacllar II (after Mellaart 1970: figure 21); bottom (b) Hoyiicek Shrine Phase (after Duru and Umurtak 2005 :PI. 7).
I I I
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ovens occupied the northwestern corner (Mellaart 1970:29). In the southwest corner of the village was another building identified as a shrine by the excavator (1970:29) based on contents (ritual vessels, figurine, clay seals, and a relative lack of domestic items). Built in conjunction with the shrine, and sharing its eastern wall, was the largest house in the village (House 1 on Figure la), a three-roomed structure with a doorway that was virtually one with the entrance to the shrine next door. The southern entrance into the village was directly behind this large house and in fact someone entering the village faced the back wall of the house. This entrance was different from the other two in that it did not give immediate access to the heart of the village. To gain entrance to the settlement one turned right, into a narrow passage (created by a buttress on the large house wall and the outer village wall) that was easily gated or guarded; beyond this one gained entrance to the southern courtyard. This is by far the most elaborate entryway into the settlement. This largest house in the settlement, and its orientation and placement within the village, may have conveyed a great deal about its residents: the walls of the house literally granted access to the village; in contrast to the more neutral access to the eastern quarter shrine, the sharing of the wall with the western quarter shrine, and the virtual mingling of doorways would seem to send a powerful message regarding this resident's position vis-a-vis village rituals and religious practice. Finally, the residents of this house had a direct view and easy access to the bread ovens and granary, perhaps implying some level of control over those areas as well. The architectural layout of the HacIiar IIa village offers some insight into the messages of power conveyed by the arrangement of the architecture in the western quarter.
Hoyucek In the Lake District the Early Neolithic phase at the site of Hoyticek is termed the 'Shrine Phase' by the excavators (Duru and Umurtak 2005). Structures were built of mud brick with no stone foundations, with one exception noted below. In this phase there are two smaller buildings, numbers 1-2 (Figure Ib) and two larger buildings, numbers 3a-b and 4. It is building 3 that the excavator believes to have featured extra-domestic functions that may have been ritual in nature (Duru and Umurtak 2005). Buildings 1,2, and 4 were all determined to be residences. The single-roomed buildings numbered 1 and2 had interior dimensions of approximately 5 X 6 m and 5 X 4 m respectively, with doorways either in the southern or northern walls; each residence contained a hearth, grinding stones, and mortars, and building 2 held a small clay storage box and a large oven (Duru and Umurtak 2005: 169-70). Buildings 3 and4 were multi-roomed and outfitted with more furniture and goods. Building 3a, measuring 8.5 X 5.1 m, was oriented on an east/west axis with the main doorway, set off by a wooden threshold, in the southern wall. Just beyond the western doorway was a work area containing three mudbrick free-standing 'walls' covered by plaster, and just south of these were large grinding and mortar stones, clay boxes, marble bowls, a clay four-legged table, and animal-headed marble ladles; the excavator believes the mudbrick features to have functioned as work counters or table tops of some sort (Duru and Umurtak 2005: 166). Internal features inside building 3a included a very large hearth, more clay boxes, large marble bowls, and two grain-filled storage containers. Building 3b, measuring 7.2 X 4.5 m, was accessed only by a doorway leading from building 3a (a break in the mudbrick of the southern wall may have been a narrow doorway, but this is unlikely [Duru and Umurtak 2005: 167]). This room was full of unusual features and contained numerous objects. The oval 'cell' at the northern end of the room was set off by half walls approximately 40 cm in height and at the threshold and inside this room were the antlers of deer and the jawbones of three large animals in addition to ten astragalus bones. Just outside the entrance of the cell were five steps leading up to a platform, approximately 50 cm high, on which a person could have stood. Clay boxes, some containing burnt seed grains, sat on the floor and on the internal partition walls of this room and three large grain
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storage bins sat on the floor next to another mud brick platform in the center of the room; clay rhyta (kidney and boot shaped), marble and terracotta bowls, stone chisels, and clay tables were also found (Duru and Umurtak 2005: 167). It is the combination of unusual architecture, furniture, and room contents that led the excavator to believe that building 3 played a role beyond the domestic in this phase of the Hoyticek settlement. Building 4 was two-roomed and measured 11.5 X 8.5 m; the location of the doorway is unclear but it may have been in the northern wall. This house contained a hearth (along the western wall) and a marble bowl. The lack of storage equipment and other domestic goods suggests that either the building was emptied, or that residents relied on others (perhaps the people performing production activities in building 3) for their sustenance (Duru and Umurtak 2005: 171). South of building 4 are the remains of additional small rooms that may have once been houses, perhaps even smaller than buildings 1 and 2, though these were lost to erosion down the Hoyticek mound slope. Though the remnants of the Neolithic Shrine Phase at Hoyticek are minimal, they are significant. The two smaller residences, buildings 1-2, are built on a north/south axis and are far smaller than the other two structures. Buildings 3 and 4, identified as shrine and house of either a shrine personage or some other type of personage (Duru and Umurtak 2005: 171), are both oriented on an east/west axis and are in close proximity to one another. The one difficulty in this interpretation is the location of the building 4 doorway which does not give easy access to building 3; possible solutions to this include access via rooftop (evidence of wooden posts suggests a fairly substantial rooftop) or the housing of residents who were also part of this complex in building 2, with its substantial oven. Although minimal at best, the architecture at Hoy(icek suggests that residents placed an importance on consistency of orientation (east/west for important buildings) and adjacency to demonstrate a correlation between power and religion. Kuru~ay
Hoyuk
KUflll;ay Hoytik is located in the Lake District, near Burdur. The Late Chalcolithic settlement (level 6A) offered a very interesting configuration of gates and buildings. Of the three gates revealed (Figure 2), the excavator believed the east gate to be the main entrance into the settlement. Five buildings (1-5) near this gate are of interest. Most of the buildings at Kum<;ay were of similar size (ca. 5 X 7111); the contents and location are of greater import here. Building 5 was identified as a shrine by the excavator, based on interior remains such as an altar for burnt offerings in the center of the room, earthen and clay tables, wooden columns, and other unique architectural features (Duru 1996: 115-18). The excavator identified buildings 3 and 4 as residences belonging to 'dignitaries', though whether both belonged to a single household is unclear (Duru 1996: 115). Building 3 is of particular interest due to its association with shrine building 5; a small room rests just outside the entrance to building 3, in the courtyard area between buildings 5 and 3. This courtyard (area a) is blocked at its eastern end by a gate, controlling access by those entering the eastern gate. The final two buildings, 1 and 2, flank the main entry point into the settlement, gated at either end. This entire complex may have formed a set of residences and structures designed to guard this entry point into the town (Duru 1996: 114). In the excavator's estimation, then, the complex of buildings at the eastern gate included guard houses, the town religious structure, and at least one, if not two, residences belonging to town personages, perhaps secular or religious leaders. What is interesting here is not directional orientation, which is variable at Kuru<;ay, nor differentiation in building size. The notable features at Kuru<;ay concern the functional interpretations of these structures and their spatial relationships. A visitor to Kuru<;ay passes through gates and is greeted by guards/village attendants; next the visitor ends up in a type of enclosure next to the home(s) of the village VIP(s) (to use Dum's language), and a left turn in this enclosure brings you to the area between these residences and the village religious building which faces the VIP residences.
40
41
AGENCY, ARCHITECTURE, AND ARCHAEOLOGY
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
The residents of buildings 3 and 4 were in a spatially crucial location in the Kuruc;:ay village, protected by village gates and yet the first to encounter visitors entering through that gate; they also may have controlled access to the village's religious structure. It is this spatial configuration of a substantial residence, near the gate, and near the possible religious area, that also occurs at ~adlr Hoyiik.
••• 5 meters
area of the excavation, was only partially exposed but this was sufficient to show a well-built dwelling that was very well provisioned (Steadman et al. 2007,2008). Upon passing through the gated entrance to the settlement, one entered an open area; to the left was a structure that housed dozens of ceramic vessels (Building 1), possibly meant for exchange or for use at the platform and high place just to the west. Turning right from the gate brought one to the courtyard of the wellstocked house. As was suggested for Hactlar, Kuruc;:ay, and Hoyiicek, I suspect the residents of this house may have been considered fairly important within the village as a whole. The placement of the house at the gate and near what may have been a ritual area offers the same configuration of architecture seen at the other plateau sites profiled above, especially Kuruc;:ay. Was the juxtaposition of a large, well-provisioned house with expansive courtyard, near a possible economic and religious center, and next to the main entrance to the settlement, meant to send a powerful dyad or even triad of messages about the residents of the house: doyen of power (political and economic?) and regent of religious activities?
7 • Hearth
i Projected . Architecture
-=::::J
2 meters
Figure 2. Kuru~ay 6A (after Duru 1996:PI. 32).
<;adlr Hoyuk I began this study by noting that it was the changes in the built environment at my own site, ~adlr Hoyiik on the north central Anatolian plateau, that led me to consider architecture, agency, and identity. The exposure of the relevant levels at <::adlr is as yet insufficient for me to draw any firm conclusions. My research on this topic, however, has allowed me to view these architectural manipulations with better-founded speculation. The Late Chalcolithic (ca. 3600 BCE) exposure at <::adlr offered a town gate with associated flanking (guard?) rooms and a stone and mudbrick enclosure wall, two structures oriented on an east/west axis (one domestic and one non-domestic), spacious courtyards, and a stone and mudbrick platform leading upward to a 'high place' that may have been ritual in function (Figure 3a). The gate and the platform appear to be oriented to the highest peak in the region, <::altepe (Steadman 2005), upon which there are cultural remains, some dating at least to the Hittites (Late Bronze Age), and possibly earlier (Gorny 2006). The house (House 1 in Figure 3a) and courtyard, in the eastern
, \ \ .... .. \
\
--
X Fruitstands • Hearth -=::::J
2 meters Figure 3. top (a) sketch of <::adlr HoyUk Late Chalcolithic; bottom (b) Transitional Phases.
-' \
..... ..
i Projected . Architecture
42
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
AGENCY, ARCHITECTURE, AND ARCHAEOLOGY
43
This house burned down and in the Transitional period (ca. 3100 BCE), immediately following the Late Chalcolithic, a new house was built partially atop the old. However, this house was oriented on a north/south axis (Figure 3b), in nearly the same alignment with the stone and mud brick platform that led to the high place. In addition, a small room, too small for occupation, was added on to the back of the western guard room by the gate; it held five vessels known as 'fruitstands' (bowls on pedestal feet), still containing the residue of ochre in the bowls. The small room, easily accessed by the Transitional house resident or visitors to this house, may have been a place where offerings were made in the pedestaled fruitstand bowls. Other more subtle changes occurred in the spatial configuration of the Transitional settlement, but for the purposes of discussion here the Transitional house, platform, 'fruitstand room', and (:altepe are the main spaces and places of interest. The ninety-degree reorientation of the Transitional house is the single act that caused me to consider the role architecture can, and perhaps did, play in agency and identity in a prehistoric village. What message did the Transitional house builder mean to convey by reorienting the house? Was it simply to get the morning sun on the eastern long wall, and/or the afternoon breeze from the northeast? Alternatively, was this builder/resident (if he/she was one in the same) more closely aligned with religious affairs in the settlement in the Transitional period-was the town dignitary sending a message (by orienting the house toward (:altepe) that he or she was now not only a secular but also a religious leader? A slightly different interpretation asks whether this single house signals a separation of roles in prehistoric (:adll' Hoylik; perhaps a more secular dignitary built a house in an as yet unexcavated area, and the Transitional house resident demonstrated a strong association with the platform/high place with its focal point possibly (:altepe-defining a religious identity through the act of building a structure in a certain way, in a certain place. Finally, was it the reorienting of the house that imparted the identity to the occupant? The discussion here has identified an additional set of tools available to researchers interested in identifying agents at the individual level in the prehistoric past; furthermore it has delineated the close ties between agency and identity. While the supportive case studies cannot be definitively said to be 'cross-cultural', they are cross-temporal; space allotment here does not allow for a true crosscultural examination of architecture, agency, and identity but it seems evident that the types of models employed here would be relevant for many settings. The number of question marks in the previous paragraph is testament to how much is left to be discovered at prehistoric (:achr Hoylik. Greater exposure of more buildings-domestic, public, religious, and secular-will provide a far clearer picture of 4th-millennium life at this settlement. Those buildings, and the intentionality behind their construction, can potentially offer multiple layers of meaning, not least of which may be insights into ancient identity and the meanings implied by individual agents, to the archaeologists who seek such data.
Barrett, John C. (2001) Agency, the duality of structure, and the problem of the archaeological record. In Archaeological Theory Today, edited by I. Hodder. Cambridge: Polity Press, pp. 141-64. Beekman, Christopher S. (2005) Agency, collectivities, and emergence: social theory and agent-based simulations. In Nonlinear Models for Archaeology and Anthropology: Continuing the Revolution, edited by C. S. Beekman and W. W. Baden. Burlington: Ashgate, pp. 51-78. Bentley, R. Alexander, Maschner, Herbert D. G., and Chippindale, Christopher (eds.) (2008) Handbook of Archaeological Theories. New York: AltaMira. Berggren, Karin (2000) The knowledge-able agent? On the paradoxes of power. In Philosophy and Archaeological Practice: Perspectives for the 21st Century, edited by C. Holtorf and H. Karlsson. Goteborg: Bricoleur Press, pp. 39-51. Blanton, Richard E. (1994) Houses and Households: A Comparative Study. New York: Plenum Press. Blier, Suzanne P. (1987) The Anatomy of Architecture: Ontology and Metaphor in Batammaliba Architectural Expression. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bourdieu, Pierre (1973) The Berber House. In Rules and Meanings: The Anthropology of Everyday Knowledge, edited by M. Douglas. Harmondsworth: Penguin, pp. 98-110. -(1977) Outlille of a Theory of Practice, translated by R. Nice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. -(1990) The Logic of Practice. Palo Alto: Stanford University Press. Brumfiel, Elizabeth M. (2000) On the archaeology of choice: agency studies as a research stratagem. In Dobres and Robb 2000:249-55. Bruun, Ole (2003) Fellgshui in China: Geomalltic Divillatioll Betweell State Orthodoxy alld Popular Religion. Honolulu: University of Hawai'i Press. Carmichael, David L., Hubert, Jane, Reeves, Brian, and Schanache, Audhild (eds.) (1994) Sacred Sites, Sacred Places. London: Routledge. Chang, Kwang-chih (1986) The Archaeology of Allciellt Chilla. 4th edn. New Haven: Yale University Press. Chapman, Robert (2003) Archaeologies of Complexity. London: Routledge. Chippendale, Christopher R. (1992) Grammars of archaeological design. In RelJresentations in Archaeology, edited by J.-c. Gardin and C. S. Peebles. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 251-76. Damp, Jonathan (1984) Architecture of the early Valdivia village. American Antiquity 49:573-85. Danta, Darrick (1993) Ceausescu's Bucharest. GeogralJhical Review 83.2:170-82. Dietler, Michael and Herbich, Ingrid (1998) Habitus, techniques, style: an integrated approach to the social understanding of material culture and boundaries. In Stark 1998:232-63. Dobres, Marcia-Anne (1995) Gender and prehistoric technology: on the social agency of technical strategies. World Archaeology 27.1 :25-49. -(2000) Techllology alld Social Agellcy: Outlillillg a Practice Framework for Archaeology. London: Blackwell. Dobres, Marcia-Anne and Hoffman, Christopher R. (1994) Social agency and the dynamics of prehistoric technology. journal of Archaeological Method alld Theory 1.3 :211-58. Dobres, Marcia-Anne and Robb, John E. (eds.) (2000) Agellcy in Archaeology. London: Routledge. Donley-Reid, Linda (1990) A structuring structure: the Swahili house. In Kent 1990: 114-26. Dornan, Jennifer L. (2002) Agency and archaeology: past, present and future directions. journal of
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4
Agents in Motion
Scott Branting
Movement plays an important, though not always acknowledged, role within the framework of agency. People need to move from place to place in order to undertake actions or to interact with each other. Without movement even the simplest of tasks done each day would fall far short of completion. Some activities can be accomplished through the movement of only a single individual, winding his or her way from step to step through its undertaking. Others require coordination of movement between individuals, many of whom may never come into direct contact or communication with each other. Even the very action of coming together and interacting with each other, in physical or intellectual realms, requires the movement of multiple individuals. Without interaction, groups and institutions would never have come into existence. As the unit of action and thought shifts down to the level of the individual within agency studies, the study of movement has only grown in importance (see Jones, this volume). When discoursing about institutions or groups, broader generalities can be used to mask the intricacies of the interweaving trajectories of individual actors moving through time and space. Such groups of individuals can corporately be in more than one place at a time and can coordinate simultaneous actions at multiple locales. But each individual constituent of that group is still bound to a single trajectory in space and time. They cannot be in more than one place at a time and they cannot suddenly appear hundreds of miles from where they just were a moment before. Scholars attempting to situate the locus of activity and knowledge on the individual, as agency theory strives in part to do, must therefore find ways to move beyond broad generalities of movement and deal explicitly with the intricacies of individuals' intertwined trajectories. This focus on individual movement in agency becomes even more important when the temporal focus of research is the distant past. In the modern world the development of large mechanized conveyances such as jumbo jets, passenger ferries, tour buses, or even many automobiles has transformed the activity of movement into a group event. Here the various individual trajectories of movement are brought together in one apparatus and jointly follow the same path for at least a part of the journey. In the past there were certainly similar forms of transportation, primarily boats, which could accommodate the transportation of numerous people or sizable quantities of goods. However, they were much less frequently used. With the importance of these new modes of transpOt·tation and the significant investment of infrastructure at the institutional level needed to support them, modern tools for analyzing transportation have given them primary focus. This has led to aggregated models that operate on a more generalized level of detail, models that are not well suited to focus on detailed analysis of individual movement whether by walking or other means. Yet these are precisely the sorts of models that would be most useful in exploring agency in archaeological research.
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AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
Time-Geography One of the best ways for theorizing and modeling countless individual trajectories of movement has been the work undertaken within the area of time-geography. Time-geography grew out of the work of Hagerstrand (1970, 1982) and has seen a wide range of applicability within geography to understandings of how people move about and interact. At its core time-geography involves the construction of an individual's 'path' along axes of time and space (Figure 1). This path is in an ideal sense a single continuous line that stretches through space from the individual's birth to his or her death, detailing where in space he or she is located at any given time. In practice the defined paths arc often sub-portions of this master path, detailing the movements of an individual across timeframes from a few minutes to several weeks. At such smaller temporal scales these paths provide excellent tools for mapping out an agent's movement through the challle o/Jcratoire of a particular activity (for additional methods using the chaille o/Jcratoire concept, see Castro Gessner, Russell and Bogaard, Ross, Steadman, this volume).
T I M E
Figure I. lIIustratioll of a Time-Geography Graph.
Though an individual's path could ideally pass through any spatial point at any time, a variety of constraints can impact a trajectory. Such constraints may be geographical, physiological, or structural in nature, bounding the individual's potential for mobility in space and time. Someone who moves more slowly would have a restricted range of locations they could get to from a set starting point in a set amount of time as compared to someone who moved more quickly. Certain places might also be inaccessible to specific individuals, either physically or socially, and thus the paths of those individuals will likely never pass through those locations unless for subversive reasons. Any range of activities could be undertaken by the individual along this continuous path, yet these activities are also subject to similar constraints of location, time, and the individual's capabilities. Activities can be portrayed within time-geography as either a continuous path when known or in a more generalized sense by 'prisms', diamond-shaped polygons that demarcate the area within
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which the activity must occur. Paths, before and after the activity, join at the top and bottom points of the prism. These arc fixed points in time-space along the path that are left at the beginning of the activity and arrived at when it is completed. Just as with movement, various constraints provide the limited bounds of the prism, including: the availability of material and tools, the capabilities and knowledge of the individual and others involved in the activity, and the social and institutional structures within which they operate. These constraints operate alongside those delimiting movement and together they provide limitations in time and space for the entire connected network of paths and prisms. As noted by Pred (1990:120): Because space and time are limited resources, because the volume of daily time at the disposal of individuals is fixed, because all projects have duration and all movement across space is time consuming, the power relations which dictate when and where daily life-dominating projects are to be participated in also constrain what other activities are accessible to a person, what other practices are within her time-space reach.
With the invocation of institutions the focus shifts somewhat from the individual path to collections of such paths. In time-geography two or more paths can converge together for a time in the same place to form a 'bundle'. Bundles can be used to model groups of various sizes, from small groups to institutions or states, yet at the same time maintain a scalar focus on the individuals who ultimately constitute them. Time-geography also allows for the incorporation of corporate decisions and actions in concert through the concept of 'projects'. Projects exist as more than just the sum of the individual paths, though they may make use of constituent activities undertaken by any number of individuals or bundles of individuals at disparate locations. Projects can also exist independent of any direct oversight or control. As with any activity projects need not be successfully completed, or even fully conceptualized during the time they are undertaken. Individuals may only see a part of the full project and any action may have unintended consequences for both that project and for others. The term 'diorama' is used within timegeography parlance to include not merely the physical presence of the individual in time and space, but also the wider cognitive and social phenomena that are at work in their minds and in interactions with other individuals. Individuals, after all, are thinking and social beings as well as physical bodies. This opens up the utility of time-geography within agency studies well beyond simple physical determinations and decision making, allowing the incorporation of projects and activities confounded or facilitated by thoughts, structures, actions, and an even wider range of constraints. It also allows for the impact of actions to be felt act'oss time through modifications to the physical or social landscapes. Pred (1990: 119) notes again: People make history and produce places, not under circumstances of their own choosing, but ill the context of already existing, directly encountered social and spatial structures, ill the context of already existing social alld spatial relations which both enable and constrain the purposeful conduct of life. In making history and producing places people reproduce and transform social and spatial structures, thereby contributing to the unchosen, directly encountered conditions of those who slIcceed them.
Time-geography thus provides a way to quantify practice, down to an individual task level, and to integrate it with other inclividuals' unique paths and activities within a common framework. It also provides the perspective for exploring the interpenetrating influences of social structures and individual thoughts and actions within specific locales. Pred's own seminal historical-geographic study of southern Sweden, from the mid-l Xth to mid-19th centuries CE, is an excellent example of how these methods can provide very nuanced understandings of changing patterns of land-use, social and power relations, and the activities of the population in fields as diverse as music, farming, and law (Pred 19X6). Questions of landscape and belonging are interwoven with political and economic policies in wa}'s that allow the reader to understand ideational processes such as the individual's or society's changing 'sense of place' (Pred 19X6:30).
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Time-geography has formed the basis of numerous studies investigating both individual action and individuals' interactions in several disciplines. Some of the more notable studies using timegeography, including that of Pred, have arisen within the field of geography, frequently involving the tracking of project participants moving through urban and rural settings. The work of Kwan and her collaborators is particularly interesting in this regard, incorporating both quantitative as well as qualitative approaches to individual actors (Kwan and Ding 2008; Kwan and Lee 2004). This includes building an understanding of urban landscapes, and the activities undertaken within them, from differently gendered perspectives (Kwan and Lee 2004; Kwan 1999). Archaeology has also seen the inclusion of time-geography, though the availability of evidence to reconstruct particular paths and projects is less obviously evident (Thurston 1999, 2007; Llobera 1999, 2000). Other perspectives in anthropology and archaeology, while not specifically referencing time-geography, work with similar conceptualizations (Ingold 1993; Barrett 2000).
Agency and Time-Geography Connections have long existed between agency theory and the methods and theory of timegeography. Giddens has discussed time-geography and even offered 'time-space maps' as an alternative to the paths, bundles, projects, and dioramas of time-geography (Giddens 1984: 110-19, 13235; 1985). His criticisms of time-geography, best laid out in his chapter 'Time, space and regionalisation', include four key arguments (Giddens 1985). First, he argues that time-geography lacks certain richness when it comes to the social reality within which agents operate, the institutional structures that they interact with, and the power employed by agents and institutions (Giddens 1985 :270-72). Too much is made of abstract notions of space, in his estimation, and not enough emphasis is directed at places as socially structured locales. Second, the focus of time-geography on looking primarily at constraining factors, rather than also looking more explicitly at actions which enable, is called into question (Giddens 1985:270). Third, he disputes that in practice the spatial scalability of paths and actions extends down to the microscale, to locales such as the space within a particular building (Giddens 1985 :285-86). Too much emphasis, he feels, is placed on the movement between such locales, while the locales themselves are treated like black boxes. Finally, Giddens raises the issue of alternative conceptualizations of time, based on culture or perception (Giddens 1985 :283-84). Time-geography's strictly linear conceptualization of time, he argues, fails to treat with proper nuance potential alternatives. . With the publication of Pred (1986) the following year as well as subsequent studies utilizing tIlne-geography, these concerns have since been addressed. The first three arguments were dealt with by the inevitable maturation process of time-geography and by the case that some of these issues were more a question of phrasing in explicating particular theories and results rather than truly missing pieces. Pred puts forth an argument in the introduction to his study that timegeography is complementary to theoretical perspectives incorporating structure and agency, including those of Giddens, and that it can be used alongside them to trace and explicate the real-world interactions of agents, institutions, structures, and place (Pred 1984; 1986:9-12). Pred (1990) subsequently argues that it is in fact a better way to do so than Giddens's alternative approach using time-space maps. Pred notes that time-space maps often end up unfairly favoring the temporal over the spatial, and thus dealing with the physical properties of the places of interaction as 'frozen backdrops' (Pred1990: 126). This emphasis on time, while allowing the incorporation of non-linear conceptualizations of time pointed out by Giddens, creates problems in analyzing the more dynamic aspects of day-to-day life such as movement. Giddens is correct in pointing out the need to be able to apply time-geography across both macro- andmicroscales of analysis. How an agent's path is specified has important implications for
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the method's utility. With the focus of inquiry shifted down to the individual, it is necessary to specify these paths on an individual basis across both scales if need be. This means bringing to bear both models and data applicable to action undertaken by individuals through their movement and activities. New technologies have provided a range of tools for time-geography studies set in the modern world to diagram more closely paths of individuals even at the microscales that Giddens describes. This includes daily diaries, GPS tracking devices, or even triangulation of the cell phones of study participants. They allow for a targeted analysis of where people go, what they do, and why they do it. Studies of agency in the past that use time-geography must naturally approach the movement and actions of agents in very different ways. Yet there is still a need to be able to model the paths of agents on micro- as well as macroscales. The tools used in studies of the modern world are not transferable to activities in the past. Textual evidence when available can be used to great effect as it was by Pred (1986). Texts such as rituals or itineraries could be very helpful in defining past movement, but in most cases such textual evidence is lacking. However, by focusing on the remains of past movement, for instance features such as streets, tracks, or corridors, new ways can be found to draw out the activities of past agents into much wider contexts, with or without textual evidence to support it. Such features offer the possibility of bringing together in the present the interactions of paths and projects of individuals and institutions in the past.
From Movement to Agency Shifting from archaeological material to investigating specified paths of time-geography must focus on modeling ancient movement. In most cases this will entail answering two questions. Where was movement occurring? And how was movement taking place? Both must be answered in such a way that the scale of analysis is appropriate for modeling movement all the way down to the level of specific individuals. Two ways to do this are being pioneered through the Kerkenes Dag archaeological project in central Turkey (see Figure A). This section briefly describes these methods and discusses how they could be applied to paths of individual agents and the projects in which they participated. The ancient city at Kerkenes Dag is located in the northern portion of central Turkey. An enormous city, 271 ha in size, it exhibits a short period of occupation in the late Iron Age, from roughly the latter half of the 7th century to the mid-6th century BCE. It was a newly founded settlement built on a monumental scale and was inhabited for not much more than a single generation before being intentionally destroyed by fire. Subsequent habitation on the site was limited, leaving from less than one meter to a meter and a half of overburden in most areas of the city. For eighteen years the archaeological project at Kerkenes Dag has employed minimally invasive techniques to reveal the extent and plan of this ancient city. These include intensive use of aerial photography and subsurface remote sensing techniques. Among these latter techniques, magnetometry has been the most widely used to detect the buried walls, buildings, and open spaces in this ancient city. The dataset from the magnetometry survey, which is particularly good at revealing those structures that were burnt in the final destruction, covers approximately 95% of the total area of the city. Complementing this is an ongoing resistivity survey that has proven useful in revealing both burnt and unburnt walls and structures within the city. In addition, a detailed microtopographic survey using survey grade GPS receivers has provided an extremely accurate model of the ground surface at the site, with accuracy in the range of ca. 25 cm or less (Branting and Summers 2002). This micro-topographic model has been shown to match closely the original surfaces that the city's inhabitants once walked upon. Each of these large datasets has been combined within a GIS environment and the outlines of the city plan, the various urban blocks and compounds, as well as the streets running between them, have been reconstructed (Branting 2004) (Figure 2).
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Figure 2. Urban Block and Strcet Plan of the Iron Age City at Kerkcncs Dag.
The plan that has emerged is well designed for providing answers to questions about where movement occurred. The streets of the city are a physical manifestation of institutional structure and individual initiative at work in the landscape within which agents acted and moved. Through these the agent's COl/rte dl/ree of day-to-day life intersected directly with the IOl1glle dl/ree of the city over much broader scales of time. While the nature of the city, with its streets hemmed in by the city wall and the various urban block walls, makes for an ideal situation at Kerkenes Dag, it is by no means the only place where information on agent movement can be retrieved. Other ancient cities have comparably detailed plans of streets and structures, including Amarna, Teotihuacan, or
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Wroxeter in England. Neither is it necessary to have a complete plan in order to incorporate the paths of individuals, as even a portion of a neighborhood is sufficient for analysis. Remnants of streets and pathways on a wider scale have also been mapped all over the world, including footpaths in the Arenal region of Costa Rica (McKee et at. 1994), the trails of Chaco Canyon (Vivian 1997a, 1997b), and the hollow ways in the Upper Khabur basin of Syria (Ur 2003). In addition to knowing where movement once took place, it is also necessary to know where activities took place, and to understand how people moved between these places. The interconnection between activities occurring at specific places and the movement that links them into larger tasks and projects is critical for investigating agency. By knowing one side of the interconnection the other can be posited. For example if the places where sequential activities are undertaken are known, then the routes taken between them can be estimated. Or if the paths where movement is undertaken are known, then likely locations for the sequential activities can be inferred using various forms of locational or transportation analysis. Both form different ends of the dialectic between land-use and transportation that has long been investigated by locational theorists and transportation geographers (von ThUnen 1826; Blunden 1971). Archaeological research has usually approached this dialectic by first identifying, from the landuse side, the static places wherc activities took place. One might find, for instance, a palace and a craft specialist's workshop and begin to construct interpretations of the interactions between the specialist and elites based upon the material found at both locations. But there are enormolls difficulties whcn attempting to apply this approach beyond small, defined arcas in single or multiple sites. The urban ccnter at Kerkencs Dag is a case in point. To excavate all of the delineated placesthe urban blocks and compounds-within the city would take enormous investments of money and effort over numcrous decades if not centuries. It is far preferable, and more practical, to find more powerful ways to leverage these interconnections and to integrate the information contained within the transportation networks of sites and regions. Of course it is Illore difficult archaeologically to approach this dialectic frol11 the side of transportation. In archaeology the individuals who undertook the activities are long dead, thereby defying observation as accomplished in modern timegeography methodologies. Alternative means, such as pedestrian transportation simulations (described below), are necessary to draw forth how ancient movement likely took place along these transportation networks. Two different methods for modeling ancient movement at a level appropriate for an individual agent are being developed through the Kerkenes Dag project (Branting 20CH, 2007; Branting et aI. 20(7). Both entail the use of micro-level simulations of pedestrian traffic flows along the streets. The first method was derived directly frolll modern transportation modeling, using transportation geographic information systems (GIS-T) software (Branting 2004, 20(7). This software allows transportation geographers and urban planners to investigate current systems of transportation and land-use or to assess impacts of changes to these systems. It provides tools within the framework of classic transportation models for estimating and delineating trips using different modes of transport along specific routes within the defined transportation network (Ortllzar and Willulllsen 2(00). However, as already noted, modern lllodeling efforts using GIS-T have focused largely on mechanized modes of transportation. In order to make these methods applicable for modeling human walking, the Pedestrian GIS-T (PGIS-T) approach was developed. It incorporates models of human locomotion, usually drawn from physiology and engineering, and applies the costs assigned by the physiological models at the scale of a human step. These costs are usually the energy or time spent by the individual during the process of taking each step, though other more social or cognitive costs or benefits could be used as well. Accumulations of these costs, step by step, are then used to determine where people would have likely walked to get from place to place within the physical pattern of the ancient city streets.
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Figure J. Results of a pedestrian simulation. The thickness of the street lines represents IIlllllhers of individual agents walking along the streets in the simulation.
The sccond of thc mcthods for modeling movcmcnt that is bcing developcd for the Kerkcncs Dag project combincs thc samc dctailcd models and data but within an explicit agcnt-based modeling framcwork (Branting et al. 20(7). Thc softwarc bcing designed, called SHULGI, whcn completcd will providc an opcn-sourcc, casily cxtcnsiblc, and frcely available package for modeling the walking of diffcrcnt agcnts. In contrast to thc PGIS-T method, SHULGI combines all the modeling routincs within a singlc program, making it much casicr to use. The software is also morc flexible than the GIS-T softwarc in running highly dctailed simulations, especially simulations that
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will allow more sophisticated analysis of the interactions between individual agents and between agents and institutions. It is precisely these sorts of simulations of interaction that may find the most utility in studies relevant to agency and structure. Both of these methods, the PGIS-T and SHULGI, make use of models of movement and scales of data that are particularly appropriate for exploring agency within archaeology. They represent the interaction of the human body, and increasingly the mind of the individual agent, with the specific social and physical landscape through which he or she is passing. Though models have so far only becn applied to human agents, the utilization of similarly specified models for non-human agents, such as animals, could be incorporated as well. The models of human locomotion and the values for the variables used are drawn from studies across several cultures and continents (pandolf et al. 1977; McDonald 1961; Minetti et al. 1993; Sun et al. 1996; Kawamura et al. 1991). Values could also be specified from skeletal remains of the population that once inhabited the place where modeling is taking place, including measurements of long bones and specific pathologies, though no mortuary evidence has yct been found at Kerkencs Dag to put this into practice. Since assignment of costs takes place at the level of human stcps, ca. 50 cm in lcngth, the data used to arrive at values for the physical properties of the landscape at each of these steps are at a similarly detaileellevel. This is important as scaling both the models and the data to the basal level of activities is critical to modcling them accurately, as has bccn discusscd by Kvammc and dcmonstrated at Kerkenes Dag (Kvamme 1990; Branting 20(7). Howcvcr, the exact Icngth of thc stcp along with the specific costs in tcrms of time or energy expenditure can be flll'ther broken down by a range of factors particular to the individual. These includc thc scx of the individual, their agc, footwcar, or cven psychological or social factors such as fears about venturing into particular arcas of the city (Branting 20(4). Using individualized variables along with high-resolution data offcrs approachcs to agcncy through dctailcd undcrstandings of thc paths of individual agcnts. Thc main output from both thcsc mcthods is a variety of simulatcd paths through the street network for individual agents (Figure 3). The paths may vary as the origin and dcstination places for thcsc virtual trips arc changcd to reflcct diffcrent types of activities. A main water collection pool, for instancc, might bc a suitable destination for a simulation of a pcrson fctching water for a household. But it might not be an appropriatc dcstination for a simulation of somcone gathering wood to fuel an oven. Thc spccific paths can also changc cvcn for thc samc simulation if thc agcnts arc allowcd to makc dccisions on how to go from placc to placc using Icss than optimal routcs. Somctimcs not using thc Icast-cost routc, but rathcr onc bascd on stochastic variations from it, is a useful tool for modeling agcnts with Icss than complctc knowlcdgc of thc cntirc nctwork. Thc individual paths dcrivcd from thc simulations can thcn bc drawn togcthcr into bundlcs of paths, or institutional level projects, or dioramas for analysis via thc principlcs of timc-gcography. Thcrc are various ways in which thcsc aggrcgatcs of individuals' paths could bc uscd to undcrstand bctter thc city, to guidc futurc locations for cxcavation, and to fccd thc rcsults of cxcavations back into the widcr contcxts of thc city. Modcls of how thc city idcally might bc uscd by an agcnt of a givcn scx 01' agc havc alrcady bccn produccd from balanccd simulations through thc cntirc city plan (Branting 20(4). Thc movcmcnt by agents in thc simulations can bc mapped to thc structurcs and buildings that thcy pass by as thcy movc from placc to placc. Thcse can offer potential locations for investigating contestcd spaccs betwccn diffcrcnt groups and factions, for comparing Pllblic and private space, or for identifying kcy buildings within thc contcxt of the social and political structurc of the city. Indcpendent archacological tcsting of the simulations by an analysis of soil rccovcrcd through excavation along thc differcnt strccts is being conducted at Kerkencs Dag, and Illay provide measures to confirlll simulation rcsults of the relative number of bundlcs of paths along a given street during thc lifc of thc city (Summers et al. 200S; Branting
2007, 20(9).
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Figure 4. Hypothetical illustration of a Time-Geography Graph at Kcrkcncs Dag illustrating three individuals' paths within the boundarics of the city. Graphs like this could bc used to diagram temporally and geographically each step of an activity in a challle o/leraloire approach.
At the same time the individual paths could also be explored individually, even down to the level of modeling the movement on a microscale between each step of an activity in a chaIne o/Jeratoire approach (Figure 4). Pottery production, for example, is often broken down into a series of stages: (I) selecting and acquiring raw materials; (2) preparing the clay; (.1) shaping the pot; (4) decorating; (5) drying and firing (Arnold 1993). Each stage is undertaken at one or more specific locations, and the identification of these production areas is used in archaeological applications of the challle o/Jeratoire. Yet without movement within and between these locations, and the intersecting movements of in many cases numerous individual paths, there would be no challle o/Jeratoire. Movement is necessary for acquiring materials and knowledge, moving the evolving product through its stages of production, and interacting with suppliers and those who acquire the finished goods. This movement could be modeled for archaeological contexts using the simulation techniques outlined above. As specific locales for these different stages of production are found through excavation, the interplay of these places and movements between them could be used iteratively to find the locations of other places in the challle o/Jeratoire or to understand better the historically and culturally situated aspects of that practice.
From Trinl<et Moulds and Bal<ed Bread to Ancient Cities While the application of these techniques at Kerkenes Dag is still very early in its development, and only small areas of the city have yet been excavated to furnish artifacts and activity areas to investigate, a few examples can be used to illustrate how this methodology might be applied in future practice. On a citywide scale the aggregated paths of individual agents moving about in the initial balanced silllulations of the city (with agents moving frolll every urban block in the city to every other urban block) revealed the presence of the main street running down from the Palace Complex into the north-eastern area of the city. At the southern end of this street lies the Palace while on the northern end lies a free-standing structure known as the North-Eastern Monumental Stone
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Building. As described in Branting (2004: 131-32) the purpose of this small building was perplexing, though architectural features such as the size of the stones and the surrounding glacis had parallels at the Palace. Interpreting the results of the simulations, the paths of individual agents, can offer new insights into how this building might have functioned within the political structure of the city. That so many paths passed close by it suggests a visible and public nature to the structure, while the linkage of the two terminal points of the main street suggests an interconnection between the building and the Palace, the key political institution within the city. Excavation would be needed to test these insights; however, this example does illustrate how one could move from reconstructions of movement to the intertwined paths of agents, and from there into the institutional infrastructure of the city using this methodology. A second albeit more speculative example is a room containing a large and small baking oven first uncovered in limited excavations just inside the southernmost gate at Kerkenes Dag by the Oriental Institute in 1928 (Schmidt 1929: 234-3 7). Re-excavated in 1996, an adjacent stone paved area kitty-corner to the room was found to contain a fair amount of charred grain. Could this be an activity area for the baking of bread on an institutional scale? If so which institution(s) and individuals might have been involved in the projects carried out in this place? How did the daily paths of the individuals who baked here intersect with this place? And where did the grain come frol11 before being sent out from this place as a finished product? The citywide scale of analysis used in the first example docs show this area quite close to a well-trafficked street running back from a primary gate, called the Cappadocian Gate, past the Palace and then on up to the southernmost gate, called the G()zbaba Gate. Could this have been the route along which bulk grain was transported from the fertile plain below and directly past the Palace? If so does it point to control by the Palace of this activity area and possibly consumption of its final baked goods? Or was the grain brought by a different and more diHicult path from the high ridge extending south fr0111 the city beyond the Giizbaba Gate? Could it then he part of the daily workings of another, at this point unknown, institution within the city, one that might be located in the large adjacent urban block? Excavation, again, will be needed to answer these questions. However, whether within the confines of that single urban block or across the wider context of the city, the daily movements of agents and materials connected to this activity area will allow the integration of these and future associated finds to be lIsed to delve deeper into the social and political structures of the city than would otherwise be possible. A final example is a group of seven fragments of a stone trinket lllouid or moulds excavated on the surface of a stone pavement adjacent to a mega ron in the central portion of the city (Summers et al. 2004:39). No evidence, besides the mould fragments, was found in the immediate vicinity to suggest that this was an area of metalworking activity. Where then were the locations of the various steps of the challle opemtoire practiced of which these moulds formed but a part of the process? Was production localized in a single activity area or was it distributed across different areas of the cit)'? Was it on a household level within this encircling urban block, was it accomplished by a single individual moving from urban block to urban block within the city, or was it on a larger scale at installations somewhere nearby? individual movement, once again, would playa key role in deciding among these competing alternatives. The paths connecting links within the challle operatoire might be used to build up an understanding of the steps involved within the process, their interconnections with other individuals and institutions, as well as pointing to potential locales for their practice. When combined with the remote sensing datasets, potential locations for further excavation could be identified, inside or outside the urban block, and an understanding of this process iteratively assembled though simulation and excavation.
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Conclusion This chapter has explored the importance of movement to studies of agency. Both on an aggregate as well as on an individual level, the understanding of time-geography paths, specified by simulations of movement, can provide new insights into the activities and practices of agents. It also provides ways to translate between the movement and activities of individuals and groups or institutional projects and practices. The ancient city at Kerkenes Dag in Turkey, where both pedestrian geographic information systems (PGIS-T) and agent-based methods for the simulation of movement (SHULGI) are being developed and tested, was put forth as an example of how this has been and could in the future be operationalized archaeologically. Efforts such as this provide new ways to explore both urban and rural landscapes and incorporate the dynamic aspects of movement into studies of agency.
References Arnold, Dean E. (1993) Ecology and Ceramic Production in an Andean Community. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Barrett, John C. (2000) A thesis on agency. In Agency in Archaeology, edited by M.-A. Dobres and J. Robb. London: Routledge, pp. 61-68. Blunden, W. R. (1971) The Land-Use/Transport System: Analysis and Synthesis. Oxford: Pergamon Press. Branting, Scott (2004) Iron Age Pedestrians at Kerkenes Dag: An Archaeological GIS-T Approach to Movement and Transportation. PhD dissertation. State University of New York at Buffalo. -(2007) Using an urban street network and a PGIS-T approach to analyze ancient movement. In Digital Discovery: Exploring New Frontiers in Human Heritage CAA 2006, edited by J. T. Clark and E. M. Hagemeister. Budapest: Archaeolingua, pp. 99-108. -(2009) Transportation Studies. In Kerkenes News 11, 2008-Kerkenes Haber/er 11, 2008, edited by F. Summers and G. Summers. Ankara: METU Press, pp. 10-11. Branting, Scott and Summers, Geoffrey D. (2002) Modelling terrain: the Global Positioning System (GPS) survey at Kerkenes Dag, Turkey. Antiquity 76:639-40. Branting, S., Wu, Y., Srikrishnan, R., and Altaweel, M. R. (2007) SHULGI: a geospatial tool for modeling human movement and interaction. In Proceedings of the Agent 2007 Conference on Complex Interaction and Social Emergence, edited by M. North, D. Sallach, and C. Macal. Argonne: Argonne National Laboratory, pp. 475-87. Giddens, Anthony (1984) The Constitution of Society. Berkeley: University of California Press. -(1985) Time, space and regionalisation. In Social Relations and Spatial Structures, edited by D. Gregory and J. Urry. New York: St. Martin's Press, pp. 265-95. Hagerstrand, Torsten (1970) What about people in regional science? Papers of the Regional Science Association 24:7-21. -(1982) Diorama, path and project. Ti;dschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie 73:323-39. Ingold, Timothy (1993) The temporality of the landscape. World Archaeology 25.2:152-74. Kawamura, K., Tokuhiro, A., and Tahechi, H. (1991) Gait analysis of slope walking: a study on step length, stride width, time factors and deviation in the centre of pressure. Acta Medica Okayama 45: 179-84. Kvamme, Kenneth L. (1990) GIS Algorithms and their effects on regional archaeological analysis. In Interpreting Space: GIS and Archaeology, edited by K. M. S. Allen, S. W. Green, and E. B. W. Zubrow. New York: Taylor & Francis, pp. 112-26. Kwan, Mei-Po (1999) Gender and individual access to urban opportunities: a study using space-time measures. The Professional Geographer 51:210-27. Kwan, Mei-Po and Ding, Guoxiang (2008) Geo-narrative: extending geographic information systems for narrative analysis in qualitative and mixed-method research. The Professional Geographer 60.4:443-65.
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Kwan, Mei-Po and Lee, Jiyeong (2004) Geovisualization of human activity patterns using 3D GIS: a timegeographic approach. In Spatially Integrated Social Science, edited by M. F. Goodchild and D. G. Janelle. New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 48-66. Llobera, Marcos (1999) Landscapes of EXfJeriences in Stone: Notes on a Humanistic Use of a Geographic Information System to Study Ancient Landscapes. PhD Dissertation. Oxford University. -(2000) Understanding movement: a pilot model towards the sociology of movement. In Beyond the Map: Archaeology and Spatial Technologies, edited by G. Lock. Amsterdam: lOS Press, pp. 65-84. McDonald, Ian (1961) Statistical studies of recorded energy expenditure of man: expenditure on walking related to weight, sex, age, height, speed, and gradient. Nutrition Abstracts and Reviews 31.3:739-62. McKee, Brian R., Sever, Thomas L., and Sheets, Payson D. (1994) Prehistoric footpaths in Costa Rica: remote sensing and field verification. In Archaeology, Volcanism, and Remote Sensing in the Arenal Region, Costa Rica, edited by P. D. Sheets and B. R. McKee. Austin: University of Texas Press, pp. 142-57. Minetti, A. E., Ardigo, L. P., and Saibene, F. (1993) Mechanical determinants of gradient walking. Journal of Physiology 471: 725 -35. Ortuzar, Juan de Dios and Willumsen, Luis G. (2000) Modelling Transport. 2nd edn. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons. Pandolf, Kent B., Givoni, B., and Goldman, R. F. (1977) Predicting energy expenditure with loads while standing or walking very slowly. Journal of AIJplied Physiology 43:577-81. Pred, A. (1984) Place as historically contingent process: structuration and the time geography of becoming places. Annals of the Association of American Geographers 74.2:279-97. -(1986) Place, Practice and Structure: Social and Spatial Transformation of Southern Sweden. Cambridge: Polity Press. -(1990) Context and bodies in flux: some comments on space and time in the writings of Anthony Giddens. In Anthony Giddens: Consensus and Controversy, edited by J. Clark, C. Modgil, and S. Modgil. London: Falmer Press, pp. 117-29. Schmidt, E. F. (1929) Test excavations in the city on Kerkenes Dagh. American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures 45.4:221-74. Summers, Geoffrey D., Summers, Fran~oise, and Branting, Scott (2004) Megarons and associated structures at Kerkenes Dag: an interim report. Anatolia Antiqua 12:7-41. -(2005) Ke,.kenes News 7, 2004 - Kerkenes Haberle,. 7, 2004. Ankara: METU Press. Sun, Jie, Walters, Megan, Svensson, Noel, and Lloyd, David (1996) The influence of surface slope on human gait characteristics: a study of urban pedestrians walking on an inclined surface. Ergonomics 39.4:677-92. Thurston, Tina L. (1999) The knowable, the doable and the undiscussed: tradition, submission, and the 'becoming' of rural landscapes in Denmark's Iron Age. Antiquity 73.3:661-71. -(2007) The location of power and the art of resistance: spatial analysis and social theory in regional archaeology. In Space-Archaeology's Final Frontier? An Intercontinental Approach, edited by R. B. Salisbury and D. Keeler. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, pp. 158-91. Ur, Jason (2003) CORONA satellite photography and ancient road networks: a northern Mesopotamian case study. Antiquity 77.1:102-15. Vivian, R. Gwinn (1997a) Chacoan roads: morphology. Kiva 63.1 :7-33. -(l997b) Chacoan roads: function. Kiva 63.1 :35-67. von Thiinen, J. H. (1826) Del' isolierte Staat in Bezie/lIl11g auf Landwirtschaft und Nationatokonomie. Hamburg: Frederich Perthes.
II. THE AGENCY OF DAILY PRACTICE
5
Subsistence Actions at
~atalhoyul(·
Nerissa Russell and Amy Bogaard
Introduction Archaeological explorations of agency in relation to food have largely focused on the politics of feasting (e.g. Dietler 2001). While maintaining feasting as an important area of inquiry, we wish to broaden the discussion to subsistence practices in general: food, feeding, and the practices of obtaining food are important to identity formation and social life whether the food is consumed at feasts or at daily household meals. In societies without significant occupational specialization, most individuals would have spent a substantial portion of their time engaged in subsistence practices, making this a critical arena for the negotiation of power and identity. Many have noted that there are multiple interpretations of agency theory in archaeology (e.g. Barrett 2001; Dornan 2002; Pauketat 2001; Saitta 1994). Although the work of Bourdieu (1977) and Giddens (1979) is foundational to all agency approaches, there is disagreement about such matters as the appropriate scale of analysis, the necessity of identifying individuals, and the centrality of intentionality (see Feldman, Porter, Ross, and Steadman, this volume). For our purposes, we note that most agency approaches stress choices made by actors, and differing interests or actions by entities at a scale smaller than the group. We therefore focus on variability as a way of assessing normative behavior within the settlement of Neolithic <::atalhoyUk in central Anatolia (Figure A), since we argue that adherence to norms should be demonstrated rather than assumed (for similar treatment of this issue see Steadman and Castro Gessner, this volume). In common with several other chapters in this volume, we use a chal"e operatoire approach to focus on decision points in subsistence activities. Identifying variability in these choices requires a contextual analysis; understanding subsistence behavior demands that we integrate floral and faunal evidence, as well as draw on studies of other materials. It will become clear that our knowledge of these matters is decidedly partial, but we believe that framing subsistence activities in this way helps us begin to populate <::atalhoyUk with something closer to people than 'faceless blobs' (Tringham
1991:94).
C;:atalhoyUl< Bacl
* We thank Sharon Steadman and Jenni Ross for organizing this stimulating volume and pushing us to address agency explicitly. We are also grateful to Terry Turner for inadvertently inspiring us to consider the affordances of a mega-village. Deficiencies in our attempt to apply these concepts are ours alone.
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SUBSISTENCE ACTIONS AT <::ATALHOYOK
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
and no doors. Rather, access to houses is through and across the roofs. At 13 ha and with a population in the thousands (Cessford 2005), <::atalhoytik is perhaps the largest of a settlement type that emerged for the first time in the Pre-Pottery Neolithic B (PPNB), which we might term the 'megavillage'; other examples would be Basta and 'Ain Ghazal in Jordan (Figure A). These settlements are on the scale of many early cities, but appear reasonably egalitarian and lack full-time occupational specialization. <::atalhoytik's agents, therefore, operated within a structure filled with the challenges and opportunities afforded by a large, dense settlement in an otherwise unpopulated landscape (Baird 2006)-one in which cohesion was maintained without apparent strong central authority. Throughout the occupation, subsistence at <::atalhoytik was based primarily on domestic cereals, pulses, sheep, and goats. However, wild resources played a substantial role, with the collection (and storage) of fruits, nuts, and oil-rich seeds and the hunting of cattle (aurochsen), deer, equids, and wild boar at least episodically significant (Bogaard et al. 2009; Fairbairn et at. 2005; Russell and Martin 2005; Twiss et at. 2008, 2009). Animal symbolism at the site centered on wild animals, notably aurochsen and leopards but also boar, equids, cranes, and others, as depicted in paintings, reliefs, and figurines and as animal parts incorporated into architecture (Russell and Meece 2006).
Food Choices We will sketch a chaIne operatoire for plant and animal foods at <::atalhoytik to highlight decision points and the choices made by some of the ancient inhabitants. Given space constraints, this has to be a partial and selective account, designed to illustrate the variability in subsistence practices. For this purpose, we divide subsistence practices into production, processing, storage, consumption, and discard/abandonment. This exercise is complicated by the fact that we do not necessarily have separate evidence for each stage. For example, most production activities took place off site, so we must read back to them via materials derived from later stages. It is nevertheless possible to separate them conceptually, and important to acknowledge these less directly visible activities.
Production Plant foods. The issue of agency scale is immediately critical for framing choices concerning plant production. Though the individual household is clearly relevant as a potential decision-making unit at <::atalhoyUk, the crowding of houses into 'neighborhoods' and overall emphasis on nucleation demand attention to broader social groupings and obligations. If the individual house was the predominant unit of plant storage and consumption (see below), it is equally apparent that a series of 'production-level' decisions could only have been made with broader cooperative concerns in mind. Ethnoarchaeological work on recent subsistence farmers in the Mediterranean (Forbes 1982, 2002; Halstead 1989, 1990) has shed important light on the potential interplay between household and wider decision-making surrounding plant production. A fundamental decision with important supra-household implications would be the choice of crops for cultivation. Crop choice is on the one hand a matter of culinary tradition and taste, while on the other the annual sowing of crops demands adequate supplies of seed corn. If an individual household at <::atalhoyiik decided to grow an unusual crop, eventual crop failure due to poor weather, invading animals, lack of labor, or other factors would endanger adequate supplies of seed corn for the next year's planting. A broader cooperative approach by a number of houses would greatly enhance the chances of fostering a new crop. Aside from the emergence of hulled barley alongside the naked form in the later Neolithic and early Chalcolithic at <::atalhoyUk, which forms part of a broader shift from naked to hulled forms attested at a number of Anatolian sites (e.g. Martinoli and Nesbitt 2003; Pasternak 1997; van Zeist 1979; van Zeist and Bakker-Heeres 1975; van Zeist and Waterbolk-van Rooijen 1995), no major changes in crop spectrum are evident thus
65
far within the sequence, suggesting conservative attitudes towards crop choice for sowing. The persistently rare occurrence of chickpea, which may have occurred as a weed or minor admixture of other pulse crops (d. Fairbairn et at. 2005), suggests that this conservatism was not merely due to lack of a broader range of potential cultivars: though these seeds/plants could in theory have been separated out and refined for their own planting, there is no evidence to suggest that this choice was ever made. While conservative choice from an established range of crops is perhaps unsurprising-both in terms of shared taste as a component of identity and for seed corn security-there is additional evidence to suggest that households tended to use a consistent range of crop types, especially hulled wheats, free-threshing cereals, and pulses. Botanically rich contexts such as midden layers and rakeouts from fire installations conflate a series of depositional events but generally contain a mixture of these crop categories; burnt buildings with in situ plant concentrations also tend to reflect this range (see also below). The broader implication of such fundamental crop diversity is that plant production strategies were to some extent geared towards risk reduction and security, and that the social units ultimately shouldering the risks were individual households (d. Forbes 1976; Halstead 1989). Though a range of plant production activities likely involved interaction and cooperation among households (see below), the basic diversity of household-level consumption and extreme 'privacy' of plant storage (see below) underscores the agency of modular residential units. Moreover, a degree of individual household choice in terms of species of pulse (lentil, pea, bitter vetch) or hulled wheat (einkorn, emmer, 'new type,l) to cultivate appears plausible, and there is some archaeobotanical evidence to support variation in these choices. Burnt Building 52 and nearby Building 77, for example, both contained deposits of peas (in the case of Building 52, containing occasional lentils as 'weeds'), while only slightly to the north, Building 1 contained multiple deposits of lentils as well as some mixed with peas (Fairbairn et at. 2005). The implication is that, in the particular years represented, some households favored lentils while others chose to plant mainly peas as their pulse crop. Ethnoarchaeological work on recent wild plant gathering in Anatolia (Ertug 2000, 2003) has documented the common practice of plant gathering by women, often in supra-household groups. Here, choices by individuals and individual working parties collecting plants around the settlement or in more distant forays come into play. As for crops, a certain range of wild plants is consistently represented, including nuts such as acorn, almond, and pistachio and several species of small-seeded Cruciferae (wild mustard). These wild plants probably all offered important sources of oil, particularly in the absence of a well-represented oil-seed crop. Again like the major crop types, variation in choice of species within these groups is suggested by rare in situ concentrations: for example, of almonds in Building 52 and of acorns in Building 1 (Fairbairn et al. 2005: 159; Twiss et al. 2009). The nature (e.g. intensity, scale) of crop husbandry at <::atalhoyUk is a major theme of current archaeobotanical research at the site. Ongoing work must be completed before reliable conclusions about the precise nature and diversity of these practices can be drawn, but the repeated occurrence of a restricted range of probable arable weeds across the site and through time points to general continuity in techniques and approaches to crop husbandry tasks. Whatever the social scale at which critical tasks (soil preparation, sowing, manuring/middening, weeding, harvesting, etc.) were undertaken, it appears likely that there was a usual 'way of doing things'. Certain tasks tend to be strictly undertaken under specific seasonal conditions and are therefore likely to have been synchronized across the community, especially across sectors of the community ('neighborhoods'?) working adjacent cultivation areas with similar soils, aspect, and so on. The two most critical tasks are sowing the crop-which, for autumn-sown crops, must take place after 1.
For morphological definition of the 'new type' of glume wheat, see Jones et al. (2000).
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autumn rain but before freezing sets in-and taking it in at harvest time when the crops are ripe and reasonably dry. To some extent the timing and priority of these tasks would be crop-specific; for example, free-threshing cereals (in which the 'naked' grains are loosely invested in the spikelets of the ears) are more vulnerable to dehiscence or predation when ripe than are the hulled wheats (with grains tightly invested in glumes) (Cappers and Raemaekers 2008). Other 'field tasks' would be subject to personal attitudes and choices, as well as to the availability of labor in particular families or broader work groups. Weeding, for example, may tend to be undertaken at specific points in the growing cycle but under more generalized environmental cues than sowing and harvesting (e.g. Charles et al. 2002). More broadly, in the 'mosaic' of environmental conditions that likely characterized the immediate surroundings of <:;:atalhoyiik, it appears plausible that the timing and spatial configuration of plant-related taskscapes undertaken by individuals, families and/or broader working parties varied significantly. At the same time, these plant production routines were likely embedded in more broadly conceived strategies incorporating animal husbandry and hunting, dimensions of agency explored further below.
Animal foods. Much of the labor invested in animal food production at <:;:atalhoyiik would have been devoted to herding the domestic sheep and goats (mainly sheep). Mortality profiles at least for earlier levels suggest that herding was oriented toward meat production, although residue studies have detected ruminant milk on a few pot sherds from later levels (Evershed et at. 2004; Russell and Martin 2005). Stable isotope analysis (Richards and Pearson 2005) indicates that the inhabitants of <:;:atalhoyiik derived most of their protein from sheep and goats. This implies a herd in the tens of thousands for the settlement as a whole (Cribb 1987). It is likely that some of these animals would have to be taken far from the settlement for at least part of the year, to find adequate pasture and to protect crops. Stable isotope analysis shows a uniform diet for sheep and goats in the earliest levels of the site, which became much more variable in subsequent periods as both the human and the caprine populations presumably grew (Pearson et at. 2007). The relatively high isotopic variability in human bone at <:;:atalhoyiik probably results from eating sheep and goat from flocks pastured in different areas, indicating that herds were owned by individual households or kin groups, not herded in common by the entire community. Some animals were kept on site at least for part of the year, attested by penning deposits of trampled dung on the edge of the settlement and in some midden areas (Matthews 2005). These appear to be household-scale flocks, given the small spaces in which these penning deposits are found. Lambing season was at least one time when these animals were kept on site, as shown by the remains of perinatal, probably stillborn, lambs in the penning areas. Risk of loss to drought, disease, predators, raiders, and other hazards is significant for any herder. One way of reducing risk is through livestock exchanges, particularly bridewealth, which have the effect of circulating animals in a regional mega-herd (Dombrowski 1993). In the <:;:atalhoyiik megavillage it would not be necessary to go beyond the settlement to form these alliances; sub-groups owned different herds and exploited different pasture areas in the region. Indeed, Baird (2006) has proposed that smaller exogamous settlements joined to form an endogamous mega-village at <:;:atalhoyiik. We can therefore imagine that marriage alliances, perhaps cemented with bridewealth in livestock, occurred primarily within the settlement. Another classic strategy for managing risk is trading up and down strategically between large (cattle, horse, camel) and small (sheep, goat) stock (Dahl 1980; Mace and Houston 1989). This option was not open to <:;:atalhoyiik herders, who possessed only small stock. An alternative is to use wild fauna to provide meat when slaughtering livestock would endanger herd integrity (Hesse 1986; Stein 1989). This may partially explain why hunting remained significant at the site, although
SUBSISTENCE ACTIONS AT (ATALHOYUK
67
the symbolic value and use in feasting of wild animals, particularly cattle, indicates that other motivations existed. In general, <:;:atalhoyiik hunters brought all body parts of even large game such as aurochsen and horses back to the site. This suggests that they hunted most animals relatively nearby and killed them singly or in small numbers. It would seem that hunting was also organized at a level not much above the household, as opposed to large communal game drives. Some species may have been hunted primarily at a distance from the settlement, however. This is one way to interpret the bodypart patterning of red deer and wild boar, which after the earliest levels are represented mainly by heads and feet, likely equating to hides. However, these earliest deposits with a more even bodypart distribution for these taxa are also on the edge of the settlement. Therefore, an alternative interpretation is that red deer and wild boar were hunted nearby in small quantities throughout the occupation, but were taboo to consume on site or to come in contact with some people. If this is the case, it is interesting that certain houses, such as Building 3, have substantial deposits of the meaty bones of boar and red deer; some people may have been exempt from the taboo. The bird bones from Building 3, which has been the object of special study (Russell in press-b; Russell and McGowan in press), also yield evidence of targeting of specific parts of the landscape by this household in comparison to the aggregate practices of the community. The steppe zone (attested particularly by great bustards) is poorly represented in the Building 3 bird-bone assemblage compared to most of the site. In combination with the relatively high amounts of boar and deer, which are forest creatures, this may indicate a greater use of wooded pockets of the landscape than most <:;:atalhoyiik households. The selection of aurochsen and indeed bulls for feasting, which is often tied to events in the life cycle of a house and probably household (Russell and Martin 2005), strongly suggests that some hunting was targeted at specific categories of animals by individuals or small groups. This may have meant still more focused use of the landscape, although this would involve special hunting parties quite possibly utilizing different parts of the landscape from those that may have been hunted ancillary to other activities for household provisioning (e.g. hunting while out herding sheep, tending fields, or acquiring raw materials).
Discussion. The floral and faunal evidence both indicate that most subsistence decisions were made within the household, but in the context of larger cooperative groups perhaps corresponding to neighborhoods or kin groups. These groups were surely involved in exchange relationships and very likely shared labor in some cases: distant herding, perhaps hunting for feasts, sowing and harvesting, perhaps weeding and wild plant collecting. We see individual households making different decisions about which plant species to grow and collect within larger, more consistent categories; perhaps which wild animals to hunt; and certainly which parts of the landscape to target. Some notion of land tenure may be implied, or at least a specialization in knowledge of certain areas. It is difficult to achieve archaeological resolution below the household level, but the activities discussed here (not to mention others such as mineral procurement, lithic and pottery manufacture, and maintenance of mudbrick houses) imply that household labor would need to be divided among various tasks. Those tending distant herds would not be available for sowing and harvesting, for example. It is likely that age and gender shaped task assignment: children might have been assigned nearby herding, for instance, while adults or adolescents (perhaps unmarried) would be tapped for distant shepherd duties.
Processing Plant foods. The processing of harvested plants/plant parts for storage or immediate consumption would likely involve a range of scenarios in which social units of various scales were potentially
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AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
reinforced or contested. In terms of the physical separation of grain from chaff and weed seeds, the fundamental stages of crop processing (threshing, winnowing, coarse and fine sieving) are essentially similar from one cultural context to the next, and are therefore susceptible to the application of 'middle range theory' based on ethnoarchaeological observations Gones 1987). Here we focus on the processing of cereal and pulse crops, rather than attempting to discuss plant processing in its entirety. Evidence for cereal processing at <;atalhoyi.ik is ubiquitous-chaff-rich deposits regularly occur in midden contexts and rake-outs and, generally at lower densities, in tertiary deposits such as building fills. The most common chaff type consists of the spikelet forks and glume bases of the hulled wheats. The bias towards hulled wheat chaff is plausibly attributed to storage of at least some of this crop in the form of spikelets (the grain remaining invested in the glumes) rather than as naked grain; spikelets would then be pounded on a piecemeal basis for small-scale storage prior to cooking or for immediate food preparation. In addition to possible stores of emmer spikelets studied by Helbaek (1964), a deposit of glume wheat spikelets in the 'store room' of Building 77 (Bogaard et al. 2008) offers direct support for spikelet storage. The periodicity at which spikelets were pounded for final processing could have varied from one household to the next. Rare evidence for in situ burning of hulled wheat processing by-products in an external space of Building 65 (Bogaard et al. 2007:201) appears to reflect fine sieving and hand-cleaning of small amounts of pounded spikelets for consumption within a single household. Other forms of small-scale household processing appear to have included shelling of pulse crops such as peas. Another fire spot in the same external space of Building 65 contained peas and pea pod fragments, suggesting a small-scale pea-shelling 'event' (Bogaard et al. 2007:201); larger-scale shelling of peas, suggested by occasional 'storage' deposits in bins, such as the peas in bin 2004 of Building 52 (Twiss et at. 2008), may reflect inter-household variation in the scale or timing of processing. Though at least some final-stage processing of crops appears to be associated with household spaces (as in Building 65, above), small-scale processing on the roofs of houses may have offered opportunities for socializing between neighbors. Ongoing work by Dragana Filipovic on full botanical analysis of 'roof' samples from Building 3 may shed light on rooftop processing activities. Other stages and forms of crop processing likely demanded larger open spaces suitable for initial processing (threshing, winnowing, etc.) than were available within the crowded settlement. Groups of (neighboring?) households would have followed the same environmental cues for harvesting (see above), crop drying, and initial processing (e.g. the right strength of wind for winnowing-Halstead and Jones 1989). Numerous silicified cereal awns were noted in a slot-trench at the northern edge of the site (Fairbairn et al. 2005), perhaps reflecting il1 situ early processing along the margin of the built-up area. Interestingly, chaff elements generally separated off at the early stages of processing off-site (i.e. segments of free-threshing cereal rachis-the 'stem' within the cereal ear-separated from grain by winnowing and coarse sieving) are regularly found in on-site deposits, often mixed with more abundant glume bases/spikelet forks of hulled wheats, low levels of cereal grain, and pulse seeds. Silicified awns, another early processing product, have also been noted in a number of on-site deposits. The implication is that the by-products of off-site processing were retained and stored for use on site; preliminary analysis of whole silicified plant parts in a small sample of burnt mudbricks (Bogaard et al. 2007,2008) suggests that this material was kept in part for use as temper in building material, although use in dung cake manufacture also appears plausible. That storage and use of this by-product material took place within household spaces appears likely given its incorporation into discrete internal deposits such as oven rake-outs. The widespread use of early stage processing by-products on site might imply that all households were generally involved in these stages, enabling them to take a share of the resulting chaff for uses such as temper. Moreover, household crop stores (see below) appear to reflect 'ownership' of crops
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(and certain stored wild plants) for subsequent use and consumption. An intriguing question is the point(s) at which crop ownership was claimed: was there a division of the harvest within groups of cooperating houses 'at the threshing floor', or were households responsible for their own plots, from cultivation through harvest to processing? Even if the latter is assumed, it is plausible that a system of communal land redistribution (within neighborhoods?) was in place such that inequalities in household production were minimized (Bogaard and Isaakidou in press).
Animal foods. Discussion of butchery practices at <;atalhoyiik is hampered by the low incidence of dismemberment cut marks, apparently due to the sharp and fragile nature of obsidian tools. Obsidian tools are so sharp that butchers can easily dismember animals without making the 'mistake' of hitting the bone. Moreover, the fragility of obsidian means that if one bears down or torques the tool, it is likely to shatter and leave the meat full of broken volcanic glass; so butchers tend to make delicate cuts that are less likely to leave marks (Dewbury and Russell 2007). Cut mark incidences suggest that large animals were cut into more pieces than smaller ones. As noted above, wild animals seem generally to have been brought onto the site with nearly all their body parts, or else only as hides. The vertebrae and ribs of wild animals were to some extent left behind at the kill site; interestingly, there is a more marked tendency to leave vertebrae and rib heads of domestic sheep and goat off site, presumably at slaughter locations around the perimeter (Russell and Martin 2005). Much ethnographic literature stresses that hunted animals, especially large ones, are usually shared out beyond the hunter's family (for summaries of some of this literature, see, e.g., Dowling 1968; Enloe 2003; Ingold 1980). The tendency of wild animals to be consumed at feasts (meals beyond the household scale) at <;atalhoyiik certainly indicates one way this sharing occurred. Moreover, the partial nature of feasting deposits, which rarely include anything approaching a whole animal, suggests some degree of sharing out prior to consumption. Ethnographically, this sharing out is the focus of much tension. It generally takes place in public, and failing to share fairly is heavily sanctioned. At <;atalhoyiik, slaughter of domestic livestock may ironically have been more public than primary butchery of game. Large game would have to be divided at the kill site into portions small enough to carry back. Although the actual allocation might have happened on site, a relatively small group may have witnessed this initial division. In contrast, slaughter on the site periphery, unless there were shelters there, would be in full view of a large part of the population from their rooftops. Rules about sharing would probably be different for individually owned domestic animals, but neighbors near and far would know when a family had meat. Slaughtering a sheep might therefore not be a purely household decision.
Discussion. The highly aggregated layout of <;atalhoyiik means that initial stages of processing of plant and animal foods probably happened mainly on the periphery of the site, in more communal, public spaces. This opens possibilities for cooperative labor beyond the household level in tasks that do not necessarily require larger groups, and raises questions of property rights and obligations to share that may not follow traditional wild/domestic divides. The openness of these areas to surveillance would create a strong pressure to conformity, in particular in sharing food. Both plant and animal foods may well have been shared out among households at this stage and in public. At the least, neighbors would have some idea from whom to borrow. We might wonder whether there were some attempts to subvert the system, for instance by snacking on some wild animal parts at the kill site before bringing the carcass back (O'Connell and Hawkes 1988). The public nature of early processing contrasts with the private, secret character of storage (see below) and later processing stages, where there was potentially more opportunity for defiance of norms. Further identification and study of the remains of individual processing events such as those outside of Building 65 may eventually reveal such nonconformity.
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Storage Plant foods. Direct evidence for plant food storage-that is, concentrations of edible plant parts preserved in situ-is mostly available only in buildings that were destroyed by fire. Controversy over the intentionality of individual burning events (Twiss et al. 2008) affects the interpretation of these deposits, but the cultural principles that guided their placement and configuration offer unique insight into actual plant storage practice at <::atalhoytik. In unburnt buildings, concentrations of plant material preserved in a silicified form (without carbonization) are occasionally attested: for example, a concentration of hackberry fruits in Building 55, excavated in 2007 (Bogaard et al. 2007). Otherwise, phytolith sampling in and around clay bins provides insight into plant materials used to line these storage spaces, such as reed matting (attested occasionally as impressions in bin walls and floors-e.g. Unit 13386, Building 65), as well as their potential contents, though scouring out or filling in of buildings may complicate interpretations. Indirect evidence for plant storage is available through built storage features, principally clay bins, which occur in most buildings, often in clusters (Cessford 2007; Farid 2007; Mellaart 1967:62). Phytolith traces of basketry and matting also attest to the use of perishable containers both outside and inside bins (Bogaard et al. 2009; Rosen 2005). A recent synthesis of plant storage evidence from burnt buildings excavated by the current project and by James Mellaart in the 1960s (Bogaard et al. 2009) suggests certain norms in storage practice as well as variability among households. Most of these buildings date roughly to the midNeolithic sequence; a new program of radiocarbon dating and phasing is currently underway and will ultimately enable assessment of possible chronological trends. Most well-sampled buildings from Mellaart's excavations, as well as the one completely burnt and exposed building excavated by the current project (Building 52), reflect storage of a range of domestic and wild plant foods: cereals and pulses, wild mustard seed, and fruits/nuts such as almonds or acorns. These plant concentrations mostly occur in small side rooms lined with clay bins ('store rooms'), though occasional deposits, especially of pulses, occur in main rooms as well. Some houses appear to favor certain pulse crops over others-for example, lentils in one structure, peas in another, bitter vetch in a third-or certain nuts over others-for example, almonds versus acorns. The social significance of these contrasting choices requires further analysis, but the implication is that households aimed to store a certain diversity of plant types, within which there was scope for particular choices. These choices, in turn, could feed into the development of househoid-llineage-/neighborhood-specific cuisine. . Consideration of clay bin capacities gives some approximation of built storage capacity, though thts will inevitably underestimate real capacity including perishable containers, roof space, and so on (Bogaard et al. 2009). It can be noted both that there is considerable variation in household storage capacity (from several hundred to over 2000 liters) and that a central tendency of around 1000+ liters corresponds rather well to ethnographic estimates of the amount of stored plant staples kept by small families over a year. It is at present unclear how far variability in built storage capacity equates to variation in household requirements and/or production; Kramer's (1982) ethnographic study of a village in southwest Iran indicates that considerable variation can occur even among houses of similar 'economic status'. Given that new burned buildings with well-preserved storage features and plant deposits are continuing to emerge-such as Building 77 excavated in the summer of 2008 (House and Yeomans 2008) and Building 63 excavated in 2006-8 (Ozba§aran and Duru 2006, 2008)-more data will soon be available. In the current context, we would emphasize that variation in the extent to which households built and used clay bins for plant storage reflects an important aspect of household agency. In sum, it appears that there was a central 'way of doing things' (i.e. building several clay bins into a side room space that approximated the volume of space needed annually by a small family) but also considerable scope for use of other perishable containers in the place of bins, variable rates at which bins were renewed and updated and so on.
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The extreme privacy of <::atalhoytik storage-often in sequestered side rooms-appears to reflect a broader social trend documented by Wright (2000) in her study of changing food-related practices across the agricultural transition in the southern Levant. The 'secrecy' of household plant storage at <::atalhoytik can be interpreted in different ways that need not be mutually exclusive: protection of food stores for exclusive consumption by the household, avoidance of envy on the part of visitors, or of shame on the part of the household running short. It is as though food storage for household consumption was not itself a celebrated activity; in contrast, prominent installations of cattle horns and other animal parts in the main rooms of buildings (see below) may indicate a basic complementarity in attitudes towards plant and animal storage and sharing at <::atalhoytik that can also be detected in a variety of other 'transitional' and early farming contexts in southwest Asia (Bogaard et al. 2009).
Animal foods. It is difficult to detect meat storage, but there is little sign of it at <::atalhoytik. Filleting marks from meat removal on the bones can be related to drying meat (Binford 1978), although they could also result from preparation for cooking off the bone. In any case, they are infrequent at <::atalhoytik. Nor do we see body-part distribution patterns that suggest stored hams or the like. While meat does not appear to be stored, some animal parts clearly are, typically in the same side rooms that contain plant foods. Here we find stores of raw material for working (sheep/goat metapodials, ribs, antler), astragali for use as knucklebones (dice-like objects used in games or divination), and equid phalanges (perhaps related to a few finds of incised equid phalanges). It is possible that numerous sheep and goat feet found in the burnt areas of Building 1 along with greasy deposits may be the remains of skin containers full of bone grease (see below) or other stored fat. In any case, it is likely that bone grease was stored in some fashion, since its shelf life is one of its appeals. This is likely to be the main stored animal food, although if milk was used in the later levels cultured products such as yoghurt and cheese are possibilities. Unfortunately at the moment we have too little information about these animal products to assess variation in their storage. Discussioll. As noted above, there seems to be a general pattern in the Neolithic Near East and especially at <::atalhoytik of sequestered storage of plant foods and prominent display of animal remains (e.g. horns set in benches and pillars, boar mandibles on walls, see below). We see these displays as markers of feasts, indicating social storage of meat through shared consumption (Bogaard et al. 2009; d. Halstead and O'Shea 1982). This contrasting treatment of meat applies mainly to wild game. It is possible that plant and animal production were integrated through 'storage' of excess grain (beyond seed and food needs) in a 'walking larder' by feeding it to domestic flocks, although this is hard to demonstrate given uncertainty about survival of cereal products in dung (see below). Variations in the amount and composition of stored food are no doubt partly related to household size. But these variations might also indicate that households are linked into larger kin or residential groups through sharing on a daily scale of complementary stored items. If we assume that feasts included foods other than wild game, such as bread, porridge, or beer, it is striking that we do not see centralized storage outside houses or chiefly houses with large-scale storage to amass the ingredients. Any such feasting foods must have been assembled by drawing on multiple individual household stores, implying not only supra-household relationships but the necessity of carefully calculated manipulation of social relationships in order to host a feast. Rather than substantial storage facilities, the houses of such successful hosts may be marked with cattle horn installations as mementos. These would serve as vouchers for the organizational capabilities of these individuals in future negotiations.
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Consumption Plant foods. Our most direct evidence for plant consumption is arguably the processing activities that occasionally left by-product residues burnt in situ in external 'fire spots' (e.g. Space 314 of Building 65-Bogaard et al. 2007). The implications of some of this evidence for small-scale consumption within household spaces have already been discussed (above, 'Processing: Plant foods'). Though dung/coprolites-especially sheep/goat pellets-are preserved by charring or mineralization in some deposits, recent experimental work on sheep feeding (Bogaard et al. 2007) suggests that at least some forms of cereal grain and chaff do not survive digestion in a recognizable form. The implication is that apparent associations of (presumably sheep) dung or dung-derived wild plant remains with crop material in deposits at <;:atalhaytik are the result of either post-depositional mixing or of mixing during dung cake manufacture. If the latter could be demonstrated through further experimental work, it could at least be suggested that material considered 'dispensable' for dung cake manufacture was also likely available as fodder for animals kept on or near the site. Though charred plant remains may be preserved through burning of animal dung fuel, in terms of human consumption, the paradox of charred plant remains is that what is preserved and recovered is precisely what was not eaten (DenneIl1976), in general contrast to animal bones interpreted as 'meal waste'. Occasionally deposits are encountered that arguably reflect actual 'cooking accidents': for example, the cereal grain-rich fill of several fire spots associated with a sequence of ovens in the South Area excavated in 2008 may relate to roasting of whole grains (Bogaard et al. 2008). This oven sequence is unusual in that it is located in what appears to be an outdoor work area between houses (Regan et al. 2008). Otherwise, typically internal house features such as ovens, hearths, and basins (shallow, often plastered features plausibly linked with food preparation) point to 'private' household food preparation and dining (Wright 2000), at least in the cold months; summer kitchen facilities may have been located on the roof (Tringham and Stevanovic in press). Ground stone tools at the site are generally small and appear to have been unsuitable for regular family-scale plant processing (Wright pers. comm.). Boiling of plant foods in baskets (with clay balls) or in cooking pots is plausible (Atalay and Hastorf 2006) but would not lend itself to preservation of cooking residues by charring. Complementary investigative methods (e.g. starch grain analysis, residue analysis) may in the future provide more detailed direct evidence for the final preparation/cooking stages for plant foods. Animal foods. We can distinguish two basic consumption modes of meat. The more common mode, apparently involving household-scale meals, was based on thorough processing of the carcass to consume marrow and bone grease as well as meat; this treatment was applied mainly to the domestic sheep and goats. The second mode we associate with feasting (meals beyond the household), where large pieces and usually large animals were processed for meat and marrow, but not bone grease, and the remains were often given special treatment after the meal; this treatment was applied mainly to wild game. A more nuanced view also notes signs of communal consumption that are better seen as workparty meals or snacks than as feasts. Bone grease can be and was made at a household scale, but large dumps of processed bone on the edge of the site suggest that there may also have been largerscale bone grease production, perhaps in the autumn when animals were slaughtered to reduce the herd before winter. These same deposits also include sheep and goat mandibles that have been toasted on the bottom to liquefy the marrow, then cracked for marrow consumption; some have what appear to be human gnaw marks. This treatment is rare elsewhere on site, and may have been the grease-makers' snack (Russell and Martin 2005, in press). Moreover there were surely different kinds and scales of feasts. Large ones, involving the whole settlement or a large part of it, would have to be held off site due to the lack of public space on the
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tell, and remains from the peripheral KOPAL area support this. Events including only a few households could occur on site. The context of feasting remains indicates that some feasts were tied to events in the life cycle of houses (and probably their associated households), while others were linked more to individuals (Russell et al. 2009). While wild game was the centerpiece of most feasts, domestic sheep and goat may have been sacrificed and consumed at house-closing ceremonies, which may in fact equate to the beginning of the construction of the new house above (Russell in press-a). Much of the variability seen in feasting remains may be due to the vagaries of the hunt. However, as noted above there are indications that hunts may have been targeted to specific prey, often bulls. Special deposits of paired elements, often from male and female cattle, also suggest that game may have been selected for characteristics suitable to the occasion (Russell et al. 2009).
Discussion. The relatively modest storage facilities noted above suggest that feasts were organized from contributions by households rather than through the amassing of large quantities of stored food by the hosts. The partial nature of feasting deposits of animal bones similarly suggests that households may have taken home their portion rather than eating all the food in a large communal meal. Staging a major feast would then be a triumph of creating and maintaining social relationships, probably through strategic gift giving and debt creation, which could be drawn on at the appropriate moment (for an illustration of the workings of such a system, see Oliver 1955). While ethnographically such relationships usually extend well beyond the settlement, the size of <;:atalhaytik would permit most of these relationships to remain within it, but linking people beyond the neighborhood and kin groups with which they normally interacted.
Abandonment/Discard Plant foods. The most direct evidence for plant discard comes from the 'middens' (i.e. abandoned building areas) into which daily rubbish was probably thrown from multiple adjacent households. Dominant aspects of plant discard behavior at <;:atalhaytik involve the processing by-products of cereal crops, discussed above (see 'Processing: Plant foods'), as well as the durable/inedible parts of wild plants such as nutshells of almond, acorn, or terebinth. These waste components are often mixed with low levels of edible crop parts (cereal grain and pulse seeds); occasional grain-rich midden lenses may reflect individual cooking/processing 'accidents'. Other common components of discard include plant materials derived from dung, construction, or building materials; this general category may include much of the wetland sedge remains (seeds, tubers, reed stems, etc.) that are ubiquitous at the site. Such regularly discarded materials contrast sharply with plant 'food' concentrations recovered from burnt buildings (see 'Storage: Plant foods', above). Animal foods. While waste from plant foods is for the most part generated and discarded prior to consumption, animal bone is mostly discarded after consumption. The basic choice was whether to retain the bones in the house or dump them outside in open midden areas. Not surprisingly, most animal bone was discarded in middens, probably tossed from one's own or a neighbor's roof. Careful study of floors indicates that remains of daily meals accumulated indoors for, perhaps, several days, possibly waiting for bone grease processing. The floors were periodically swept, the sweepings combined with ashes from the hearth, and all but the tiniest fragments removed for outdoor discard. However, if the inhabitants planned to lay a new floor, the sweepings might be left in place. Small pits in the floor that may result from recovered obsidian caches also often caught remains of daily meals. Certain bones, most or all of which appear to derive from feasts, may have been deliberately incorporated into the house, either visibly as architectural installations or invisibly as
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commemorative deposits, where selected items from a ceremony were buried in the house or built into the walls (Russell et al. 2009). There may also be other trophy bones stored in houses. At abandonment, or more properly at the closing of houses, floors were generally thoroughly cleaned and scoured. But in some cases items were then placed back in the house prior to filling. Some of these were dumped stores; others, such as the collection of scapulae in Building 3, may have been displayed on the walls or otherwise kept in the house during its use (Russell et al. 2008). There is considerable variability in what is left or placed in the house; in some cases stored materials and other household items were simply removed and presumably used elsewhere (e.g. Building 59).
Discussion. As the destination of most discarded material, middens contain the richest information on both plant and animal foods. Sometimes discrete lenses within middens can be linked to events, but for the most part they provide a palimpsest of the remains of multiple activities. Rakeoutl sweepings deposits within houses, on the other hand, provide occasional snapshots of household activities within the last few days before the laying of a new floor. Abandonment deposits give us insight into what may have been kept in houses, although the variability in closing practices reminds us that this may always be a selection. We have drawn on this evidence in earlier sections, but discard activities in themselves show active selection of items for special curation.
Conclusion We have tried to outline the key decision points in subsistence activities at <;atalhoytik, and to give a sense of the range of choices made. In the space available we are unable to provide a comprehensive account, and the vagaries of preservation, areas excavated, and the present stage of analysis mean that our information is patchy at best. Nevertheless, we feel it has been useful to examine some of the decisions made by individuals, households, groups, and the community. These include taxa to target; what parts of the landscape to use; the allocation of labor among competing tasks; whether to work alone or in groups; whether to keep food for oneself or to share it; and whether to store surplus, hold a feast, or feed it to livestock. These decisions imply varying degrees of coordination with neighbors and relatives; some would have to be made in consultation with others beyond the household. <;atalhoyiik's size and density, and its apparent lack of nearby neighbors, would have posed challenges. Its population would surely have put a strain on local resources, and there may have been difficulties finding enough nearby arable land and pasture. Sanitation would have been an issue, and is likely to have led to high parasite loads and infant mortality. Decision-making at the communal level may have been difficult, given the lack of evidence for centralization. We assume that something like a council of elders would have served to coordinate neighborhood and kinship groups; cross-cutting sodalities may also have integrated them. On the other hand, the settlement's size and relative lack of hierarchy offered opportunities. Individuals would have had close ties and frequent interactions with a subset of the inhabitants. Others would be socially more distant, analogous to inhabitants of other villages. Since there were no other nearby villages, the social relations of trading partnerships, marriage exchanges, and so on that would otherwise have extended beyond the settlement would for the most part have occurred within it. The spatial propinquity would have permitted these relationships to be more intense than usual. Perhaps it is this intensity, together with the stresses that crowding and indeed more intense social relationships would create, that explains the high level of ritual activity at the site. We suggest that one part of the solution to the problems posed by a mega-village was strong structural pressure to conformity, as seen in the evidence of a 'way of doing things' that extends beyond the subsistence activities discussed here to standardization of architecture, the use of space,
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and tool manufacture. Another was the strategic targeting of different parts of the landscape by households or slightly larger kin groups, producing unusual diversity in diet as reflected by stable isotope values for humans and livestock (Pearson et at. 2007; Richards and Pearson 2005). Trips to pasture flocks, hunt game, and collect wild fruits were likely combined with the acquisition of wood and stone from the surrounding foothills and beyond (Asouti 2005; Baysal and Wright 2006; Carter and Shackley 2007). Our examination of subsistence practices indicates that the household was the primary locus of production and decision-making at <;atalhoytik, but also shows that social groupings intermediate between the household and the community shaped decisions as well. The contrast between the privacy of solid houses without windows and doors, where plant foods were stored and at least some food was prepared and probably consumed, and the public space of the rooftops and site edge, where many activities such as threshing and butchery occurred where neighbors could see (and might participate), must have been a major structuring factor in social life. Individual agency would be constrained in these open spaces by the surveillance of others. However, the private interiors also show considerable conformity to a community-wide 'way of doing things'. Household members probably also monitored each other. Nevertheless, we see differing choices within the general prescribed structure, showing that some agency was possible. An agency perspective has added nuance to our understanding of subsistence at <;atalhoytik. While there are many scales at which agency can be exercised and studied, we suggest that an agency approach tends to focus attention on variability within the site, and to require a contextual analysis. For practical reasons, it is easiest for us to detect variation among houses. However, this analysis has made clear that there must have been corporate groups that included multiple households. Moreover, there would also have been negotiation over roles and tasks within households. Not least, this attempt to sort out choices made by <;atalhoytik's inhabitants has revealed many places where we need to seek more information.
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Pasternak, Rainer (1997) Zwischenbericht fiber die Arbeiten an den botanischen Funden aus Oylum Hoyiik: chalkolithische Fundschichten. Istanbuler Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archiiologischen Instituts 47:68-70. Pauketat, Timothy R. (2001) Practice and history in archaeology: an emerging paradigm. Anthropological
Theory 1.1:73-98. Pearson, Jessica A., Buitenhuis, Hijlke, Hedges, Robert E. M., Martin, Louise, Russell, Nerissa, and Twiss, Katheryn C. (2007) New light on early caprine herding strategies from isotope analysis: a case study from Neolithic Anatolia. Journal of Archaeological Science 34.12:2170-79. Regan, Roddy, Sadarangani, Freya, and Taylor, James (2008) Building 75, middens and Buildings 80 & 70. Archive Report: <::atalhoyiik Research Project. http://www.catalhoyuk.com/archiveJeportsl. Richards, Michael P. and Pearson, Jessica A. (2005) Stable isotope evidence of diet at <::atalhoyiik. In Hodder 2005:313-22. Rosen, Arlene M. (2005) Phytolith indicators of plant and land use at <::atalhoyiik. In Hodder 2005 :203-12. Russell, Nerissa (in press-a) Hunting sacrifice at Neolithic <::atalhoyiik. In Social Aspects of Human alld Animal Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East, edited by G. M. Schwartz and A. Porter. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. -(in press-b) Mammals from the BACH Area at <::atalhoyiik. In Tringham and Stevanovic in press. Russell, Nerissa and Martin, Louise (2005) The <::atalhoyiik mammal remains. In Hodder 2005:33-98. -(in press) Cooking meat and bones at Neolithic <::atalhoyiik, Turkey. In The Menial Art of Cooking: Archaeological Studies of Cooking and Food Preparation, edited by S. Graff and E. Rodrfguez-Alegrfa. Boulder: Univeristy Press of Colorado. Russell, Nerissa, Martin, Louise, and Twiss, Katheryn C. (2009) Building memories: commemorative deposits at <::atalhoyiik. In Zooarchaeology and the Reconstruction of Cultural Systems: Case Studies from the Old World, edited by B. S. Arbuckle, C. A. Makarewicz, and A. L. Atici. Anthropozoologica 44.1. Paris: L'Homme et l'Animal, Societe de Recherche Interdisciplinaire, pp. 103-25. Russell, Nerissa and McGowan, Kevin J. (in press) Bird remains from the BACH area at <::atalhoyiik. In Tringham and Stevanovic in press. Russell, Nerissa and Meece, Stephanie (2006) Animal representations and animal remains at <::atalhoyiik. In Hodder 2006a:209-30. Russell, Nerissa, Stevanovic, Mirjana, Ryan, Philippa, Milic, Marina, and Filipovic, Dragana (2008) Bringing down the house: house closing and abandonment deposits at Neolithic <::atalhoyiik, Turkey. Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Vancouver. Saitta, Dean J. (1994) Agency, class, and archaeological interpretation. Journal ofAnthro/Jological Archaeology 13.3 :201-27. Stein, Gil J. (1989) Strategies of risk reduction in herding and hunting systems of Neolithic southeast Anatolia. In Early Animal Domesticatioll alld its Cultural Context, edited by P. J. Crabtree, D. V. Campana and K. Ryan. MASCA Research Papers in Science and Archaeology 6, Special Supplement. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, University Museum, pp. 87-97. Tringham, Ruth E. (1991) Households with faces: the challenge of gender in prehistoric architectural remains. In Ellgenderillg Archaeology: Women and Prehistory, edited by]. M. Gero and M. W. Conkey. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, pp. 93-13\. Tringham, Ruth E. and Stevanovic, Mirjana (eds.) (in press) The Last House 011 the Hill: Excavatioll of Building J at <::atalhoyilk, Turkey. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, UCLA. Twiss, Katheryn c., Bogaard, Amy, Bogdan, Doru, Carter, Tristan, Charles, Michael P., Farid, Shahina, Russell, Nerissa, Stevanovic, Mirjana, Yalman, E. Nurcan, and Yeomans, Lisa (2008) Arson or accident? The burning of a Neolithic house at <::atalhoyiik, Turkey. Journal of Field Archaeology 33.1 :41-57. Twiss, Katheryn c., Bogaard, Amy, Charles, Michael P., Henecke, Jennifer, Russell, Nerissa, Martin, Louise, and Jones, Glynis (2009) Plants and animals together: interpreting organic remains from Building 52 at <::atalhoyiik. Current Allthropology 50.6:885-95. van Zeist, Willem (1979) Plant remains from Girikihaciyan, Turkey. Allatolica 80:75-89. van Zeist, Willem and Bakker-Heeres, J. A. H. (1975) Prehistoric and early historic plant husbandry in the Altinova Plain, southeastern Turkey. In Korucutepe 1, edited by]. ]. Roodenberg. Amsterdam: NorthHolland Publishing Company, pp. 225-57.
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van Zeist, Willem and Waterbolk-van Rooijen, Willemina (1995) Floral remains from Late-Neolithic I1ipinar. In The I1ipinar Excavations 1: Five Seasons of Fieldwork in NW Anatolia, 1987-91, edited by ]. ]. Roodenberg. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten te Leiden, pp. 159-66. Wright, Katherine I. (2000) The social origins of cooking and dining in early villages of western Asia. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 66: 89-121.
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The Scribal Artifact Technological Innovation in the Urul< Period Jennifer C. Ross
Introduction Mesopotamian lexical texts were immense compendia of medical, magical, linguistic, and material knowledge; they originated in the Late Uruk period (ca. 3300-3100 BCE), the time of the earliest cuneiform documents. The lexical genre included lists of natural and manufactured items, yet those of the Uruk period are not reliable reflections of the material culture of the city of Uruk (Figure A) or its neighbors. Instead, they provide evidence for the privileging of esoteric knowledge over practical know-how, revealing a disjunction between the inventiveness and agency of scribes and the material world of the majority of Uruk's urban population. In this chapter, I examine two lexical lists of the Late Uruk period, the Vessels and Metals Lists, using them to assess the interrelationships among different groups of technology practitioners at the advent of urbanism. In particular, this examination reveals that Uruk's scribes and craftspeople developed and participated in separate spheres of knowledge and praxis, a separation that seems especially surprising given that the new urban administrators were dependent on the labor of craft specialists. Changes in technological practices and practitioners were a significant part of urban and state development, inevitably necessitating shifts in material and social interactions (Renfrew 2001, 2004). The technology-based study presented here will highlight the potential for cooperation and competition among individuals and groups in the rapidly expanding society of urban Uruk.
Technology and Agency Technology studies have contributed a rich and robust array of societal data for the anthropological and archaeological study of agency, with an emphasis on technological choices and their material consequences (see Lemonnier 1986, 1989, 1993; Lechtman 1977; Dobres 2000). Some of the earlier archaeological studies of technology focused on operational sequences (chaIne operato;re), the individual stages in the production of items and assemblages. Variations in these sequences may be attributed to a variety of factors, not least of which are social structures and ideological forces, as well as individual choice based on knowledge and experience (Killick 2004; Keller 2001; Karlin and Julien 1994; Hoffman and Dobres 1999; Morris 2004; see also Castro Gessner and Russell and Bogaard, this volume). 'Practice theory' in archaeology investigates the interrelationships between material items and social practices; for technology, that means looking at the ways in which embodied social values and interactions are transformed into objects by means of action on matter (Dobres 2000, 2001). It is a short step from there to a focus on intentionality in the production of objects.
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Because of the inherent materiality of the products of technological actions, archaeologists have an avenue into the study of agency through technology. At the same time, the embodied skills and knowledge of the individuals who make objects generate and reproduce shared cultural meanings and social structures (Mauss 1979; Costin 1998; Pfaffenberger 2001; Lechtman 1977; Lechtman and Steinberg 1979; DeMarrais 2004). The application of agency theory to technology and its products also offers a partial antidote to the typical focus of agency studies: the origins and relationships of power (Giddens 1984; Bourdieu 1977,1990). Because the agents of our studies-the craftspeople of antiquity-were often not part of the ruling classes, technology-focused archaeologists are not limited to investigating the agency of 'big men'. Analyses of agency in technological research therefore focus more on interactions of materials and people than on the application of force or persuasion to gain a self-interested end. Because technological practice unites resources, ideology, knowledge, and social action, it provides a view into the dialectic of structure and agency, and offers a window into how individual actions contribute to the construction and expression of social identity (Hoffman and Dobres 1999; Csordas 1988; see also Castro Gessner, this volume). The three technologies examined here-metallurgy, ceramic production, and writing-cannot be fully dissociated from power; the development of urbanism by necessity included hierarchies of access to particular materials, labor, and facilities. The practitioners of all three of these technologies had relationships with the individuals and institutions in power at Uruk, as well as interrelationships with one another. I seek here to explore their interactions, with the help of both archaeological and textual remains, to reveal the contribution of each technology to the urban structure of Uruk. Newly urban Uruk witnessed the development of semi-independent decision-makers, whose identity was created and transformed, in part, throllgh technological practices.
Urul< Period Urbanization The Uruk period (ca. 4000-3100 BCE), together with the so-called Jemdet Nasr period (ca. 31002900), I is the earliest phase of urban and city-state development in Mesopotamia. Urbanization, at Uruk and elsewhere, is a demographic, political, and socioeconomic process, bringing a substantial population into a single confined locale, and setting off a series of changes in the administrative organization, social structure, and economic activities of a significant proportion of that population. According to V. G. Childe (1950), the shift to urbanization was primarily one from kin-based farming to a mixed economy, including independent manufacture for a 'market' (see now, also, Liverani 2006). Childe delineated a number of demographic, economic, and material markers by which cities may be recognized archaeologically. While Chi Ide's reconstruction may be criticized as too reductionist because it lacks specific historical context, it draws attention to the interrelated nature of the changes required in the new urban setting. The Uruk period in southern Mesopotamia is typically subdivided into Early (ca. 4000-3600 BCE), Middle (3600-3300), and Late (3300-3100) phases, with cultural developments accelerating toward the later part of the period. The subphases are largely distinguished by particular ceramic types and iconographic devices, but their delineation is by no means clear-cut. A sharp increase in population at the site of Uruk itself dates to the end of the Middle Uruk period, at which point it
J. The evidence for a separate period that encompasses the material culture typical of the site of Jemdet Nasr is still a matter of dispute (see, especially, the articles in Finkbeiner and Rtillig 1986). The distinction will be maintained here because there was significant architectural reorganization at Uruk between Eanna Archaic levellY (Late Uruk) and III Uemdet Nasr}. The majority of the Archaic texts from Uruk derive from building fills associated with the Jemdet Nasr phase, though their secondary and tertiary contexts prevent precise dating.
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reached 250 ha in area (Algaze 2007); the Uruk 'colonies' of the Euphrates bend in Syria and in Iran also date to the Middle and Late Uruk periods (Schwartz 2001). An increased population within Uruk itself would have required additional subsistence production and administration to support it; it would also have provided a significant labor pool (Pollock 1999). At the end of the Late Uruk period, substantial changes in settlement patterns, architecture, and material culture indicate some disruption; at the same time, the population within Uruk was probably still high, and the continued presence of administrative artifacts suggests stability. At Uruk, excavations since 1912 have opened up large horizontal exposures of the 4thmillennium city.2 Parallels to the architectural and artifactual assemblages from Uruk are found at other sites of the time period, but Uruk offers the fullest array of objects and features indicative of urbanism and organized leadership for the time. At the site, excavations have concentrated particularly on the two temple areas, the Anu ziggurat and Eanna precinct. While both contained monumental architecture dating to the Uruk period, evidence from Eanna indicates that it served both sacred and secular (administrative) functions (Nissen 1995). Considerable labor and capital expenditure went into the creation of Eanna's substantial mudbrick structures; non-temple architecture has been uncovered only in limited areas of the 4th-millennium city. The artifacts from Uruk, also deriving largely from the temple precincts, speak to the site's preeminent position in the period. Administrative artifacts, found in large quantities in Eanna in particular, include clay (and gypsum) tablets, seals and seal impressions, and clay 'tokens' or calculi, used in counting and reckoning. Also administrative in function are beveled-rim bowls, massproduced and functioning, according to Nissen (1976), as ration containers for laborers. Speaking to the early elites' capacity to bring in imported and exotic materials are finds of both base (copper) and precious (gold and silver) metals, and semi-precious stones, such as lapis lazuli and carnelian. These raw materials were used to create artistic and ornamental objects within the temple precincts; patronage of this production, as well as control of the materials, must have been in the hands of the administrative elites. In contrast to the well-attested administrative and monumental trappings of authority at Uruk, other indicators of urban organization, such as craft manufacturing areas, are more scarce. Nissen (1970) has identified an area of the site (K/L XII) that contained a unique configuration of pits and channels, all hard-fired from use, as a possible metal smelting area. The date of this area is not established with certainty (though the ceramic assemblage includes Late Uruk vessels), and no metallurgical residues were preserved there. The discovery of highly crafted objects and mass-produced items at Uruk indicates that individuals were available for at least part-time craft production in service to the state. Though Uruk provides the basic outlines of city structure, its dominance may be overstated. Recent excavations at Tell Brak and Hamoukar indicate that sequences of urban development began in. northern Syria simultaneously with those at Uruk (Oates and Oates 1997; Emberling 2003; GIbson et at. 2003). Because of differences in subsistence environment and access to raw materials, residents at these Syrian sites may have witnessed a very different impetus toward urbanism than did Uruk, and studies of their administrative and social structures are still at a preliminary stage. In the southern alluvium, Uruk probably did not stand alone, but could have faced competition from other important centers, perhaps including Kish, Nippur, Girsu, and Ur (Nissen 1995). In addition, Jemdet Nasr-period public buildings and tablets have been found at Jemdet Nasr, Tell Uqair, Umma, and the Diyala region. Intercity contacts are attested in administrative texts from Jemdet Nasr (Steinkeller 2002). . 2.. Annual reports .of excavations from seasons 1 to 32 were published in the series Vorliill/ige,. Berieht aber d,e ... Ausgrabullgell /II Uruk-Warka (uvn)j subsequent reports came out in Baghdader Mitteilullgell. Final reports are being published in the series Ausgrabul1gel1 in Uruk-Warka. Elldberiehte (AUWE).
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Consequences of Urbanism The reasons for urban development at Uruk are not agreed upon by scholars; current theories emphasize the particular effects of geography in the southern alluvium, where diverse resource areas are spaced in such a way that intraregional trade could become important and even essential (Algaze 2001,2007). Hudson (1999) points also to the coalescence of sacred space and exchange activities in many ancient societies, suggesting that Uruk's temples may have doubled as settings for both religious and economic activities. Uruk's location could have favored its role in this trade, and its high population could be used as a labor pool for both local and supra-local production. The effects of urbanization are easier to document, and include the rapid development of administrative structures, as well as increased social stratification (Adams 1966). The demographic growth and increased density of population within Uruk must have necessitated a change in the organization of subsistence activities, as farmers would have lived farther from their fields, and would have supported larger numbers of non-farmers, requiring at least some bureaucratic management of agricultural production or products. That the bureaucracy was hierarchized, led by a small group of high-level administrators (including perhaps a single ruler), is evidenced in the large numbers of administrative titles in the Archaic Lll list and contemporary administrative texts (Arcari 1982; Englund and Nissen 1993), and in artistic representations of a ruling figure, the EN (Schmandt-Besserat 1993). The new urban environment created opportunities for additional changes in economic activities, as more individuals and families shifted from agriculture to craft production, accelerating a process already under development during the Ubaid period (5500-4000 BCE) (Stein 1996). Significant quantities of raw materials would have arrived from both local and more distant sources. Many of these imports would have required some processing to make them into finished goods, to be used by a variety of consumers (Algaze 2001). The concentration of resources, producers, and consumers within the urban space at Uruk would have cultivated communication, competition, and innovation among craft specialists, and also encouraged the burgeoning bureaucracy to assert some level of control over production and distribution of finished goods (Adams 2000). Still, most members of society would have continued to engage in household levels of production, and bureaucratic activities at Uruk would have involved only small sectors of the population (Lamberg-Karlovsky 1999); sources of power and influence in Uruk-period Mesopotamia may have remained heterarchicallong after the advent of cities. In fact, there is limited evidence for the production of elite goods at Uruk outside the architectural ornament and stone art objects (glyptic, relief vessels, and sculpture) found in the Eanna and Anu precincts; this goes against many reconstructions of the origins of specialized craft production for an elite consumer base (such as Peregrine 1991). Control of subordinate labor is key to theories on the rise of hierarchy and social power (Arnold 2000; Yoffee 2005); the analysis in the following sections will suggest that decision-making about labor and its products at Uruk was not yet fully centralized, but that different groups articulated and carried out different strategies of craft production and consumption.
Technological Change in the Urul< Period Although there is evidence for wide-ranging technological change at the dawn of urbanism in Uruk, this paper will concentrate on only three technologies: metallurgy, ceramic production, and writing. These will be examined for their contributions to the development of urbanism and the administrative structures that supported and transformed it. At the same time, craft practitioners in a variety of other materials, particularly the designers and makers of buildings, creators of transport technologies, and especially agricultural workers, also participated in and contributed to the urban environment at Uruk. It is likely that these different technologies did not operate in isolation; in fact, one of my main intentions here is to point to interaction among the craft workers and their exchange of knowledge as well as materials and products.
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Metallurgy
Archaeological Evidence. A number of major metallurgical developments took place in Mesopotamia in the late 4th millennium. As elsewhere, metals here would have been recycled and reused, and therefore are underrepresented archaeologically. The archaeological and stratigraphic contexts for objects at Uruk are often imprecise, and even those objects with clear-cut archaeological contexts largely derive from secondary and tertiary deposits. Only a small portion of the Uruk finds have been subjected to chemical characterization studies (Lutz et al. 1996; Milller-Karpe 2004), though analyses are supplemented by testing of materials from contemporary sites (Hauptmann and Pernicka 2004). Uruk acquired its metals through import. Possible source areas for copper and silver include southeastern Anatolia and central Iran, while gold may have come from Iran (and beyond) or Egypt (Moorey 1982, 1999). A single copper awl is the only metal object assigned to the Ubaid period at Uruk (Van Ess and Pedde 1992:39, Nr. 378). Objects from contemporary tombs at Susa and Tepe Gawra lead us to expect vigorous metallurgical production during the Ubaid period, but limited to copper (Moorey 1999). In contrast, by the late 4th millennium at Uruk, a variety of metals is attested; among the new imports were silver, gold, and lead. Also important were copper alloys, though the majority of items were of nearly pure copper. Characterization tests indicate that copper was combined in varying proportions with arsenic, iron, silver, or lead (Stech 1999; Hauptmann and Pernicka 2004). A similar variety of copper alloys occurs at other sites; in general, smiths of the 4th millennium were capable of recognizing, working, and creating metal alloys with desired features, especially color and hardness. Intentional alloys of copper and arsenic were already a part of the smith's toolkit in Anatolia, Israel, and Iran during the 5th and 4th millennia (Moorey 1999). The 4th-millennium object types discovered at Uruk were diverse, ranging from tools and weapons to architectural ornament, personal ornament, furniture fittings, figurines, and a vessel stand (Van Ess and Pedde 1992; Pedde et al. 2000). The same object forms could be made from copper or an alloy. Most gold objects no longer retain their original form, but nails, earrings, and beads, as well as figurines, have survived (Van Ess and Pedde 1992; Pedde et al. 2000). A similar range of items was also made from silver, though it is not so well preserved, nor as easily identified as gold. Smiths in Late Uruk-period Sumer used a variety of techniques for working metals. It is most likely that copper, g~ld, and silver arrived at Uruk having already been smelted and cast into ingot form. (or hammered m.to sheets) closer to their sources. This is suggested by the scarcity of slag at the site (though there IS some: Pedde et al. 2000:50, Nr. 800), and the comparative ease of transport in this form. When intentional, alloying could have taken place at the smelting sites or at Uruk ~tself. O~ce they arr~ved at Uruk, I.netals were subjected to a variety of processes, including hammermg, cuttl11g, anneall11g, and shapmg, techniques smiths had used since the Neolithic (Esin 1999). Copper and silver were also cast. While casting methods may have been new to Uruk at this time, they had been practiced in Anatolia and Iran in earlier periods (Yener 2000; Matthews and Fazeli 2004). Decoration was relatively simple, limited to occasional chased and engraved details and the !uxtapositiol~ ~f metals with stones, or metals with metals (putting a gold cap on a coppe/nail, for I11stance). JOll1l11g was accomplished by overlapping and folding edges, and by using small nails to attach metal sheet to a backing of wood or stone. The late 4th-millennium smiths at Uruk, then, had a full array of techniques at their disposal, most of which had been inherited from earlier periods. In general, they did not treat the new metals, ~ilver and gol~, muc.h differently from copper. This tendency to handle all metals alike may reflect circumstances 111 which the smiths did not conduct the initial processing on the ores themselv~s and would not have observed their different natural states; they received metals already in a semi-worked state, perhaps as ingots. Their production methods and final products responded to
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the traditional needs of an agricultural society-tools, weapons, fittings for construction and furnishings-and to the new demands of urban living, where larger numbers of people, and a growing bureaucracy, required new levels of communication and differentiation. This was achieved by using new materials, and items of display such as jewelry and architectural ornament. The embodied knowledge that smiths possessed and practiced resulted from training and experience passed down from earlier periods, and from experimentation with new materials using methods both similar to those already known, and new ones they invented and learned from people from outside Uruk. Smiths viewed their materials through the lens of experience. They were capable of adapting techniques to a variety of different metals, and adapting the metals to suit the desired final form. To some extent, any metal might potentially be worked into the same shape as any other, given enough time, knowledge, and fuel. Metals fit into an established continuum of material knowledge.
Textual Evidence. Uruk provides the earliest written evidence in the Near East, which scholars call 'proto-cuneiform' (Englund 1998; Damerow 2006), but which appears to be the earliest form of Sumerian (Michalowski et al. 1996; Glassner 2003). The majority of the Archaic tablets from Uruk derives from secondary and tertiary archaeological contexts in the Eanna precinct, primarily from construction fills of the two main building phases, Eanna Archaic levels IV and III. The writing system also developed in two phases, though the paleographic stages may not precisely correlate to the archaeological strata (for contexts and dating, see Nissen 1986). About 10% of the over 5000 excavated Archaic tablets from Uruk are lexical texts, lists of words, and exercises used in later periods to teach writing and vocabulary. These texts, particularly those that list natural and manufactured items, provide valuable evidence for new perceptions and classifications of the material world. At the same time, they do not seem to reflect directly the tangible world of Uruk's residents. Appearing when the rules of written documentation were being formulated and manipulated, the Uruk tablets, especially the lexical texts, offer a rich source on the scribal construction of reality, of scribal praxis and agency. The 'real world' context of broader social interactions is better provided by the administrative texts comprising the majority of Uruk's tablets, which range in complexity from simple one-entry tags to multi-column records of the production and disbursement of agricultural items, land, and manufactured goods. J One of the most common of the lexical lists from Uruk was the 'Metals List', with 56 witnesses (extracts and copies) belonging to the Uruk III paleographic stage (contemporary with the Jemdet Nasr period), and one forerunner of the Uruk IV stage. The standard (Uruk III) Metals List catalogs metal objects of various kinds, with additional lines at the end of one tablet listing stones or stone objects (see Figure 1 for the composite text; Englund and Nissen 1993). Eighty-five lines are at least partly preserved. It survived in the same basic form through the 3rd millennium, and is attested at Abu Salabikh, Fara, and Ebla in the Early Dynastic (ED) period. The ED version is longer and better preserved, with a total of 128 lines; it is not an exact duplicate of the Archaic version, but is very close in content.
3. The Archaic texts from Uruk and contemporary sites are published in the series Archaische Texte aus Uruk (ATU) (1936-) and Materialiell zu dell (rOhell Schri(tzeugllissell des Vorderell Orients (MSVO) (1991-). The Cuneiform Digital Libraries Initiative (COLI) at UCLA provides an immensely useful resource of photographs, line drawings, and transliterations of the majority of the Uruk texts (as well as other significant corpora of cuneiform tablets), at http://cdli.ucla.edu. The Digital Corpus of Cuneiform Lexical Texts (http://cdl. museum.upenn.edu/dcclt/index.html) provides transliterations and some translations of lexical lists of various periods, both composite texts and individual tablets.
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Figure 1. Archaic Metals List (Englund and Nissen 1993:32; reproduced with permission of Gebr. Mann Verlag).
My analysis of the Metals List focuses on the ways in which scribes developed divergent meanings and knowledge, and I would suggest classificatory systems, from the embodied skill set of the metalworkers described above, as one key to understanding the social and political changes that ?ccurred at Uruk. In contrast to the smith's experiential and experimental knowledge, scribes Imposed a classificatory system of metal objects and technologies of their own devising, born from
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their lack of first-hand experience with metals, and from their need, at this earliest stage in writing, to categorize the known world. Their categories were based largely on appearance and perceived function, and very little on the properties inherent in the metals themselves. It is the structure of the list that demonstrates most clearly the difference between the scribal perception of metals and the metal worker's. The first several lines list vessel names; the entries do not indicate a material, as if it were a 'given'. The SEN sign in line 1 (at the upper left corner of the figure) looks like a round-bodied vessel with a spout; its later Akkadian equivalent, ruqqu, meant 'cauldron' (CAD R 416a). Principles of later lexicography suggest that it should be the most important object on the list, since it is first. Perhaps it was the largest of the objects here, or served as a classificatory heading for this portion of the list, indicating that the entries that followed were all vessel types. The seventy or so lines that follow, beginning with line 9, and with a few exceptions, consist of pairs of similar entries. In each pair, the metal object is the same; in the second entry of each pair, the AN sign is inserted before the object sign, while the first entry has the object alone. Lines 9 and 10, thus, read GIR z and AN GIR z; lines 11 and 12 are DIM and AN DIM. Each object may either be 'typical' (unmarked), or 'special', as indicated by AN, the Sumerian sign for 'god' or 'sky'. Precisely what the AN sign meant in this context is unclear, but it is part of the names of several different types of metal in Sumerian. A late 3rd-millennium version of the Archaic Metals List (Ashm. 1931-128; Gurney 1969) adds the URUDU, or 'copper', sign to each of the paired entries. So these are pairs of metal objects, in which the one designated AN must be a variety of copper, most likely a copper alloy. This is not a new interpretation (Englund and Nissen 1993), but given the results of the metals characterization testing, I think it is most likely that the AN sign indicates a copper-arsenic alloy. In that case, did the composers/compilers of the Metals List imagine that every object in this portion of the list was manufactlll'ed in both plll'e copper and copper alloy? It is possible that when confronted with two different-colored objects of the same form, they understood them as distinctive, but similar (i.e. distinguished by the AN sign). But it is equally possible that, knowing that smiths were capable of working with both pure copper and copper alloy, the scribes applied this way of seeing metals to the majority of the items in their list, without ever seeing the objects firsthand. This group of entries begins with a pair of daggers or knives (II. 9-10, GIR z). More knives, written with the same sign, are listed further on (II. 67ff.), so here, like in line 1, the sign may have served as a heading, to indicate that the section that followed would be a list of tools and weapons in copper and copper alloy. The signs in this section seem to depict pegs, axes, hoes, and chisels with an extensive variety of functions and variations, and spades, arrowheads, and goads, as well as knives. While these are all normal tool and weapon types that one would expect in an llI'ban setting, the proliferation of subtypes does not always make sense. For instance, the scribes included seven types of chisels (NAGAR, later the sign for 'carpenter'), beginning with a 'plain' chisel pair (II. 28ff.). These consist of chisels for making vessels, making rings, and making chariots. While it is easy to believe that chisels of various sizes would be used by the carpenter and stone carver, it seems unlikely that all of the chisel types were so different from one another in shape or size that they needed different names (other than perhaps 'big' and 'small', neither of which is included in the list); rather, scribal knowledge may have centered on the products for which these chisels were used, and the scribes decided to invent individualized names for the tools too. After a short, poorly preserved section on vessels (II. 115-18), the final lines (II. 119-22) of the Archaic list change in structure, and in metal type. The copper and copper alloy alternation is dropped at this point, and the KU3 sign appears. In Archaic period administrative documents, KU3 denotes a dairy product, or a container for it (Englund 1991), but its presence here suggests that it
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also referred to precious metals in the Uruk period (as it does in later Sumerian). Here, too, we see a partial reflection of the archaeological record, in that both silver and gold are first attested in quantity during the Late Uruk period. The KU 3 sign is accompanied by several others, none of which definitively indicates gold or silver, nor any familiar object types. It is likely that the scribes who composed the Metals List distinguished objects made using different techniques; the vessels at the beginning were probably of sheet metal, while the array of tool and weapon forms could have been cast. The scribes of Uruk, then, had at least two types of experience with metals: one based on material, and the other on available technologies that could produce different types of objects. But their arrangement and categorization of that knowledge was 'top down'; that is, they imposed categories onto materials that were not so different from one another, categories that did not align with the knowledge and experience of the continuum of metal types, techniques, and forms that the smiths possessed. This suggests that the interaction between scribes and metalworkers was somewhat limited, perhaps mediated by messengers and couriers. The comparison of metallurgy and Metals List indicates a generally shared set of values and perceptions, but also a body of knowledge that was specific to each group.
Ceramics Archaeological Evidence. An examination of the evidence for ceramic production shows that major technological changes took place between the Ubaid and Uruk, and during the Uruk period, as was true of metals. 4 The Ubaid period assemblage from Uruk is limited, largely because the excavations reached Ubaid levels only at the base of deep soundings in the Eanna precinct and a few other areas of the site. Excavations at contemporary sites have provided comparative material to the Uruk assemblage, and demonstrate how widespread many of the forms and production techniques at Uruk were (Abu Al-Soof 1985). The pottery has provided, in particular, important evidence for interregional contacts of the Uruk period and especially for the identification and dating of Uruk colonies. Uruk-period ceramic production derived from a long development of Mesopotamian techniques, types, and functions. No abrupt changes indicating population replacement or radical shifts in production methods occurred, but rather, gradual developments took place in fabric, vessel forms, decoration, and firing that seem in accord with expectations for urban development. In contrast to a generally uniform set of fabrics, techniques of manufacture and firing, and decorative motifs belonging to the Ubaid period, Uruk-period ceramics comprise several different ware groups, specific to particular techniques and forms (Siirenhagen 1986). These ware groups signify some chronological distinctions, with finer red and gray slipped wares more common in the Early to Middle Uruk, and an unpainted ware appearing near the end of the Middle Uruk and used predominantly in the Late Uruk period (Siirenhagen 1987). Siirenhagen (1974-75) points out, in examining the Uruk-period ceramic assemblage from Habuba Kabira, that methods of manufacture were closely correlated with fabric, form, surface treatment choices, and degree of firing. Uruk-period potters were consistent in their methods; at Habuba Kabira, Siirenhagen takes this as evidence for at least two levels of craft specialization: professional potters manufacturing the majority of wheelmade fine wares, largely undecorated, in a limited range of shapes; and domestic producers creating, by hand, just the vessels used in the home (Siirenhagen 1974-75). A final group ofUruk pots, mold made beveled-rim bowls and coarse 'flower pots', occur in such quantity that they are likely to have been made by specialists (Falconer 1981); whether these were the same professional potters who made the wheel made vessels is unclear, as 4. The ceramics found at Uruk were published intermittently in UVBj more recent articles have treated the pottery of the Ubaid and Uruk periods more thoroughly, with attention to details of fabric and manufacture (Hermansen 1990j Siirenhagen 1986, 1987).
THE SCRIBAL ARTIFACT
89
their fabric, methods of manufacture, and firing are distinctive. That craft specialists made ceramics is also indicated by the existence of a word for 'potter' already in the Archaic texts (Kuntner 2005). No certain ceramic production areas or kilns have been discovered at Uruk. There are representations of (probably) ceramic vessels on contemporary cylinder seals and seal impressions from Uruk and other sites in Mesopotamia, Syria, and Iran (Baudot 1979); the most common vessel form depicted is a jar, often with handles, and sometimes with a spout, according well with the forms discovered at Uruk and contemporary sites. Baudot (1979:51) suggests that the emphasis of these images was on the interaction of people with pots, particularly in scenes with vessels used in offerings and other cultic activities. This reminds us of the material basis behind social interactions, a key component to agency-related technology studies, noted at the beginning of this chapter. She maintains that the seal-cutters used real vessel forms as only a general guide to their representations; they were not constrained by the requirements of technology and function, but were free to add details and schematize shapes as they wished (Baudot 1979). Contemporary sites supplement the ceramic evidence from Uruk. In general, forms and decoration, and the methods of manufacture, appear to be quite similar to Uruk's assemblage, though local shapes, decoration, and techniques predominate in some of the assemblages (such as Tepe Gawra) (Rova 1999-2000). The parallels suggest that specialization in ceramic manufacture had developed at a number of centers, and that Uruk was not alone in its sponsorship of at least some potters. Potters were not the only specialists working with clay at Urul<. A number of other activities, whether professionalized or not, required an understanding of clay's properties. Makers of brick and mortar added chaff and water to mud, as potters did, used moulds to form bricks in standard shape and size (using somewhat similar techniques to makers of beveled-rim bowls), and knew how long to let the bricks dry. Sometimes, bricks were trimmed or cut to precise shapes (Oates 1990). Seal impressions and tablets were made from unfired clay. The clay used for these was not mixed with chaff, being devoid of temper or with grit in small amounts (Brandes 1979). Information specialists were aware of the properties of clay for tablets, as well as the capacity of wet clay to preserve an impression or incision, techniques also employed by potters to decorate vessels. Firing temperatures and atmosphere were among the qualities controlled by individuals who made objects from baked clay. It is not always clear whether objects were fired intentionally; tokens, in particular, may not have required firing. These small 'counters', part of the material culture of the Near East since the Neolithic, were made of the same clay as tablets and seal impressions, and fulfilled similar functions in information storage and communication (Schmandt-Besserat 1992). Related to techniques for the production of tokens are certain kinds of architectural ornament in clay, such as clay cones and inlay pieces. Finally, clay figurines of the Uruk period, found in significantly smaller quantity than Ubaid figurines, experienced a change in production methods as well (see Wrede 2003 :93-208 for Ubaidperiod figurines, and 209-21 for the Uruk period). Ubaid clay figurines (both human and animal forms) were built adclitively, starting from a coil for the body and adding more pieces for head and neck, arms, legs, and other features. They were also, often, painted. In contrast, Uruk-period figurines were generally manufactured through subtractive processes, by shaping into rough final form first, and then trimming away excess clay, and fewer were painted. The embodied knowledge of a potter during the Uruk period was thus shared among a number of other clay-working specialists and non-specialists, suggesting at least some degree of interaction among them. Between the Ubaid and the Uruk, significant changes in ceramic production took place, entailing a new set of rules and techniques that potters needed to learn and work with, including the selection of a wider range of clay types and clay preparation techniques, forming technologies, and firing temperatures. Though metallurgical and ceramic manufacturing were both undergoing change and specialization of labor, these changes appear to be of different sorts, and
90
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AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
may have responded to a different set of consumption demands. Ceramic producers seem to have more in common with other clay workers than with smiths; this distinction may carryover into the interactions of each group with scribal specialists as well.
D
D
DIIIIII'l'--... Illli IY D
Dt> ~ D
~[I>
c= ~
[I>
D~
c>
c@>
D
c6> D
D
c(t>
~
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Figure 2. Archaic Vessels List (Englund and Nissen 1993:29; reproduced with permission of Gebr. Mann Verlag).
£2::(> §l
91
Textual Evidence. Ceramic production is represented textually at Uruk in administrative texts, and by the lexical Vessels List, like the Metals List a popular and well-preserved vocabulary, consisting of signs for ceramic vessels (Figure 2; Englund and Nissen 1993). One hundred sixteen lines of the Archaic text survive, while the ED version comprises 146 lines. It survives in 86 witnesses of the Uruk III paleographic stage from Uruk, as well as three from Umma and one from Jemdet Nasr. Three surviving forerunners, deriving from the Uruk IV stage, have been found; these resemble the standard Uruk III list. The ED list also parallels the Archaic version quite closely. Vessels constitute a significant portion of 1st-millennium HAR-ra=hubullu (Hh) and its Old Babylonian-period forerunners; Hh tablet X represents a significant reorganization of the materials from the Archaic lists, though the principles of this reorganization are not apparent. s Though conventionally called the Vessels List, the text consists, in fact, of three distinct parts: 1. vessels (II. 1-61, and maybe 62-67); 2. cheeses (II. 68-82, perhaps through 84); and 3. textiles (II. 85-116; through 146 in ED). The reasons for including these three distinct topics on the same tablet are not clear; it is possible that there was no reason beyond available space. On the other hand, the cheeses and textiles could have been conceptualized as related animal products; perhaps the vessels were as well, by virtue of their contents. Though the modern name, Vessels List, suggests that the tablet catalogs distinct vessel shapes, in fact the individual entries generally refer to contents rather than container, and many of these contents are dairy products. The text therefore differs significantly from later Hh X, where the emphasis is more clearly on shape and size. This focus on vessel contents may be the first clue that the priorities, expertise, and classificatory systems of ceramic producers were not foremost in the minds of the early compilers of the Vessels List. The structure and outline of the Vessels List are not as easily delineated and explained as the Metals List. In Vessels, some groups of lines were organized around the same sign, but not as regularly as the Metals List's paired entries, and sometimes signs reappear at a distance from their previous occurrence. An example of this occurs with the first entry, the sign NI.6 (in the upper left corner of the figure); this sign is a bowl with pointed base and round top. Most likely, this represented a vessel with a rounded lid; in later Sumerian texts, the NI sign was used to designate the commodity i l , 'oil'. The NI sign appears later in the Vessels List in lines 9-11 and 15-17, but this time it is NIb, with a flat top, and with additional signs indicating different types of vessel or contents. These lines, then, all designate oil vessels; the ostensible difference is in the shape of the lid. It is possible that NI., like SEN in line 1 of the Metals List, served as a classifier to indicate that the list was to begin with an oil (vessel) section. Similarly, the scribes made a distinction in lines 2 and3 of the Vessels List between DUG b and DUG" both jars with a constricted neck and pointed base; DUG, has an additional vertical line dividing its neck in half. No archaeological correlate for this divided neck has been reported at Uruk, though double-mouthed vessels occur in Late ChaIcolithic assemblages in Syria (Rova 19992000). Very similar in form to DUG, is the following entry, DUG"xAS, in which a vertical line extends from the middle of the neck through the middle of the body of the jar. To the scribes, these three entries must have been similar enough in meaning to list them in sequence, yet distinguishable fr0111 one another. The DUG sign also serves as the first entry in Hh X; there it stands as the general term for 'vessel', and the sign is a determinative throughout that list (see Civil 1996). This general meaning for DUG was already in place in the Uruk period (see below). It seems strange, then, that NI precedes it on the list, and this may go back to the distinct contents of these vessels: 'oil' for NI, and probably a 'dairy product' for DUG (Englund 1991).
5. 6.
For OB and later lexical and administrative attestations of vessels, see Sallaberger 1996. The subscript letter distinguishes variant forms of the same basic sign.
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AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
THE SCRIBAL ARTIFACT
The following entries, lines 5-8, contain a number of common Sumerian vessel terms, each comprising a single sign. Two of these, SAKlR in line 5, and KISIM in line 8, later relate to dairy products, while MUD] (1. 6), and LAHTAN2 (1. 7), are vessel types later used in beer production, both usually translated as '(fermenting) vat'. After lines 9-11, all oil-related, the list turns to a group of lines (12-14) with a very similar sign, IR, a bowl with pointed base and rounded top; IR differs from NI in having diagonal striations through the body of the vessel. In later Sumerian vocabularies and texts, IR is the sign for 'scent' or 'perfume', and the similarity of the sign form to NI suggests that the product was oil-based. Added signs in lines 13 and 14 may indicate the particular scent. Aside from a few isolated lines, the rest of the first section of the Vessels List consists of single signs of a particular form: the DUGb sign with another sign inside it (designated, here, as DUGxX, where X is the interior sign, and the lower case x [times] indicates that what follows is contained within DUG). In this expanded use of DUGb, the sign seems to have lost its initial meaning of 'dairy product (vessel)', and to have acquired the more general meaning of 'jar', or 'jar of...'. A few of the DUGxX signs also appear in Archaic administrative texts, indicating that their presence here was not merely scribal invention, but had some concrete meaning. This does not make the DUGxX signs any clearer; it is likely that various reasons led the scribes to formulate such compounds. The most obvious (or perhaps 'meaningful') is that the 'contained' sign indicates a particular commodity; each DUGxX sign would then be understood as a jar with a specific type of content (see Table la). For a significant number of other entries, the interior sign could be a phonetic indicator for a type of vessel, sometimes attested in later Sumerian (Table Ib). A final type of 'contained' sign probably had an adjectival meaning (Table lc). Table 1. DUGxX signs a. Signs in which 'X' probably indicated contents Line number
X ('contained') sign
Probable meaning of X
21 28 34 38 40 41 42 43 44 47 48 52-54
SE NAGA SIG 2 GA U2 LAM+KUR LAM KUR GIS KU 6 SAH 2 DIN
grain, barley potash wool milk grass almond a nut a fruit wood fish, fish oil a type of fish, or product from a pig wll1e
Other comments
BALA GESTU
Phonetic reading of X kul. pi
Probable meaning of DUGxX a type of bowl vessel stand, large vessel
B1R J
erin2
vessel containing cedar resin
X sign
22 25 46
c. Signs in which 'X' had an adjectival or adverbial meaning Line number
X sign
Probable meaning of X
23 36 51
KASKAL MAS HI
(for the) road half sweet, mixed
Other comments
indicating volume? may be a writing for ZIZ 2, a cereal
While some of these explanations require some mental gymnastics, it should be remembered that the script at this time must have been rather fluid, and that the use of phonetic indicators and homophones occurred in all periods of cuneiform writing. This analysis of the Archaic Vessels List al.so sug~ests ~he prominent force of scribal invention and inventiveness. Comparison of the Vessels List entnes with contemporary administrative texts indicates that the latter possessed a much more restricted set of vessel names and types, most of them represented in the Vessels List. Scribes were most concerned with the income and disbursement of goods and materials; their interest in different vessel forms was restricted mainly to the contents appropriate to different shapes. Potters would similarly have been concerned with a vessel's expected use, and would have adjusted materials shapes, techniques, firing methods, and decoration to fit the function. Vessel users, finally, would usual.ly have thought in terms of restricted categories of intended use-serving, storage, and cook111g-and about the necessary size of the vessels to be acquired; material qualities would have affected these uses, and were probably known to the consumers, some of whom, at least, may have produced vessels at home for household use. This analysis of the Archaic Vessels List suggests that social and economic transactions took place frequently between scribes and suppliers of the solid and liquid contents (oil, beer, dairy products) of the jars, but not as often between the scribes and ceramic producers themselves. It is likely that the administrators of the Em1l1a complex received deliveries of empty jars in bulk, but that they did not interact directly with, or share in the material knowledge of, the potters. This is despite the fact that the two groups shared knowledge of the basic working material, clay.
Writing Technology
KUR for Sumerian girim
b. Signs in which 'X' may be a phonetic indicator Line number
93
Other comments usually written NUMUN pi phonetic indicator suggests that the DUG sign was to be read epir2 erin2 a phonetic indicator for EREN?
It is customary, and not improper, to regard the invention of writing as a signal of profound and irrevocable intellectual progress. For Mesopotamia, Denise Schmandt-Besserat (1988, 1992) and others (recently, Bernbeck 2004) have traced the development of recording and communication devices from counting tools (tokens) through increasingly abstract systems of notation (impressed bullae and numeric tablets), ultimately arriving at written tablets combining numeric signs and pictographs. This evolutionary schema, though not universally accepted, traces a progressive restriction, or specialization, of notational knowledge and manipulation into fewer and fewer hands. For my purposes, it is also important to remember that writing in Mesopotamia was an inherently material activity, with its own set of raw materials, techniques, skills, and knowledge. Writing was embodied practice like the other technologies examined here. Mesopotamian scribes conjoined their understandings of clay (and occasionally gypsum plaster), reed 'points', and seals and sealings, to create a distinctive and revolutionary set of products, with a very restricted consumer base. Scribes converted social and material transactions with a specific grounding in time and space into abstract marks on clay. Some signs, particularly those indicating commodities, were graphically similar to the items they denoted, while others were more schematized. Scribes grouped transactions into 'boxes' (cases and registers), and summarized or abstracted them further in totals on the tablet reverse. Early cuneiform did not render language, but conveyed concrete information on exchanges, graphically rendering a social and material transaction.
94
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
Lexical lists represented yet another layer of abstraction: they recorded a set of newly 'imagined' people, objects, places, and transactions, as detailed above. In this chapter I have examined only two of the fourteen Archaic lexical lists; others documented professions (Lu and Officials), places (Geography and Cities), types of animals (Animals, Birds, Fish, and perhaps Swine), plants (Plants and Wood), foods (Food), and mixed items (Word List C 7 ). Where administrative texts served as short-term records of commodities and events, lexical lists required a different anticipated audience: new scribes learning the writing system to carry out their administrative duties. Who were these inventors? Their clay skills could come from a background of token-making and -incising, and from impressing seals on similarly untempered clay bodies. Their capacity for abstraction and the transformation of objects into signs is more difficult to trace, but would seem to link the earliest scribes to artists, and particularly seal makers (Cooper 2004). This argument somewhat inverts Schmandt-Besserat's recent (2007) assertion that writing reshaped art in the Protoliterate period, extending the contact between writing and art to an earlier stage, in which artistic practice 'created' writing. Most scholars believe that the impetus for writing came from the need to record, for institutional purposes, an increasingly complicated and varied set of social and economic interactions, and to store that information for a time (Powell 1981). Cooper (2004) notes that it was only through instruction, presumably using lexical and other non-administrative texts (literary and mathematical tablets), that the sign system could be made 'useful' and 'uniform'. Social contacts and instruction must also stand behind the spread of writing to other Archaic period sites Oemdet Nasr, Tell Uqair, Khafaje, Tell Asmar, and probably Umma) where both administrative and lexical texts are attested. But this new written record was not used in all aspects of material transactions, and Adams (2004) points out that Sumerian texts, in general, do not reflect practical realities, but rather an abstract set of circumstances. Selz (1999) explains this disjunction in terms of the administrative requirement for planning for the next season or year, as required by larger numbers of producers, consumers, and administrators. The scribal profession, in contrast to ceramic or metal production, was a new one in the Late Uruk period. The question, then, is how scribes ultimately became the most essential of the craft specialists, and how their intellectual work came to supercede or ignore, even reject, the experiential knowledge of the other material specialists. As the only specialists considered here whose work was solely devoted to the public sector, their identity merged with the administrators. They were able to 'trade up' their material abilities, until their intellectual and managerial skills came to be much more essential than their capacity to work with clay and reeds. Scribes became the one group of specialists no administrator could do without, as their skills empowered the bureaucracy to extend its reach in time and space.
Conclusions The rapidly changing world of urban Uruk saw profound changes in production and consumption patterns occasioned by the growth in population and the need to organize and mobilize new levels of labor and materials. The archaeological record shows both technological and administrative responses to these changes, as individuals and groups formulated strategies to survive, thrive, and compete in this shifting social, economic, and political environment. While the picture presented here is limited to Uruk, with excavations restricted to the administrative and sacred center of the city, the analysis provides evidence for an unprecedented number and rate of social interactions among people, interactions frequently mediated and facilitated by 7.
Sometimes called 'Tribute'.
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material goods. We may imagine, in this setting, a variety of face-to-face encounters among craft producers, resource suppliers, and consumers, with significant elements of competition and cooperation being played out in their interactions, reflecting the different interests of producing and consuming groups. Practitioners of each technological specialty developed a distinct network of social contacts, to some degree inheriting preexisting techniques and relationships, and inventing new ones to suit new needs. It was the information specialists who witnessed the most significant changes in their social networks, their embodied material practices, and their capacity to exercise agency under the new urban circumstances at Uruk. Agency approaches offer archaeologists opportunities to model these developments in terms of individual intentions and the consequences of short-term actions. During the Uruk period, a number of social and economic subgroups competed and cooperated, exchanging products, knowledge, and social ties in an effort to succeed within the new urban networks of power and social interactions. Barriers to advancement were set up and broken down, distinctions among people developed and dissolved. The analysis presented here suggests that the material specialists at Uruk experienced a growing set of social divisions and disjunctions, as the practical know-how of smiths and potters was suppressed and put to the service of scribal invention and intervention.
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Pollock, Susan (1999) Ancient Mesopotamia: The Eden that Never Was. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Powell, Marvin A. (1981) Three problems in the history of cuneiform writing: origins, direction of script, literacy. Visible Language 15 :419-40. Renfrew, Colin (2001) Symbol before concept: material engagement and the early development of society. In Archaeological Theory Today, edited by I. Hodder. Cambridge: Polity Press, pp. 122-40. -(2004) Towards a theory of material engagement. In DeMarrais, Gosden, and Renfrew 2004:23-31. Rova, Elena (1999-2000) A tentative synchronization of the local Late Chalcolithic ceramic horizons of northern Syro-Mesopotamia. Mesopotamia 34-35: 175-99. Sallaberger, Walther (1996) Der babylonische Topfer und seine Gefiisse. Mesopotamian History and Environment Series II. Memoirs 3. Ghent: University of Ghent. Schiffer, Michael B. (ed.) (2001) Anthropological Perspectives on Technology. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Schmandt-Besserat, Denise (1988) Tokens at Uruk. Baghdader Mitteilullgen 19:1-175. -(1992) Before Writing. Austin: University of Texas Press. -(1993) Images of enship. In Between the Rivers and Over the Mountains, edited by M. Frangipane, H. Hauptmann, M. Liverani, P. Matthiae, and M. Mellink. Rome: Universita di Roma La Sapienza, pp. 20119. -(2007) When Writing Met Art: From Symbol to Story. Austin: University of Texas Press. Schwartz, Glenn M. (2001) Syria and the Uruk expansion. In Uruk Mesopotamia and its Neighbors: Crosscultural Interactions in the Era of State Formation, edited by M. S. Rothman. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, pp. 233-64. Selz, Gebhard.J. (1999) Vom 'vergangenen Geschehen' zur 'Zukunftsbewaltigung': Oberlegungen zur Rolle der Schrift in Okonomie und Geschichte. In Munuscula Mesopotamica. Festschrift fiJr Johanlles Renger, edited by B. Bock, E. Cancik-Kirschbaum, and T. Richter. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 267. MUnster: Ugarit-Verlag, pp. 465-512. Stech, Tamara (1999) Aspects of early metallurgy in Mesopotamia and Anatolia. In The Archaeometallurgy of the Asian Old World, edited by V. C. Pigott. Philadelphia: University Museum, University of Pennsylvania, pp.59-71. Stein, Gil J. (1996) Producers, patrons, and prestige: craft specialists and emergent elites in Mesopotamia from 5500-3100 B.C. In Craft Specialization alld Social Evolutioll: III Memory ofV. GordOIl Childe, edited by B. Wailes. Philadelphia: University Museum, University of Pennsylvania, pp. 25-38. Steinkeller, Piotr (2002) Archaic city seals and the question of early Babylonian unity. In Riches Hiddell in Secret Places: Allciellt Near Eastem Studies ill Memory of ThorkildJacobsell, edited by T. Abusch. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, pp. 249-57. Stirenhagen, Dietrich (1974-75) Untersuchungen zur Keramikproduktion innerhalb der Spat-Urukzeitlichen Siedlung Habuba Kabira-SUd in Nordsyrien. Acta Praehistorica et Archaeologica 5/6:43-164. -(1986) Archaische Keramik aus Uruk-Warka. Erster Teil. Baghdader Mitteilullgen 17:7-95. -(1987) Archaische Keramik aus Uruk-Warka. Zweiter Teil. Baghdader Mitteilullgell 18:1-92. Van Ess, Margarete and Pedde, Friedheim (1992) UrlIk-Kleinfunde II. Metall t/lld AS/Jhalt, Farbreste,
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7
Shared Painting The Practice of Decorating Late Neolithic Pottery in Northern Mesopotamia" A. Gabriela Castro Gessner
Introduction 'Surface Indications' [referred to 1a very fine series of painted pottery fragments, specimens of eggshell ware with decoration in lustrous red and black paint on an apricot slip, with an elaborate variety of designs unsurpassed in technique by any other school of painted pottery in Mesopotamia (McCall 2001:85).
The description of Max Mallowan's surface finds, cryptically called 'Surface Indications' in reference to fine painted pottery in the quote above, appeared in a brochure created in 1932 by Mallowan to raise funds for his excavation of the site of Arpachiyah (Iraq). Earlier in the 20th century, particularly after the excavation of Arpachiyah, the pottery of the Halaf period (6th millennium BCE; Figure A) in northern Mesopotamia drew considerable attention principally because of its elaborate designs and 'unsurpassed' technique. Since then, for archaeologists of the prehistoric Near East, Halaf pottery has been relatively easy to identify, with its intricate geometric designs in black or red colors against a light background. But beneath the easily identifiable character of Halaf decorations, individual pieces display highly variable technical skills and different approaches to the execution of designs (Castro Gessner 2008). This might not seem surprising if one considers that decorative painting involves a range of abilities, such as fluency in design, knowledge of community styles, creativity, and skill. One of the abilities that painted decorations allow us to explore is technique, the idea that brush marks on vessels created by ancient painters are instances of knowledge (see Haslam 2006). Knowledge of painting or other motor skills, such as handwriting, is considered practical or embodied knowledge (Giddens 1984). This type of knowledge has a strong corporeal component since it is developed over time with practice and experience. It is the kind of knowledge that once learned is difficult to forget since it resides in the gestures of the body, almost as if it were
* I warmly thank the editors of this volume, Sharon Steadman and Jenni Ross, for inviting me to contribute to this collection, and for their careful reading, constructive feedback, and encouragement throughout. This contribution is part of a broader investigation of past systems of learning and knowledge transmission, and I am grateful to Susan Pollock and Reinhard Bernbeck for their thought-provoking critiques and insightful readings of my dissertation, which forms the basis of this chapter.
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100 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST automatic. Embodied knowledge is developed by each individual, but in reality, is also shaped by the space, the activities, and the social environment in which an individual moves (Bourdieu 1977). This embodied knowledge that most people develop in everyday tasks is therefore both an individual and a social practice. In craft-making, the individual artist learns and develops techniques and a style of creation within the social parameters afforded by his/her group. Of particular importance for understanding the development of knowledge and practices that are both individual and shared is the context of learning. The development of an embodied knowledge of painting (or other craft) is part of socialization and the formation of members of a society. Learning to become an active participant of society is wrapped in the passing on of tradition and customs, part of the way in which social and material reproduction takes place (Pauketat 2001). It could be argued that the development of embodied knowledge is at the intersection between agency and identity formation, both of the individual and group. In formulating archaeological approaches which incorporate notions of agency, the abilities and capacities of individuals cannot be decoupled from the social. As Laura Ahearn suggests, agency as the 'socioculturally mediated capacity to act' (2001: 113), is a process, something that changes as people move in and out of social communities and areas of practice. Agency as a concept that is fluid and dynamic, but also grounded in people's activities, is fruitful for prehistoric research. The concept is particularly valuable in studies of craft production where people's knowledge and traditions converge. For the prehistoric Near East and for the Halaf period in particular, the painters' capacity to act generated specific designs on pottery of a recognizable style. Research into the production context of that style indicates that despite visual similarities in design, the technical knowledge and expertise of artists differed. Taken together, the visual effects and the technical processes imply an outwardly formulaic prescriptive society, but in practice a relatively unstructured one. People's capacity to act, people's capacity to learn, and people's knowledge, are all aspects of agency. My contributions to this chapter are based on a subset of the pottery assemblage from the Halaf site of Flstikii Hoyi.ik in northern Mesopotamia (Figure A). Elsewhere I have discussed the degree of skill and quality of care in execution that Halaf painters took to produce their decorations (Castro Gessner 2008). In this essay I use steps in the production of painted designs to explore the constitution of agency through craft-oriented practice. Specifically, I demonstrate how the actions that people exercised both reproduced the traditions of painting pottery and allowed for individual expression. Thus in this research, the unit of analysis is the individual act that a painter took to create designs. The act of painting is at the center of where agency resides. It is in the social relations that bring the painter to his/her work (Robb 2008:349), and where tradition and learning come together. This chapter consists of three main sections. First, consideration is given to the topic of socialization. These are the practices that endure and foster knowledge in particular ways and by particular means. I draw attention to the topic of technological knowledge, the development of skilled practice that grows as people engage repeatedly in productive tasks. In the second section I elaborate on practice theories and the distinctions that Bourdieu (1977) and Giddens (1979,1984) raise regarding how and what we know through our bodies. Practice theories provide an essential foundation for pairing individual practices, social traditions, and know-how. The intersection among these three is at the heart of an exploration of agency. The third section is an illustration of the ideas discussed on knowledge and practice and their application to material cultUl'e. The methodological vehicle I use is based on the concept of chaIne ofJeratoire (production sequences) which has been effectively applied to other archaeological remains (including by authors in this volume; see Branting, Ross, Russell and Bogaard, and Steadman). Within this final section I evaluate the strengths of considering agency in prehistoric archaeology.
101
Learning and Technological Knowledge Socialization is the process by which new members of society are formed. It is a continuous process in which people learn or adjust to new roles in the course of their lifetimes (Bourdieu 1977). It is also the vehicle by which customs, outlook, and values are carried on by succeeding generations. Lave and Wenger (1991) propose that learning is social and participatory, an activity that is constituted in participation and interaction. The process of socialization and the process of learning a craft are intertwined and mutually enacting. As crafters learn the practices of their craft they are concurrently learning the appropriate ways of participating within their social network. For example, ethnographers such as Herbich (1987) and Dietler and Herbich (1998) see the effects of socialization practices among the Luo of Kenya in ceramic 'microstyles'. In their research, new brides become socialized into their husbands' family traditions, including pottery-making. They develop decorative styles that have degrees of individuality but nonetheless show an overall affiliation to their new family group and region. Microstyles include an understanding of the local style, differences in skill, social allegiances, and user concerns that influence the potter during production. The work of Helene Wallaert-Petre (1999, 2001) on Cameroonian potters aptly demonstrates the juncture between production and social reproduction. Creativity and innovation in shaping ceramic vessels differed greatly among the two groups she compared. One group allowed carefree experimentation, whereas the other limited experimentation, encouraging strict adherence to a norm. Social concerns behind the different styles of training in these two groups introduced, integrated, and prepared young women for marriage. Learning to make appropriate vessels was more than learning to form vessels, since it also formed young women potters to take on adult responsibilities for and within the community. As Olivier Gosselain suggests, the technical knowledge utilized and harbored by artisans is not randomly adopted, but the result of specific learning developments that are part and parcel of the social dispositions of a community (Gosselain 1998:78). Lave and Wenger (1991) discuss 'communities of practice' as the relations that people develop as they participate with gradual and increasing involvement in a craft. The technological learning is thus part of becoming full participants in sociocultural practice and not separate from it. In a number of essays, Ingold (1990,2000,2001) artfully explains that the scholarly concept of technology has acquired different meanings from earlier conceptions and is often problematized as an external realm apart from and independent of the social. He proposes a return to the original conceptualization where technology (tekhlle) and art (ars) signify approximately the same thing, specifically the skill associated with craftsmanship (Ingold 2001: 17). Thus we could say that technology is embedded in people's knowledge and practices, and grounded in the 'production, use, repair and discard. of material culture.' (D?bres 1995 :27). These ideas on technological knowledge underscore the Importance of an histOrically situated and context-specific approach. The assessment of pottery painters of the 6th millennium BCE is undertaken against the knowledge of craft producers of that time, and specifically grounded in the painting community of the small Halaf village of Flstikii HoyUk. The manner in which people acquire the socially accepted dispositions of their group varies, but in craft production in particular, the way people learn includes a combination of ~lethods: Initial knowledge is usually acquired by observation, imitation, and verbal and non-verballl1struct~on, but in some cases no instructions are given at all (e.g. Wallaert-Petre 1999). Feedback from an lI1structor or trainer is crucial-either to correct mistakes or encourage progression towards a particular objective (Carlson 2003 :39-40; Sloboda 2001: 103-4). People learning to p~int wou.l~ most~~ imitate their teachers, but could articulate and repeat instructions, ask questIOns, solICit additIOnal demonstrations, and, if not necessarily skilled, might be thinking about the process of painting. In ethnographic literature, many scholars notice that learning is based on observation and imitation,
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102 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST but that apprentices do not learn until given the opportunity (Bloch 1998:7-8; Buechler 1989:45; Hayden and Cannon 1984:332). For example, Shipibo-Conibo children learn to paint by tracing over incised lines or adding secondary elements of a design previously drawn by an experienced crafter (DeBoer 1990:88). Based on Carol Kramer's work in Rajasthan, David and Kramer (2001: 309-10) discuss how daughters begin painting their fathers' pots as part of their first phase of apprenticeship. In the first stages of skill acquisition young painters are given feedback in the form of critiques and praises from adult practitioners. Bernbeck et al. (2005: 103-4) suggested that children may adopt adult practices by learning through playful imitation preceding full engagement in craft production. Ingold goes further, to make a distinction between technological knowledge and technique; the former is transmitted explicitly because it is about general concepts, while the latter is practical knowledge, learned through imitation rather than explicit instruction (Ingold 2000:316). How people acquire and develop skill is part of the corpus of knowledge that becomes part of how they move their bodies. In producing painted pottery, the manner in which artists handled their brushes, held their pots while painting, and created designs would become part of their bodily knowledge, the kind of knowledge that is taken for granted once learned. This is the kind of knowledge that Bourdieu (1977) denotes in his concept of habitus and which Giddens (1979:57) considers as 'practical consciousness'.
Practice Theory, Agency, and Tradition Discussion of technological knowledge and situated learning and the focus on people's practices are well-suited for analysis within the concepts of practice and structuration theory (Bourdieu 1977; Giddens 1979, 1984, 1990). In Bourdieu's theory of practice, individual actions are regulated by doxa (deeply rooted and shared knowledge for which alternative ways of thinking are inconceivable) and a practical way of moving and understanding the world through and by habitus (Bourdieu 1977:82-83, 164-66). Habitus is acquired through observation, imitation, and interaction with people and objects in daily practice. The socialization process imbues habitus with a temporal quality that allows the integration of past experiences in actions, perceptions, and attitudes to inform and transform structure. The importance of socialization and past experiences in forming habitus also means that Bourdieu's ideas about practice are situational and need to be understood in the context of their reproduction (see Ross, this volume). Like habitus, routinized practices operate under what Giddens (1979:57) calls practical consciousness (practical knowledge or non-discursive consciousness). The actions subsumed under practical consciousness are those which we take for granted, those that we may not be able to question or even think about, much less articulate. For example, driving a car, riding a bicycle, or writing are things we do automatically; they are embodied practices we take for granted and would find challenging to explain solely discursively to someone who did not know what those actions were (Giddens 1979:25). Practical consciousness is akin to habitus, but Giddens refers to it as an actor's tacit and subconscious knowledge rather than the embodied andless-than-conscious knowledge that Bourdieu suggests. Discursive consciousness, in contrast, refers to that which is explicit and conscious in a person's mind (Giddens 1979:5), something like 'articulateness' (Giddens 1984:44-45). Despite the distinction between discursive and practical knowledge, Giddens points out that they are flexible concepts or states that are influenced by learning, socialization, and experience-the only differences are 'between what can be said and what is characteristically simply done' (Giddens 1984:7). Giddens does not elaborate on how knowledge is acquired but alludes to the importance of routine and tradition, the first in reproducing practices, and the second in sanctioning them by way of connecting past and present (Giddens 1979:218-19).
103
Agency The capacity for action and change is inherently human (Sewell 1992: 18) but the degree of power that Bourdieu and Giddens allow agents in their theories are not the same (see also Porter, this volume). For Bourdieu (1977: 168-69) whatever people think, aspire to, or value, despite improvisation in daily practices, is often of little consequence and will always be enacted within the limits afforded by habitus and doxa. To some degree this kind of habitus may be problematic for archaeologists because actions by non-intentional and unwitting actors reproduce structure and emphasize continuity at the expense of change (Calhoun 1993:71-73; Callinicos 1999:295; Last 1995:150-51; Mouzelis 1995:110-11; Swartz 1997:289-90). Giddens (1984: 8-14) indicates that people's actions result in unintended consequences based on both conscious (discursive) and routinized (non-discursive) behavior, which implies for some scholars that he grants too much rational and conscious thought to agents (Last 1995:152). The archaeological implication of this discussion is that granting agents conscious awareness and intentionality leaves little room for unintended consequences and burdens past actors with unrealistic expectations about practice. In discussing agents' abilities to effect change, the word of choice by many scholars is agency. The term agency is seductive because it can bear multiple meanings from 'action' (Giddens 1979:55) to ' ... part of the condition of a human being' (Ortner 2001:272) or a 'theory of social reproduction' (Dobres and Robb 2005: 159). Different conceptions of agency have repercussions for how we understand 'personhood, causality, action, and intention' (Ahearn 2001: 112; see also Joyce and Lopiparo 2005 :368-69; Knapp and van Dommelen 2008: 16-17). Furthermore, what an agent or an actor is or can be may vary cross-culturally and over time (Ahearn 2001:113). Here I use Laura Ahearn's definition of agency as 'the socioculturally mediated capacity to act' (Ahearn 2001:112), but attempt to explain the different facets, knowledges, and practices in which people engaged as components of agency. Ortner's (2006: 134-35) evaluation of Ahearn's type of agency is that it is 'soft' because intention is not a central component. However, if we conceive of intention as layered (Russell 2004:64) or a continuum between routinized practices and reflexive action (Ortner 2006: 136), we can say that at surface level, the painters of pottery intended to decorate vessels, for which we have evidence. The kind of intentional attribution that is far more difficult to obtain from archaeological examples (or people), is whether the painters intended to execute a specific design or whether the way in which a design was executed reflected their original intention. The latter examples are attributes of intention that would be impossible to ascertain. The relationship between structure and agent is complementary, and actors' recursive practices form and inform themselves as well as the structure (Giddens 1979: 5, 71; 1995:341-42). This duality of structure-agency constitutes social life in practices, where structure is both the means and result of people's practices Goyce and Lopiparo 2005 :365). In the prehistoric painters' world, these perspectives indicate that people would partly constitute their world through painting, and these worlds would constitute the practice of painting within a larger framework.
Tradition The concept of tradition may be akin to the ideas of structure postulated by Giddens and Bourdieu. In a recent article, John Robb suggested that tradition can be an analytical unit in the construction of histories, especially through the people who work to create it (Robb 2008:349). This process of tradition is thus engendered through people's practices and their ways of doing things according to experience and social context (Pauketat 2001 :2-5). I see the painting of pottery as a social endeavor that may be the result of individual practice but that is not outside the realm of the collective, since individuals work within the parameters of their social group.
104 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
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105
In considering the painted pottery of the Halaf as a tradition with a particular style, the process of achieving a particular design or acting out the 'rules of production' is what tells me about agency-about socially mediated practice-where some people followed 'rules' of painting implicitly and others modified them. Thus while each painter's approach is seen as an individual way of executing a design, the ways of executing a design reinforce the preferences of the community of painters or indicate the degree of difference acceptable to the community. From these examples, the painters who followed ways of executing designs, and those who did not, were working and creating their community traditions. Furthermore, both the individual and collective expressions of painting indicate people's abilities to act outside and within the parameters of their social membership.
Late Neolithic Ceramic Production: Methods and Interpretations The Halaf Period The pottery for this case study is drawn from the Late Neolithic (6th millennium BCE) of northern Mesopotamia, specifically the Halaf period (6000 to 5100 cal BCE). Until recently, the Halaf tradition was assumed to be homogeneous across Mesopotamia, but the latest scholarship has inclicated that the Late Neolithic was a time of diverse subsistence and living practices in Mesopotamia (Akkermans and Duistermaat 1997; Akkermans and Schwartz 2003; Bernbeck ct al. 2003; Bernbeck 2(08). Contrary to evolutionary expectations regarding social development, not all societies during the Neolithic were settled agricultural communities on the road to urbanism. In recent decades, scholars have been interested in understanding the variability in subsistence, mobility, and living practices of the Halaf period, one of several traditions that flourished during the 6th millennium (Akkermans and Duistermaatl997; Bernbeck ct al. 2(03). Most Halaf sites are found in the arc-shaped region of northern Mesopotamia that extends from the foothills of the Jebel Hamrin in east central Iraq to the AlllUq plain in western Syria and the limits of Cilicia in southeastern Tll1'key. The arc is bounded on the north by the Taurus Mountains and to the south by the Syrian Jezirah. Most Halaf sites, including Flstddl Hiiyiik, arc also within the area where dry farming is possible. Subsistence practices, although not the same in all sites, typically reveal a mixed strategy of herding and farming, but also include wild fauna and plant exploitation. Animals raised included cattle, sheep, goats, and pigs, and crop cultivation included barley, wheat, and legumes (Akkermans 1993, 1996; McCorriston 1992; Zeder (994). The nearly one thousand years of Halaf occupation have been divided into early through late phases with transitional segments at the beginning and end. The phasing, although still disputed, is based on changes in pottery assemblages from a few sites that span the Halaf sequence. The case study used here dates to the Early Halaf.
The Painted Pottery of Flstlkll Hoyuk The site of Flstlkll Hiiyiik is located on the eastern banks of the Euphrates River in southeastern Turkey, about 25 km upstream from the Turko-Syrian border. The site is a slllall, low mound of about 0.5 hectares that rises 4 meters above the river plain. The site of Flstddl HiiyUk is currently covered by a grove of pistachio trees; hence it was given the name 'pistachio Illound' by the excavators (the site was originally identified by Algaze ct al. 1994 as Site 45). The Halaf period occupation of the site lasted about 300 years and dates to the Early Halaf (ca. 5980-5660 cal BCE). At Flstddl Hiiylik we uncovered circular and cell-plan architecture, fire installations, and large amounts of pottery and chipped stone, as well as figurines, ceramic disks, seals, and other small finds (Bernbeck ct al. 2003; Pollock ct al. 2001).
Figure I. Repertoire of painted llIotifs fl'Onl Flsuklt Hii)'lik.
Although the pottery at Ftstlkll Hiiyiik as at other Halaf sites includes coarsewares and finewares, my discussion is focused on the painted flnewares. The fincwares are thin-walled, mineraltempered, and evenly fired, with mainly red to black painted motifs and are considered to be used as serving wares. Pottery was handmade by coiling, pinching, or slabbing (Van As and Jacobs 1989). Both exterior and interior areas of vessels were decorated with painted designs.
106 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST The catalog of motifs is characterized by a predominance of geometric motifs. These include crosshatches, diamonds, chevrons, wavy lines, oblique designs, etc. (Figure 1). Figural motifs in the form of birds, bucrania, or human figures also occur but these tend to be highly stylized and less common. Many of the Flstlkh HoyUk sherds show varying degrees of skill in the application of paint. The paint may appear thicker, thinner, and of a different color in some sections. Straight lines may become crooked, elements of the same motif vary in size and shape upon one sherd, and brushstrokes are inconsistent in length and paint saturation. This variability in painting suggests that people with a range of skills and varying degrees of carefulness were painting pots-and many were not highly practiced painters. Using that variability as a starting point, I first established whether there were standards or typical ways in which people painted the same types of designs. The analysis here is restricted to an appraisal of the ways in which people put paint to vessel, and not focused on the degrees of skill or careful attention that they put to their work overall (see Castro Gessner 2008). The acts of pottery painting were part of the quotidian tasks of prehistoric peoples during the Halaf period, similar to weaving baskets or sewing leather pouches. They were ordinary practices in the sense that they took place among other tasks that people engaged in throughout any day (pottery production and painting was probably limited to the summer months). They were out of the ordinary practices in the sense that they required particular skills in handling fine tools, continued practice in developing proficient levels of painting skill, and an awareness of the painting style of their community. One of the underlying tenets of practice theory is that activities that are repeated often, perhaps daily, become inscribed and part of the embodied knowledge of people. Embodied knowledge developed in craft-productive tasks can be unraveled by looking at the production sequences-at the level of individual gestures-of a given activity. In the case of painting pottery, for example, I established the order in which brushstrokes were laid on a vessel to achieve a design. Steps in the production of painted designs provide evidence of technical knowledge in practice. The production sequences of painted designs were established using the concept of chaIne operatoire (operational sequences) that has been fruitfully used in other archaeological materials research.
Operational Sequences (ChaIne Operatoire) The chaIne operatoire analyses allowed me to measure similarity and variability in brushstroke execution, and to understand where in the process commonality among painters was maintained. By looking at the order in which brushstrokes were laid on a pot for each design, I was able to establish patterns of steps, called variants (Table 1 and Figure 3), and make arguments about shared practices. The chaIne operatoire refers, at its most basic, to the steps in the production of something, from the acquisition of materials to discard (Sellet 1993). It is a method employed mostly by archaeologists or anthropologists of technology to make statements that underscore the relation between the social realm and the material world (Bleed 2001; Dobres 1999: 129, contra Castro et al. 1998: 176). The concept of chaIne operatoire owes its ancestry primarily to the French anthropologist Andre Leroi-Gourhan (1943, 1993), and in recent usage, the understanding of chaIne operatoire seeks to address technological choice and manufacture of goods as historically and culturally situated (Lemonnier 1986, 1993). Current usage of the term also carries the understanding that people's technological style in the production of an item often relies on subconscious and non-discursive practices (e.g. Dietler and Herbich 1998; Dobres 1999; Gosselain 1998; Lechtman 1977). The utility of the challle operatoire concept for many is that it allows researchers to gauge variation in technology and the techniques of manufacture, especially as it may indicate conscious choice (e.g. Lemonnier 1986, 1993-and authors therein).
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Table 1. Chaine operatoire variants for diagonal and horizontal crosshatches. Variant 1
Shows the sequence where crosshatches were created on the vessel without bands as guides or limits. If there were bands present, as in a neck or rim, these were added after the crosshatch was completed. This process allowed the painter to 'hide' uneven crosshatch edges underneath the band. This may also be the reason why structural bands were often retouched after a motif was completed.
Variant 2
Very similar to variant 1. The main difference is that the vessel was flipped upside down before diagonal lines were painted on.
Variant 3
Structural lines, usually at the rim, neck, or carination were painted prior to painting the crosshatch. Variant 3 is similar to the steps in variant 1, except that bands were painted before the crosshatched motif was created.
Variant 4
In variant 4a structural lines were added first, as guides or frames for limiting the motif. Subsequently, the vessel was flipped upside down and the first diagonals were added. In variant 4b, there is an additional step whereby after the initial set of diagonals, the vessel was flipped right side up before completing the subsequent steps in finalizing the crosshatched pattern. It was common in most decorated vessels to have the bands painted over again after the motif was completed.
Variant 5
This is a single (and unusual) example of a vessel where crosshatched patterns were contained within several horizontal bands decorating the body of the vessel. The parallel bands around the vessel's body were executed before the crosshatched pattern within them. The challenge of this design was in keeping the horizontal bands parallel around the vessel.
Variant 6
Variant 6a is the most common of this type of design. Variant 6b is similar to 6a, but squares were filled in to create a checkered pattern. Checkered patterns are not very common at Flstlkh Hoyiik. One of the sherds analyzed reveals that a few blobs of paint out of alignment with the initial crosshatch may have encouraged the painter to create a checkered pattern.
Variant 7
Variant 7 shows the horizontal crosshatch created with horizontals painted first, while variant 8 shows the design created with diagonals first.
Variant 8
Like variant 7, this shows the production steps in the creation of the horizontal crosshatch. Variant 8c represents a slightly different type of crosshatch, where rather than using horizontals and diagonals, the artists used verticals and diagonals.
Variant 9
This design incorporates a diagonal angle created by the filled-in triangles. This motif requires a steady pulse and even distribution of three types of lines: verticals, horizontals, and diagonals. This is a challenging design to execute because the diagonals have to split the corners of the crosshatches precisely to create an even-sized triangle. The painter who created the example outlined in variant 9b altogether bypassed the most difficult part of creating this design, by skipping the addition of horizontals and diagonals, and painting individual triangles to create the pattern! The resulting design was irregular and poorly executed, very much like the vessel it was painted onto.
Variant 10
This crosshatched pattern is the most distinct from those outlined before, primarily because it contains the crosshatch between horizontal lines that are made prominent by adjacent non-painted areas of the same width. Variants lOa and 10c arc essentially the same, except that in 10c the vessel was flipped upside down before beginning, and structural bands of the motif were painted first.
The most notable and common archaeological use for the chaine operatoire is the reduction sequences of chipped stone (e.g. Bleed 2001, and sources therein), but the concept has been used for other materials as well, such as bone tools and ceramics (e.g. Dietler and Herbich 1998; Dobres 1995; Gosselain 1998; Roux 2003; van del' Leeuw 1993). In pottery manufacture, the chaIne operatoire usually refers to the steps from initial clay gathering to the firing of the vessel. The premise is that the steps in the production of something like a vessel have a necessary order,
108 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST whereby, for example, a vessel cannot be fired before it is formed. My use of the term chaine operata ire is a threefold variation on the traditional concept. I use the concept to study and understand a single step (and its sub-steps) in the operational sequence of vessel forming (production), namely the act of painting (including sub-steps down to single gestures that form operational sequences themselves). This step in pottery production is similar to what Margaret Hardin elicited from modern Tarascan pottery painters, which she called the 'encoding sequence' (Hardin 1979: 8587). The challle aperataire was a way of assessing if there was a structured or prescribed order in which the brushstrokes on a pot had to be applied to create specific classes of designs. Secondly, I began from the premise that there is not a single way or precise number of ways of painting the same class of designs, but rather, that the ability to execute a class of designs resides at the tip of the brush. Thus I created as many challle a/Jeratoire variants from a single class of design as necessary. Finally, the concept of chaine operatoire in the act of painting vessels is not only based on practical (non-discursive) knowledge, but rather is an expression of both discursive and non-discursive knowledge.
Figure 2. Crosshatch lI10tif examples froll1 Ftstddt Iliiylik.
Discussion: Building Tradition at Flstlkll Hoyuk The painted designs on the Flstlkli HiiyUk pottery share a few visible qualities that make it part of the potting tradition of that place. These qualities were part of the style of the Flsttldl HiiyUk painters, part of what would be considered 'normal' and self-evident to them. This type of knowledge is the kind that Bourdieu indicates one learns 'at home', being around and about items that seep in to a person's way of being and acting (Bourdieu 1977:87-89). To exemplify how these qualities were enacted [ lise the crosshatch Illotif, which is one of Illany classes of designs from the Flsttldl H6yUk ceramic repertoire (Figure 2).
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The fineware pottery at Flsttkli HoyUk was most often decorated with crosshatched patterns that occupy exterior and interior sides of vessels. Crosshatch patterns were painted in several ways, most commonly by two crossing diagonal lines but sometimes by crossing vertical or horizontal lines. All designs were accompanied by a framing wide line (often called structural lines) that both framed the motif and emphasized the vessel shape, such as lines atthe rim, neck, shoulder, or base (Rice 1987). These structural lines were always bolder and wider than the accompanying brushwork of the main design (motif) on the vessel, but their width also varied by location on vessel (interior vs. exterior) as well as by the design that they framed. The ways in which these expressions of painting tradition were maintained and modified are exemplified by looking at the challle o/Jeratoire variants of each class of designs. In Figure 3 (and Table 1), 54 sherd examples with a crosshatch pattern were painted in ten different ways, where shared ways of painting were evident in some steps, but either additional or omitted gestures may have modified an approach. Some painters found it useful to invert the vessel at the beginning or at some point in the painting process, sometimes more than once to accomplish the desired design. Most artists painted several lines in a single direction first before adding another subset of lines in the opposite direction until the pattern was completed around the vessel. In executing diagonal crosshatch patterns, most artists painted diagonal lines in upper-left to lower-right direction first (\\\), whereas if painting a horizontal crosshatch, they would usually begin with the horizontal lines before the vertical ones. Structural lines were painted onto vessels almost without fail. In keeping with the tradition of using structural lines as frames of the design and vessel, most artists executed them either at the end, after they completed the crosshatch motif, or at the beginning of the painting process. The act of painting structural lines is an example of strong adherence to a shared style of painting, but one in which the avenue to achieve that effect was not prescribed. In those designs where a structural line was evident, about S()(Y() of painters re-emphasized the structural lines with additional paint. The act of repainting a structural band served several purposes: to even out inconsistent brushstrokes of irregular length, to emphasize boldly the edge of the vessel, to widen the structural band, and to hide mistakes. One of the most interesting aspects of this painting practice was the evident concern in normalizing the designs to fit an agreement, perhaps implicit, on the quality of the execution. Brushstrokes that were too thin or too short in relation to others were somehow seen as distorting the overall design, and the effort in hiding these inconsistencies with additional paint to widen, cover up, or lengthen lines was undertaken by several painters. Thus it seems that the flexibility in the paths taken to execute a design was countered by the practice and efforts to maintain a similar look and feel by hiding inconsistencies. This is an example of individual skill and accomplishment (embodied knowledge), pulled, nudged, and cajoled into sociocultlll'ally mediated practice. All these variable ways of executing a motif, even a relatively simple one with only two kinds of line elements (e.g. crosshatch), demonstrate that there was a strong tradition to keep designs looking a particular way, but that the ways of achieving that style differed. Moreover, the fact that multiple ways of painting the same design were used suggests a rather flexible and unstructured approach to the tasks of learning this craft. This is reminiscent of Helene Wallaert-Petre's research (1999, 200 I) where she found that more or less flexible learning environments had important repercussiol1s for variability in ceramic production. The distinction between lIlore flexible (open) and less flexible (closed) systems of apprenticeship was evident in certain attributes of ceramic vessels. [n the open system, simple and complex vessel shapes were executed by both novice and expert potters, while in the closed system only simple vessels were executed by unskilled potters and complex vessels by skilled ones.
110 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
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112 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST For the Flsukh H6yiik assemblage, flexibility in production is evident in the fact that there was not a set way in which designs were produced. In eight classes of designs, such as crosshatches, 'dancing ladies', diamonds, etc., there were between three and ten variants for each class of design (except the zigzag patterns, with 15). On average, more than one and up to five vessels were painted following the same path of execution, resulting in shared brushwork sequences maximally 23% of the time. This may seem rather remarkable given the apparent homogeneity in designs that characterize the Halaf tradition more generally. From a different perspective it is quite remarkable that painters shared so many ways of painting when the ceramic collection spans about nine generations of painters. In essence, the standard of painting designs in this community was flexible, and open to modification. This openness to process and flexibility in the paths to create a motif was the community habitus. One could argue that in archaeology, where patterning is a palimpsest of actions by a multitude of people across generations, discussions of individual practice are not useful. How does one sort several generations and hundreds of years of practice when our prehistoric lens is coarse? It is not easy and perhaps something that is not always possible or desirable. Methodologically in this case, however, my assumptions were that each vessel (and sherd) was painted by one and the same person (this is not always the case in painting vessels; see Crown 2007). For the Flstlkh H6yiik examples, each examination of sequences in painting was assumed to be for an individual. That artist's example was interpreted against the technical practice of other artists. In that sense, I followed Rouse's observations that painting practices are composed of individual occurrences but are only comprehensible against the backdrop of other such practices (Rouse 2007:645). As Joyce and Lopiparo (2005 :368) suggest, repetitive acts and practices shape tradition and allow us to define traditional practices that are evidence of long-term social reproduction. In the repetitive acts of painting the same class of designs, which could be seen as sequences of structuration, painters chose to replicate designs or modify them in relation to tradition. This process is arguably the place to realize agency: where agents constituted themselves in craft practice working as individuals but also against and with others of their social milieu (Sewell 1992:21). Even through the act of imitation in design process, painters may have demonstrated choice in replicating existing practices Goyce and Lopiparo 2005:368-69). The difference between choice in replicating existing paths of execution or not replicating them could be interpreted within the discourse of resistance or coercion. Other scholars have arrived at the same dilemma, where it is unclear whether differences in execution are due to choice, lack of knowledge (e.g. Hardin and Mills 2000: 157), or as a means to sidestep coercion. Perhaps it is all of these. The communal or individual capacity to act may not have always been homogeneous, and furthermore, 'oppositional agency is only one of many forms of agency' (Ahearn 2001: 115). The complexity of all these forms of action, which at times may be in opposition to each other, and something that is constantly shifting especially in relation to others, is best described by Sewell. He states that agency is the ability to 'coordinate one's actions with others and against others, to form collective projects, to persuade, to coerce, and to monitor the simultaneous effects of one's own and others' activities' (Sewell 1992:21). In the Flstlldl H6yiik community of painters, where people internalized conventions and developed differing degrees of embodied competency in painting, the 'coordinated action' was in the concern to paint their fineware vessels, even those that were poorly manufactured. Although not all fineware vessels were painted (25% were unpainted), the largest proportion of sherds belongs to decorated vessels. One could argue that the Flstlkh H6yi.ik tradition was formulaic and prescriptive in its emphasis on decoration and its bold distinctions between structural lines and motif lines, but less so in how painters achieved that goal. The 'collective project' of painting pottery and introducing learners to the tradition allowed people to experiment, test, and follow methods of painting in some cases, but not in others.
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Another consideration that may contribute to what appears as an expedient approach to vessel decoration could also have been influenced by day-to-day activities and tasks. People may have been tending to animals or busy with food preparation or nursing infants as they incorporated pottery manufacture and decoration into their daily routines. But rather than seeing expediency as hurried production because of a potentially demanding schedule, I see it as an acceptable solution for the needs at hand given other domestic needs. Thus expediency, with regards to skill development, was a way of doing things that was appropriate and accepted by and for the community. This implies that enduring or consistent training in the painting process in ways that are more common in later periods, such as in guilds or structured apprenticeships, was not pursued. Rather, the approach was informal, something that was learned as one participated in other chores and in auxiliary tasks for that specific craft, such as gathering or manipulating clay for pigments, for example. This is precisely the process described by Lave and Wenger (1991) for communities of practice, where there is gradual and increasing participation in different components of a productive task until there is full involvement. As the person's knowledge in painting pottery increased, their involvement in that productive activity increased as well, but not necessarily in a highly structured way or separate from other communal activities. The evidence from Flstlkh H6yiik suggests that painters were not formally trained to paint pottery in such a way that everyone had to follow a prescribed way to accomplish the task. Nonetheless, the community habitus encouraged painters to decorate most of their fineware pottery and to decorate it by making a distinction in line-width between the motif field and the edges of the field (structural lines). Furthermore, there was an agreement, perhaps tacit, on achieving a particular look, a style that was consistent with the rest of the painted designs where inconsistent lengths or widths in brush marks were not acceptable. Some painters felt the need to adhere to these conventions and others did not. This adds another level of flexibility in painting and hints at the idea that the participants who decorated pottery were not all proficient and skilled painters. More importantly, it suggests that accomplishing tasks in a manner acknowledged by the community is what the inhabitants of Flstlkh H6yiik considered significant in their socialization practices.
Conclusions At the beginning of this essay I suggested that individual practices, social traditions, and knowledge are at the heart of an exploration of agency. The process of agency is complex. Breaking that process into activities and practices, all the way down to the individual gestures that generate those practices, is one way of conducting that exploration (Hodder 2007:32). For prehistoric research in particular, where we have access to large quantities of commonly found artifacts, such as pottery, research into the individual and shared gestures of production lends a foundation from which to look at prehistoric practices. This approach is also one way of focusing research both at the individual and the collective level, where the unit of analysis may be an individual act. The strengths of incorporating agency and people's practices in archaeological research expand our perspectives of the past beyond purely functional arguments. This is not a critique of behavioral perspectives, but a way to remind us that people in the past were human-they faced choices, they learned, they were not perfect. Individuals in the past were socialized in a myriad of ways and it is our opportunity as archaeologists to figure out how they were socialized by looking at the ways in which they accomplished productive or other tasks.
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116 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST -(1993) [1964-65] Gesture and Speech (Le Geste et la Parole), translated by A. B. Berger. Cambridge: MIT Press. McCall, Henrietta (2001) The Life of Max Mallowan: Archaeology and Agatha Christie. London: British Museum Press. McCorriston, Joy (1992) The Halaf environment and human activities in the Khabur Drainage, Syria. Journal
ofField Archaeology 19.3:315-33. Mouzelis, Nicos (1995) The 'participant-social whole' issue: Parsons, Bourdieu, Giddens. In Sociological Theory: What Went Wrong?, edited by N. Mouzelis. London: Routledge, pp. 100-126. Ortner, Sherry B. (2001) Practice, power and the past. Journal of Social Archaeology 1.2:271-78. -(2006) Anthropology and Social Theory: Culture, Power, and the Acting Subject. Durham: Duke University Press. Pauketat, Timothy R. (2001) A new tradition in archaeology. In The Archaeology of Traditions: Agency and History Before and After Columbus, edited by T. Pauketat. The Ripley P. Bullen Series. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, pp. 1-16. Pollock, S., Bernbeck, R., Allen, S., Castro Gessner, A. G., Costello, R., Kielt Costello, S., Foree, M., Lepinski, S., and Niebuhr, S. (2001) 1999 F1Stlkh Hoyiik kazllan. In Salvage Project of the Archaeological Heritage of the Ibsu and Carchemish Dam Reservoirs. Activities in 1999, edited by N. Tuna, J. Oztiirk, and J. Velibeyoglu. Ankara: TA<;:DAM and METU, pp. 1-63. Rice, Prudence M. (1987) Pottery Analysis: A Sourcebook. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Robb, John E. (2008) Tradition and agency: human body representations in later prehistoric Europe. World
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8
Early Islamic Pottery Evidence of a Revolution in Diet and Dining Habits? Jodi Magness
Agricultl\l'al revolutions do not occur in a vacuum. On the contrary, they are part and parcel of larger, more general changes in economy and society extending far beyond the bounds of the agricultural sector (Watson 1983:129).
Twenty-five years ago Andrew Watson documented evidence of an agricultural revolution that accompanied the Muslim conquests (beginning in 634 CE), in which a broad spectrum of Hew crops was introduced throughout the Muslim world using innovative irrigation and cultivation technologies (see Watson 1983, 2002a, 2002b; also see Walmsley 2000:310-17). Watson viewed agency as central to this revolution: 'Who introduced the new crops into the Islamic world, and who transmitted them from one part of that world to another?' (Watson 1983:88). He proposed that various agents were involved, including rulers who brought exotic plants for their gardens and tables, native elites who imported plants for their collections or for commercial production, and migrating farmers who carried with them the plants (Le. the seeds of plants) that they were accustomed to cultivating and eating (Watson 1983:88; 2002a:258-61). Watson pointed out that agency is a complex process which could have involved multiple agents over time in the same regions, as well as secondary diffusion. Non-elite populations must have been involved in the spread of some crops, as in the case of sorghum, an inferior grain that did not appeal to the palates of the wealthy (Watson 1983:88; also see Russell and Bogaard, this volume, about food choices in the Neolithic, and Ross and Steadman, this volume, on the agency of non-elites). The newly introduced crops impacted not only the types of foods that were consumed but also the manner in which food was prepared and served, changes that are reflected in the ceramic repertoire. In this chapter I examine how changes in pottery types in Palestine over the course of the 6th to 10th centuries attest to the impact of the early Islamic agricultural revolution. Since pottery was used by all sectors of the population, ceramic types may provide a means of identifying the participants and agents of change in this revolution. Food choices express identity through the choices individuals and social groups make regarding what they eat and how they prepare it.
Innovations in Foods Many of the new crops that were introduced throughout the Islamic world originated in India and were cultivated in parts of Persia and Mesopotamia before the Muslim conquest (Watson 2002a: 247). They include rice, sorghum, hard wheat, sugar cane, watermelon, eggplant, spinach, artichokes, colocasia (a tuber), sour oranges, lemons, limes, bananas, mango, and coconut palms (Watson 1983:9-73; 2002a:248-49; 2002b:220-22). A wide array of new spices was also introduced
118 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST through cultivation and trade (Waines 2003 :575). Because many of these crops require hot, wet growing conditions, the agricultural revolution was accompanied by innovations in farming practices, including new irrigation technologies such as qanats (a type of underground irrigation canal) and water wheels (Watson 1983: 106-10; English 2002). New irrigation methods increased crop yields and cultivated areas expanded. As Watson says, 'These crops thus allowed the margin of civilization to be pushed back into the savannah or near-desert lands in which the Islamic world abounded-lands which previously had been used only for sporadic grazing or had gone unused' (Watson 2002a:254). Furthermore, some of the new crops such as sugar cane, colocasia, and eggplant can be grown in salty soil, allowing previously uncultivated areas to be exploited (Watson 2002a:254). One such marginal area is Israel's arid southern Arava, where the establishment of early Islamic farms at Yotvata and Evrona was made possible through the use of qanats for irrigation (Avner and Magness 1998 :46-49). Analysis of botanical remains from Evrona indicates that the crops included dates, olives, peaches, almonds, carobs, and wheat and barley (Avner and Magness 1998:48). The intensification of agriculture in the early Islamic world not only increased the amount of food produced but created a demand for labor, resulting in population growth (Watson 1983: 13234). Although some of the classical cities of the Mediterranean littoral (such as Antioch and Caesarea) contracted in size during the early Islamic period, inland cities such as Damascus, Baghdad, Ramla, and Tiberias (see Figure A) flourished (see Walmsley 2000:290-305; for Damascus and Baghdad see Watson 1983: 133; 2002a:257; for recent publications of Ramla and Tiberias see Avni 2008; Tal and Taxe12008; Stacey 2004). We should not view this as a collapse of maritime Mediterranean trade as Henri Pirenne did but as a reorientation towards the east and especially Mesopotamia, Persia, and India (for the Pirenne thesis, see Pirenne 2001; for responses, see Hodges and Whitehouse 1983; Horden and Purcell 2000: 153-60). Not only did the new crops originate in these areas but so did associated technologies such as qal1ats, which were a Persian invention (the water wheel likely was introduced from Persia as well; see English 2002:273; Watson 1983:191-92 n. 15). As Watson notes, 'But one channel [of contact] was of overriding importance: it began at the eastern extremity of the Caliphate, in India and Persia, and traversed the entire breadth of the Islamic world up to Morocco and Spain. The eastern provinces early became the gateway for the entry of Indian and Persian culture ... This movement westwards was intensified with the rise of the Abbasid dynasty at Baghdad in the middle of the 8th century; these rulers and their courts consciously imitated Indian and Persian customs' (Watson 2002a:261).
Ceramic Change The reorientation to the east, away from the Mediterranean world, is reflected in pottery styles as well. In the 6th and 7th centuries a typical Palestinian table setting included red-slipped imports from Asia Minor, Cyprus, and/or North Africa (see Hayes 1972). Burnished cups produced in the Jerusalem area were used for drinking wine, such as that contained in torpedo shaped amphoras from the Gaza region (see Magness 1993: 166-71; Majcherek 1995). By the 8th century red-slipped wares disappeared, their place taken by an expanded repertoire of fine burnished cups, plates, and bowls, many now decorated with intricately painted designs (Magness 1993: 170-71). With the beginning of the Abbasid period a range of new table wares was introduced. In the second half of the 8th century fine buff wares appeared in Palestine, including an array of table jugs with impressed or applied decoration and sometimes with strainer necks (Sauer and Magness 1997:477-78; Walmsley 2000:329-30; Stacey 2004:130-32). In the early 9th century glazed pottery was introduced and quickly became dominant (Walmsley 2000:330; Sauer and Magness 1997:478). Much of the glazed pottery consists of dining dishes-plates and bowls-although
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eventually other vessels such as cooking pots, jars, and oil lamps also were glazed. Early Islamic glazed pottery is characterized by brightly colored splashed patterns (Sauer and Magness 1997:478; Avissar 1996:75-78, Common Glazed Bowls Types 2-5). A typical Palestinian table setting of the 10th and 11th centuries bore little resemblance to its 7th-century counterpart. Palestinian pottery of the 6th and 7th centuries reflects a combination of long-lived local and pan-Mediterranean traditions. The centerpiece of any table setting was one or more large plates or shallow bowls of red-slipped ware, a type that developed from Hellenistic and Roman terra sigillata (Hayes 1972:8-12, 15-17). Fine burnished cups apparently were invented in the Jerusalem region in the 6th century (Magness 1993:166). The painted decoration, added to an expanded repertoire of burnished ware in the 8th and 9th centuries, probably reflects Egyptian influence or inspiration (Sauer and Magness 1997:476; Stacey 2004:90). Since the Bronze and Iron Ages Palestinian cooking pots had been characterized by a rounded body, narrow neck, and two handles from the shoulder to the rim or neck. These pots were used to cook the soups, beans, lentils, and stews that were staples of the local diet (Berlin 1993 :41; 2006:140). Casseroles-that is, open cooking vessels with wide mouths-were used for preparing dishes that contained large chunks of meat (Berlin 1993 :41; 1997:94). Shallow pans were used for frying and for preparing Roman-style frittatas (Berlin 1993:43-44; 1997:104). In contrast, the pottery types that appeared beginning in the mid-8th century-fine buff wares and glazed pottery-reflect ceramic traditions and fashions that originated in Mesopotamia, Persia, and Egypt (Walmsley 2000:330; Stacey 2004:90,105,130; Rosen-Ayalon 1971). These traditions were known in Palestine before the mid-8th century, as the occasional piece of Parthian glazed ware indicates (for examples see Maeir 2000: 163 n. 8). But they had no influence on the local (Palestinian) ceramic repertoire before the Abbasid period. As Alan Walmsley remarks, 'This substitution of well established local ceramic traditions with exotic styles indicates a ready acceptance of new cultural attitudes from outside Bilad ai-Sham by the second generation after the overthrow of the locally based Umayyad dynasty. To them it would have been obvious that the heart of the Islamic world had shifted east to al-'Iraq, the home of the 'Abbasid court' (Walmsley 2000:330-31).
Ceramics and Food Let us consider the ramifications of these changes in the ceramic repertoire. Pottery styles reflect not only choices governed by contemporary fashions but the types of cuisine prepared and consumed. It is here that we may detect the agency of those making decisions, and even the new identity they chose to formulate and convey (see also Matney, this volume, on ceramics as a component in identity). Modern Italian restaurants use different cooking vessels and utensils for food preparation, serving, and consumption than, for example, Chinese restaurants. Therefore we can assume that the changes in Palestinian pottery types from the 6th and 7th to the 9th and 10th centuries reflect changes in the types of food consumed, the methods of preparation, and the manner in which food was served and eaten. It comes as no surprise to learn that the early Islamic agricultural revolution was accompanied by a revolution in diet and dining habits. Arab historians and chroniclers describe great feasts thrown by the eastern caliphs, at which a wide range of exotic dishes was offered (Watson 2002a:263). A corresponding interest in recipes is attested by the number of cookbooks written by early Islamic authors during the 10th to 14th centuries (Watson 2002a:264; Waines 2003:574; Ashtor 1970:14; Ahsan 1979:76-78; Goody 1982:129). The earliest surviving manuscript, the Kitab a/-tabikh wa [s/ah al-aghdhiyat a/-ma'ka/at, was compiled in Baghdad in the late 9th century (Waines 2003:574; Ahsan 1979:77). As David Waines remarks 'Together [these cookbooks] comprise a treasury of many hundreds of recipes, more than the classical Greek or indeed any other contemporary medieval civilization, including the Chinese' (Waines 2003:574).
120 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST It was the ruling class and more affluent members of society such as prosperous merchants and bureaucrats who developed and adopted early Islamic luxury cuisine, whereas the diet of the poorer classes remained largely unaffected (Waines 2003:574; Goody 1982:128-30). The dietary staples of the poor were bread, fish, limited quantities of cheap meat or chicken, gruel made of barley or chick peas, vinegar, and some fruits and vegetables (Ashtor 1970: 10-12; Ahsan 1979: 133-35). According to Eliyahu Ashtor, 'The diet of the well-to-do had two characteristic features which distinguished it from that of the poor. They [the affluent] consumed plenty of meat and sweet dishes, and they drank a good deal of wine' (Ashtor 1970: 13; also see Ahsan 1979:78). The wealthier classes enjoyed a diversified diet that included a broad spectrum of food ingredients prepared in different ways and incorporating a variety of imported spices, most of which were out of the reach of the poor (Ashtor 1970:7, 12-13; Rodinson 2001:155; Waines 2003:575; Ahsan 1979:103; Goody 1982:105). In fact, differentiated cuisines and conspicuous consumption were an expression of social hierarchy and served to reinforce class distinctions: 'A salient feature of the culinary cultures of the major societies of Europe and Asia is their association with hierarchical man' (Goody 1982:99; also see Bray 2003: 1). Not only were many of the newly introduced crops of Persian or Indian origin, but so were the recipes and dishes in which they were prepared and used, as indicated by their Persian names (Waines 2003:574; see, for example, Ahsan 1979:81, 83). As Watson observes, 'The caliphs, who had been aping the Sassanians and Indians, were in turn aped by their courts, and the courts by the large class of wealthy landowners, administrators and merchants who lived in the early-Islamic capitals and great provincial cities. These were then followed to varying degrees by people farther and farther down the social scale' (Watson 2002a:263-64). Gourmet display dining, which also had its roots in ancient Persia, was one feature of the highly sophisticated urban cultural tradition of the Muslims (Waines 2003 :574), giving elites a forum in which they could compete for, and display, their status.
Food and Feasting in the Roman and Early Islamic Worlds A comparison with Roman customs reveals the extent of changes in diet and dining habits in the centuries following the Muslim conquest. Of course the Romans also had a sophisticated culinary culture involving complicated recipes and multi-course feasts (for recent overviews, see Donahue 2004; Dunbabin 2003). Three or more main courses were served in succession at a Roman banquet (Donahue 2004:67). The first course, called thegustum or gustatio, consisted of appetizers accompanied by mulsum (honeyed wine) or collditum (spiced wine). This course might include eggs prepared in various ways, raw and/or cooked vegetables such as asparagus, cucumbers, and pumpkin, lettuce, mushrooms, salt fish, and shellfish, all prepared in a variety of ways (Flower and Rosenbaum 1958:20; Grainger 2006: 18). The second or main course, called the mensae primae, typically consisted of roasted or boiled meat, poultry, and/or fish. Wine mixed with water was served in moderate amounts with this course (Flower and Rosenbaum 1958:20; Grainger 2006:18). The third course, dessert (mensae seeundae), consisted of fruit, nuts, and perhaps sweets. Most of the wine was consumed after the meal (Flower and Rosenbaum 1958:20-21). Petroni us's Satyrieoll describes a lavish banquet at which Trimalchio offers his guests seven courses of food (see Donahue 2004:20). The hors d'oeuvres served included olives, dormice, sausages, plums, and eggs (Sat. 31). The main courses (presented in succession) featured fowl, hare, fish with garum, and boiled or roasted pig, boar, and veal (Sat. 36, 40, 47, 59, 65). For dessert Trimalchio served pastry stuffed with nuts and raisins, grilled snails, and oysters and clams (Sat. 69). Another example of a Roman banquet menu is provided in Macrobius's Saturnalia Convivia m.13 (see Davis 1913:253; also see Statius's Silvae 1.6; for a discussion, see Donahue 2004:16-23). A
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Severan-period mosaic from Antioch depicts the food at a banquet in the order it would have been served: appetizers of eggs, artichokes, and pigs' trotters; a fish, a ham, at least two types of fowl; and a cylindrical cake (Dunbabin 2003:159-60 Figs. 93-94; 1991:130 Fig. 25). At Roman banquets diners reclined on klinae-typically three couches holding up to three individuals each-surrounding a round or rectangular table (in larger dining rooms the food was placed on individual tables) (Dunbabin 2003:38-39; 1991:122-23; for the custom of reclining see Roller 2006). The food was served on large platters or in shallow bowls that were circulated by slaves or were placed on the table so that diners could help themselves. Diners dropped the debris of the meal (eggshells, fish bones, sea shells, etc.) and emptied the dregs of their wine cups onto the mosaic floor at the base of the dining couches (Dunbabin 1991: 127). In late antiquity the rectilinear arrangement of dining couches was replaced by a semicircular couch called a sigma or stibadium with a semicircular table, sometimes set into an apsidal niche (Dunbabin 1991:135-36; 2003:43, 193-94; Ellis 1997:41,46-47). Dining rooms with couches gradually disappeared in the Byzantine East over the course of the 6th and 7th centuries, although Katherine Dunbabin notes that the custom of reclining continued to be observed for centuries at the annual Christmas feasts of the Byzantine emperors (see Dunbabin 2003: 193-202). Two main types of dishes were especially characteristic of Roman cooking. Patinae and patellae were popular dishes similar to a quiche or frittata, which involved pouring an egg mixture over chopped meat, fish, vegetables, and/or fruit and then baking or cooking it in a shallow pan over a fire (see Grainger 2006:17; Berlin 1993:43-44). The second type of dish consisted of foods that were boiled or roasted (including meats, fowl, fish, vegetables, eggs) and served with a sauce. As Waines notes, 'the key feature of [Roman] culinary art was the sauce made to accompany a main ingredient such as chicken or fish' (Waines 2003:574). The sauces could include any combination of oil, vinegar, honey, wine, garum, and various herbs and spices. A typical recipe for roasted pigeon calls for a sauce of pepper, lovage, coriander, caraway, dried onion, mint, egg yolk, Jericho date, honey, vinegar,garum, oil, and wine. The sauces disguised the taste of the accompanying dish and often contained so many different ingredients that no single one could be distinguished (Flower and Rosenbaum 1958:20). Fish sauces-garum, muria, Iiquamel1, and allee-were used as seasonings and condiments in a wide variety of Roman dishes. These sauces were made by fermenting fish such as anchovies or mackerel together with additional ingredients including fish intestines, gills, fish blood, and salt (see Grainger 2006:27-29; Cotton, Lernau, and Goren 1996:230-31). Early Islamic recipes are at least as elaborate as Roman ones but differ in several ways. They typically call for chunks of meat or meat kabobs, sometimes braised or fried first, to be boiled in water over a slow fire for at least an hour (see Perry 2001:285; Ahsan 1979:79). Various ingredients were added to the water, including herbs and spices (sometimes ginger or saffron), vinegar, date, lemon, or pomegranate juice, vegetables (often onions and leeks), and dried fruits and nuts (see Ahsan 1979: 103-5). Sometimes rice or wheat was cooked in the broth with the other ingredients. A popular early Islamic dish of Persian origin called sikbaj was prepared as follows: Cut meat into pieces, place in the saucepan, and cover with water, fresh coriander, cinnamon-bark, and salt to taste. When boiling, remove the froth and cream with a ladle, and throwaway. Remove the fresh coriander, and add dry coriander. Take white onions, Syrian leeks, and carrots if in season, or else eggplant. Skin, splitting the eggplant thoroughly, and half stew in water in a separate saucepan: then strain, and leave in the saucepan on top of the meat. Add seasonings and salt to taste. When almost cooked, take wine-vinegar and date-juice, or honey if preferred-and mix together so that the mixture is midway between sharp and sweet, then pour into the saucepan, and boil for an hour. When ready to take off the fire, remove a little of the broth, bray into it saffron as required, and pour back into the saucepan. Then take sweet almonds, peel, split, and place on top of the pan, together with a few raisins, currants, and dried figs. Cover for an hour, to settle over the heat of the fire. Wipe the sides with a clean rag, and sprinkle rose-water on top. When settled, remove (adapted from Arberry 2001:40; also see Ahsan 1979:83).
122 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Another popular early Islamic dish called harisa consisted of boiled and shredded meat cooked with wheat or rice and cinnamon in a pot filled with water. After a couple of hours a chicken was added and the mixture was left to cook overnight in an oven (see Ahsan 1979: 131). Accompaniments to meals included preserves, relishes, and sours such as eggplants, beans, cucumbers, and olives (Ahsan 1979: 106). Whereas Roman condiments were fish-based, the popular early Islamic condiment murriwas made from fermented barley and had a flavor similar to soy sauce (see Ahsan 1979: lOS). Sweets consisted of fruits, halvah or pastries, marzipan, or nuts sweetened with sugar, honey, or syrup (Ahsan 1979:98-100, 108-1O). Early Islamic recipes are characterized by their richness in terms of flavor, fat content, the diversity of ingredients they incorporate, and a wide range of aromatic plants and spices, many of which were imported from China, India, and southern Arabia (Rodinson 2001: 155). Sweet and sour or salty tastes were contrasted by using rose water and fruits and fruit juices including pomegranates, grapes, sour oranges, and lemons (Ashtor 1970:7; Ahsan 1979:79). The recipes are also marked by their complexity, requiring a lengthy process of preparation that involved roasting, braising, or frying, boiling, preparing various components separately and then adding one to another (Waines 2003:575; Rodinson 2001:156). In contrast to Roman dishes, Islamic recipes call for chunks of meat to be boiled in water together with the other ingredients. In other words, the meat was cooked in the sauce, not separately from it. Early Islamic cuisine is especially characterized by variety, encompassing the preparation of a wide range of different dishes or the same dish prepared in different ways, and offering many dishes at a single meal (Waines 2003:575-76). Offering guests a variety of foods became a sign of ll~x.ury and hospitality, to the point where it was expected that the surface of the table would not be vIsible due to the number of dishes (Ahsan 1979: 164). The diners sat on cushions on the floor instead of reclining on couches, and the food was brought out on a large tray that was placed on the floor or on a low table (Goitein 1983:144-45). At the tables of the wealthiest, guests could choose from a menu but otherwise all of the food was set out at the same time and each diner took what he pleas;d (Ahsan 1979:159-60; Goody 1982: 130). The tray held common dishes from which everyone helped themselves, using pieces of bread to pick up morsels of food and sop up sauces (Ahsan 1979:163; Goitein 1983:148). Table etiquette was predicated on the sharing out of common dishes, so that, for example, good manners dictated one should take small pieces of food and leave the choicest bits for others (Ahsan 1979:163; Goody 1982:130-31). Depending on whom one believes, wine was or was not consumed at early Islamic meals (compare Ashtor 1970: 13-17; Ahsan 1979: 111, 164; Goitein 1983:253). Either way, water and non-alcoholic drinks flavored with fruit juice, spices, honey, and rose water were offered (Ahsan 1979:111-12, 164). . In contrast, wine was an important component of Roman banquets. The food was served 111 courses, with etiquette dictating that the items in each course be consumed in a set order (Dunbabin 2003: 160). Lucian of Samosata's The Dependent Scholar describes the nervousness of someone who has been invited to a formal Roman dinner for the first time: 'From the fact that you do not know what to make of your napkin, they conclude that this is your first experience of dining-out ... The due connection between the various dishes which make their first appearance is beyond you: which ought you to take first? Which next? There is nothing for it but to snatch a side glance at your neighbor, do as he does, and learn to dine in sequence' (De mercede conductis 15, Loeb translation). At Roman banquets diners did not eat directly out of the serving platters and bowls; instead each guest was provided with a small plate or bowl to hold food taken from the serving dishes (Grainger 2006:18).
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Early Islamic and Roman Cooking Vessels and Tableware The finest early Islamic table ware, called at-Sini, was imported from China. Chinese pottery was so highly valued that the term 'Chinese' sometimes was used to describe other fine vessels (Ahsan 1979: 122-23). Various terms denoted serving and dining dishes depending on their function, shape, and size (see Ahsan 1979: 120-30). A tabaq was a plate, dish, or round tray from which one eats and which could also be used as a fruit bowl (Ahsan 1979:121 defines it as a flat piece of metal that could also be used as a frying pan). A vessel called a tayfuriya, similar to the tabaq, was used for serving harisa (Ahsan 1979: 124). The most common table vessel mentioned in the Cairo Geniza documents is a zabdiyya, which refers to a deep bowl of different sizes, materials, and purposes. Shlomo Goitein identifies this with the common ceramic glazed bowls (Goitein 1983: 145). A type of Turkish hard wood called khalanj wood was used for carving bowls and beakers that were highly valued (Ahsan 1979: 124). Kerbschnitt ware presumably is a ceramic imitation of these vessels (see Sailer and Magness 1997:476; Stacey 2004:93 Fig. 5 :6). A bowl used at banquets as a dish or plate to serve meals and also as a drinking vessel was called a qadab. It was large enough for two people (Ahsan 1979: 125-26). The Cairo Geniza documents refer to a shallow drinking vessel called a tasa that was passed around and shared by all at the table. The common drinking vessel-a ~oblet-w~s called a ka's or kiiz (Ahsan 1979: 126; Goitein 1983: 148). Water was usually served 111 a ceramic pitcher called a jarra; the Cairo Geniza documents describe a table jug for water, which was decorated with wicker work, as a marfa' (Ahsan 1979: 126-27; Goitein 1983: 147). A spouted water pot called an ibriq was used for washing the hands, with the water poured into a basin (Ahsan 1979: 129). Early Islamic cookbooks recommend (soap}stone cooking pots above all others: 'Of cooking pots let him choose those made of stone, or as a second-best those of earthenware: only as a last resort should he use pots of tinned copper' (Arberry 2001:38, from the Kitab al-tabikh; also see Perry 2001 :285 -86; Ahsan 1979: 120). If we compare Palestinian ceramic assemblages of the 6th to 8th centuries with those of the 9th to 10th centuries several differences become apparent. Assemblages of the 6th to 8th centuries are dominated by lar~e numbers of small burnished ('Fine Byzantine Ware') cups and bowls, suggestin~ individual use and probably reflecting the centrality of wine to the meal (see, for example, Aharom 1962:Figs. 3:2-5; 17:5; 1964:Figs. 7:1-7; 22:1-10,14; Fritz 1983:PI. 167:1-2; Sion 1997:152 Fig. 5:6-8; Stacey 2004:Fig. 5.2; also see Ellis 1997:50). Perhaps these small cups and bowls also held individual helpings of food taken from the large serving dishes. Each assemblage contains a limited number of serving dishes-large shallow platters and bowls-made of imported red ware (see, for example, Aharoni 1962:Figs. 3 :7,8; 17:3; 18; 1964:Figs. 7:9-11, 19,22; 22:24-26; Fritz 1983:PI. 167:3-7; Sion 1997: 152 Fig. 5: 1-5). Late antique serving dishes made out of red ware (pottery) or silver typically average upwards of 25 cm in diameter, with the largest specimens being so big (at 4~ cm or more) that a dining table could barely accommodate one (Dunbabin 2003: 161-62; Ellis 1997:49; also see Hayes 1972:128-71 for examples of African Red Slip Ware). Presumably these large platters and bowls were used for serving boiled or roasted foods (especially me~t, chicken, or fish) that had a sauce poured over them. Liquid foods such as soups, stews, and lentils could have been served in the deep basins that are so numerous in these assemblages, or in cooking pots (for cooking pots, see below; for examples of basins, see Aharoni 1962:Figs. 3: 11,13; 17:2-4,6,10-1.3; 1964:Fig. 7:12-16; 22:15-16, 22-23; Fritz 1983:PI. 167:8; Sion 1997:152 Fig. 5:9-19; 154 Fig. 6:1-2).
124 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST In contrast, there are far fewer small cups and bowls in Palestinian assemblages of the 9th to 10th centuries (see, for example, de Vaux and Steve 1950:PI. B: 1-3,7). Some of the shallow bowls with incurved rims could have been used for drinking, and perhaps were shared as the Cairo Geniza documents describe (see, for example, Stacey 2004:Figs. 5.19:14-18; 5.21:4-5; 5.30:1; de Vaux and Steve 1950:Pls. B:13; D:10). On the other hand, early Islamic assemblages are dominated by large numbers of medium to large bowls with flaring or everted rims, made of glazed or buff or fine burnished ware (see for example Stacey 2004:Figs. 5.19; 5.20:2, 4-6, 8; 5.21:1-3, 6; 5.22; 5.23:1, 3; 5.24:1, 3, 5-6; 5.25; 5.27; 5.28:3-5; 5.29; de Vaux and Steve 1950:Pls. A; B:12; C:1-9; Finkelstein 1997:24* Fig. 3). These bowls must have been used to serve the variety of foods that characterizes Abbasid cuisine, and especially dishes with chunks of meat cooked in sauces. The narrow-necked cooking pots native to the Palestinian tradition for centuries disappear by the 9th to 10th centuries, replaced by globular cooking pots, deep casseroles, and shallow frying pans, some of which are glazed (for examples of narrow-necked cooking pots, see Aharoni 1962: Fig. 3:12, 15;1964:Fig. 23:1-2; Fritz 1983:PI. 167:11; Stacey 2004:Fig. 5.32:1-5). Although casseroles had long been common in Palestine, the early Islamic specimens tend to be deeper than their predecessors (Magness 1993:214). Cooking pots of the 9th and 10th centuries have a globular body with no neck and a wide opening that gives them a holemouth shape (for examples of early Islamic cooking pots, casseroles, and frying pans, see Stacey 2004:Fig. 5.32; Finkelstein 1997 :28 * Fig. 7: 14, 1620; de Vaux and Steve 1950:PI. B:17-19). These vessels must reflect the Islamic preference for meatbased cuisine, as chunks of meat would not fit into a narrow-necked cooking pot. In addition, by the 8th century the soapstone cooking pots recommended by the cookbook authors appear in almost every assemblage (sometimes made of other materials such as pottery; see Stacey 2004:94-95; 101 Fig. 5.16:1; Magness 1994). A wide array of table jugs now appears, made of fine white ware that kept the liquid contents cool. Their angular shapes and applied knobs clearly reflect the influence of metal prototypes, and sometimes they have strainers in the necks (see Stacey 2004: Figs. 5.41; 5.42; 5.60: 1-8; de Vaux and Steve 1950:Pls. C; D: 14-21; Finkelstein 1997:28* Fig. 7:5, 8-13). Presumably these jugs were used to serve guests water and drinks flavored with fruit juices and spices.
Conclusion This brief survey shows that the changes in ceramic repertoire during the early Islamic period attest to a revolution in diet and dining habits, and to the choices elites and their followers made in order to create new identities. These changes are one aspect of a broader reorientation away from the Roman heritage of the Mediterranean world, with the transfer of the Abbasid capital to Baghdad leading to an increased interest in the cultures of Persia and India, including their culinary traditions. Literary evidence indicates that the wealthier classes were the primary participants and agents of change in the early Islamic dietary revolution. Only they could afford to indulge in a wide variety of luxury cuisines and the display dining that showcased their consumption. Two-tiered dietary systems usually are limited to literate societies that practice intensive agriculture such as we see in the early Islamic world, with the composition of cookbooks reflecting and reinforcing class distinctions (Goody 1982:98-99, 129; also see Blake 2005: 106). Nevertheless, ceramic assemblages found at sites throughout Palestine including villages indicate that even the food and dining habits of the poorer classes were transformed over the course of the 8th to 10th centuries. Furthermore, members of the lower classes must have been involved in the culinary revolution in various capacities, including as farmers, food processors, cooks, pottery manufacturers, and servers. In contrast, changes in farming and diet were much slower to affect Christian Europe (Watson 2002b:225 -27). A closer examination of changes in pottery types across time and space would undoubtedly yield more information about this revolution and perhaps shed light on regional differences in diet and dining habits within the Islamic world.
EARLY ISLAMIC POTIERY
125
References Aharoni, Yohanan (1962) Excavations at Ramat Rahel, Seasons 1959 and 1960. Rome: Centro di Studi Semitici. -(1964) Excavations at Ramat Rahel, Seasons 1961 and 1962. Rome: Centro di Studi Semitici. Ahsan, Muhammad Manazir (1979) Social Life Ullder the Abbasids, 170-289 AH, 786-902 AD. New York: Longman. Arberry, A. J. (2001) A Baghdad cookery book (Kitiib al-tabikh). In Medieval Arab Cookery. Essays and translations by M. Rodinson, A. J. Arberry, and C. Perry. Devon: Prospect Books, pp. 19-90. Ashtor, Eliayhu (1970) The diet of the salaried classes in the Medieval Near East. journal ofAsian History 4: 124. Avissar, Miriam (1996) The Medieval pottery. In Yoqne'am I, The Late Periods, edited by A. Ben-Tor, M. Avissar, and Y. Portugali. Qedem Reports 3. Jerusalem: Hebrew University, pp. 75-172. Avner, Uzi and Magness, Jodi (1998) Early Islamic settlement in the Southern Negev. Bulletin of the American
Schools of Oriental Research 310:39-56. Avni, Gideon (2008) 'The most beautiful of cities'. Ramla during the Early Islamic Period: an archaeological survey. Qadmoniot 135:2-11 (in Hebrew). Berlin, Andrea M. (1993) Italian cooking vessels and cuisine from Tel Anafa. Israel Exploration journal 43 :3544. -(1997) The Hellenistic and Roman pottery: plain wares. In Tel Anafa lI.1, edited by S. C. Herbert. Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 10. Ann Arbor: Kelsey Museum, pp. 1-211. -(2006) Galllla I, The Pottery of the Secolld Temple Period. Israel Antiquities Authority Reports 29. Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority. Blake, Emma (2005) The material expression of cult, ritual, and feasting. In The Archaeology of Mediterranean Prehistory, edited by E. Blake and A. B. Knapp. Malden: Blackwell, pp. 102-29. Bray , Tamara L. (2003) The commensal politics of early states and empires. In The Archaeology and Politics of Food and Feasting in Early States and Empires, edited by T. L. Bray. New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum, pp. 1-13. Cotton, Hannah, Lernau, Omri, and Goren, Yuval (1996) Fish sauces from Herodian Masada. journal of
Roman Archaeology 9:223-38. Davis, William Stearns (1913) Readings ill Ancient History: Illustrative Extracts frolll the Sources. II. Rome and the West. Boston: Allyn & Bacon. Donahue, John F. (2004) The Roman Community at Table during the Prillcipate. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Dunbabin, Katherine M. D. (1991) TriclilliulI1 and Stibadium. In Dillillg ill a Classical COli text, edited by W. J. Slater. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, pp. 12 J -48. -(2003) The Roman Banquet: Images of Conviviality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ellis, Simon P. (1997) Late-antique dining: architecture, furnishings and behavior. In Domestic Space in the ROlllall World: Pompeii and Beyond, edited by R. Laurence and A. Wallace-Hadrill. Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplementary Series 22. Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, pp. 41-51. English, Paul Ward (2002) The origin and spread of qanats in the Old World. In Morony 2002:273-84. Finkelstein, Joelle Cohen (1997) The Islamic pottery from Khirbet Abu Suwwana. 'Atiqot 32:19*-34*. Flower, Barbara and Rosenbaum, Elisabeth (1958) The Romall Cookery Book: A Critical Translation of The Art of Cookillg by Apicius, for Use in the Study and the Kitchen. London: Harrap. Fritz, Volkmar (1983) Das nestorianische Kloster (Area D); Die Keramik. In Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen auf der Hirbet el-M§ii§ (Tel Miisos), 1972-75, edited by V. Fritz and A. Kempinski. Wiesbaclen: Harrassowitz, pp.153-58. Goitein, Shlomo D. (1983) A Mediterranean Society: The jewish Commullities of the World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza. N. Daily Life. Berkeley: University of California Press. Goody, Jack (1982) Cookillg, Cuisine, and Class: A Study in Comparative Sociology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
126 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Grainger, Sally (2006) Cooking Apicius: Roman Recipes for Today. Devon: Prospect Books. Hayes, John W. (1972) Late Roman Pottery. London: British School at Rome. Hodges, Richard and Whitehouse, David (1983) Mohammed, Charlemagne and the Origins of Europe. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Horden, Peregrine and Purcell, Nicholas (2000) The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History. Oxford: Blackwell. Maeir, Aren M. (2000) Sassanica Varia Palaestiniensia: a Sassanian seal from T. Istaba, Israel, and other Sassanian objects from the Southern Levant. Iranica Antiqua 35: 159-83. Magness, Jodi (1993)Jerusalem Ceramic Chronology circa 200-S00 C.E. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. -(1994) The dating of the black ceramic bowl with a depiction of the Torah Shrine from Nabratein. Levant 26: 199-206. Majcherek, Grzegorz (1995) Gazan amphorae: typology reconsidered. In Hellenistic and Roman Pottery in the
Eastern Mediterranean-Advances in Scientific Studies: Acts of the II Nieborow Pottery Workshop, Nieborow, 1S-20 December 1993, edited by H. Meyza and J. Mlynarczyk. Warsaw: URGA, pp. 163-78. Morony, Michael G. (ed.) (2002) Production and the Exploitation of Resources. Burlington: Ashgate Variorum. Perry, Charles (2001) The description of familiar foods (Kitab wasf al-at'ima al-mu'tada). In Medieval Arab Cookery. Essays and translations by M. Rodinson, A. J. Arberry, and C. Perry. Devon: Prospect Books, pp. 273-466. Pirenne, Henri (2001) Mohammed and Charlemagne. Mineola: Dover. Rodinson, Maxine (2001) Studies in Arabic manuscripts relating to cookery. In Medieval Arab Cookery. Essays and translations by M. Rodinson, A. J. Arberry, and C. Perry. Devon: Prospect Books, pp. 91-164. Roller, Matthew B. (2006) Dining Posture in Ancient Rome: Bodies, Values, and Status. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Rosen-Ayalon, Myriam (1971) Islamic pottery from Susa. Archaeology 24.3:204-8. Sauer, James A. and Magness, Jodi (1997) Ceramics: ceramics of the Islamic period. In The Oxford Encyclopedia ofArchaeology in the Near East, edited by E. M. Meyers. New York: Oxford University Press, pp.475-79. Sion, Ofer (1997) Mishor Adummim (Khirbet Handoma). 'Atiqot 32: 149-57 (in Hebrew). Stacey, David (2004) Excavatiolls at Tiberias, 1973-1974: The Early Islamic Periods. Israel Antiquities Authority Reports 21. Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority. Tal, Oren and Taxel, Itamar (2008) Ramla (South): An Early Islamic Illdustrial Site and Remains of Previous Periods. Salvage Excavation Reports 5. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University. de Vaux, Roland and Steve, A.-M. (1950) Fouilles d Qaryet el-'Ellab, Aba Cdsh, Palestine. Paris: Gabalda. Waines, David (2003) 'Luxury foods' in medieval Islamic societies. World Archaeology 34.3:571-80. Walmsley, Alan (2000) Production, exchange and regional trade in the Islamic East Mediterranean: old structures, new systems? In The Long Eighth Century, edited by I. L. Hansen and C. Wickham. Leiden: Brill, pp. 265-343. Watson, Andrew M. (1983) Agricultural Innovation in the Early Islamic World: The Diffusioll of Crops and Fanning Techniques, 700-1100. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. -(2002a) The Arab agricultural revolution and its diffusion, 700-1100. In Patterns of Everyday Life, edited by D. Waines. Burlington: Ashgate Variorum, pp. 247-88. -(2002b) A Medieval green revolution: new crops and farming techniques in the Early Islamic world. In Morony 2002:219-48.
III. THE AGENCY OF POWER
9
Material Culture and Identity Assyrians, Aramaeans, and the Indigenous Peoples of Iron Age Southeastern Anatolia· Timothy Matney
The Assyrian empire's expansion into southeastern Anatolia during the early 1st millennium BeE is documented both through contemporary and later cuneiform sources, as well as through continuing archaeological excavation and survey. Published Assyrian cuneiform texts provide a limited, and biased, picture of the indigenous Iron Age peoples whom the Assyrians encountered and the relationship they forged with those populations (e.g. see Fales 1982; Zaccagnini 1982). In this chapter, I examine the nature of the relationship between the Assyrians and their immediate neighbors during the Late Assyrian period in light of recent archaeological work along the upper Tigris River valley of southeastern Turkey (see Figure A). In so doing, I develop a generalized model of Assyrian interaction and identity which brings into play elements of invasion, trade, the displacement of populations, cultural assimilation, diffusion, and imitation. This generalized model is then mapped onto the known archaeological landscape, providing both a case study of wide interest and a starting point for further discussion. While not a principal focus of this chapter, the concept of agency is discussed below as a necessary component in the broader discussion of theoretical approaches to identity formation (see Ross and Steadman, and Steadman, this volume, for discussion on the relationship of identity and agency).
Source Material and the Question of Identity One approach to the question of identifying social groupings has been to employ general anthropological concepts. For the Iron Age of southeastern Anatolia, Parpola (2004) distinguished between a person's nationality and ethnicity. To Parpola, Assyrian national identity, or nationality, consisted of 'a common unifying language and a common religion, culture, and value system' (Parpola 2004:5) and included among other elements: taxes and military service, a uniform calendar, weights
* This chapter was initially presented as a conference paper entitled 'Assyrians and the Indigenous Iron Age Peoples of Eastern Anatolia' at the American Schools of Oriental Research Annual Meeting in November 2006. This work has benefitted from the constructive criticism of a number of scholars whom I would like to acknowledge here. Kemalettin Korogiu, Azer Keskin, Melissa Rosenzweig, John MacGinnis, Guillermo Algaze all commented on early drafts; I appreciate their helpful insights. The archaeological fieldwork carried Ollt as part of this research was funded in part by the National Science Foundation (Grant No. BCS-0301148) and the National Endowment for the Humanities (Grant Nos. RZ-50528-04, RZ-50516-06, and RZ-50721-07).
130 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
MATERIAL CULTURE AND IDENTITY
and measures, judiciary, royal ideology, religious beliefs and festivals, mythology, the emperor cult, and Assyrian citizenship (Parpola 2004: 10). The Assyrianization of the populations incorporated into the empire was a fundamental element in the long-term success of Assyrian nation building. The construction of an Assyrian nationality was a deliberate, active social process, enacted through conscious decisions by the ruling elite to bring about particular political, economic, and social changes. Most scholars speak comfortably about Assyrian pottery, temples, ideas of kingship, and legal practices, to cite but a few examples, because these were largely uniform across a wide geographical and temporal space. Most scholars would agree, in addition, that the winged bull statues from Khorsabad show a distinctive Assyrian imperial aesthetic.
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Figure 1. Top: Map of eastern Anatolia showing the location of sites mentioned in the text in relation to the Euphrates and Tigris Rivers. Bottom: Map showing the location of excavated archaeological sites in the upper Tigris River valley within 20 km of Ziyaret Teperrl1~han. Modern places are shown in gray. Hirbemerdon Tepe is 3 km east of the edge of this map.
131
Ethnicity, on the other hand, is a more subtle and difficult phenomenon to explain within an ancient context. In part this is because an individual's ethnicity is often defined as a matter of personal choice. While one's language is a key element in forming an ethnic identity, in a multilingual and largely non-literate society like Iron Age southeastern Anatolia, it seems unlikely that language could have determined one's identity. As Parpola (2004) has shown, by the la~t decades of the empire, Aramaean-not Assyrian-was the lingua franca of Assyria, and the Assynan langu~ge was limited in use to specific administrative functions and the geographic area of the Assynan heartland (see also Tadmor 1982). In addition to language, we know that dress was portrayed in the Assyrian palace reliefs and other monumental art as characteristic of particular ethnic groups, s~me times identified clearly by inscriptions. The importance of dress as an ethnic marker has been WIdely documented in the ethnographic and ethnohistoric literature. To this general discussion we could add architectural styles, subsistence practices, political organization, kinship patterns, food preferences, mortuary treatment, distinctive material cultures, and a myriad of other ways in which individuals both construct and display their ethnic affiliations. I think it is dangerous to equate modern concepts of ethnicity with the sorts of social markers used in ancient times to distinguish groups of people from one another. Modern technologies and communication systems have largely made irrelevant the ancient physical barriers to the exchange of ideas and goods and one suspects that personal choice in constructing identity was considerably more restricted three thousand years ago than it is today. A different approach was adopted by Szuchman (2009) in his recent work on identifying Aramaeans along the upper Tigris River valley. Rather than focusing on ethnicity as a central concept, Szuchman argues that a more fruitful avenue of research is to look at the relationship between Assyrian and Aramaean material culture in terms of differences between state and tribal social organizations. Focusing specifically on the Aramaean polity of Bit Zamani with its capital at Amldu (modern Diyarbaklr), Szuchman suggests that epigraphic evidence points towards interpreting .Bit Zamani as a tribal organization (Figure 1). In particular, he cites Cooper's (2006:30-32) observatIOn that tribal organizations are often present when markers of hierarchy (e.g. elite buildings, elaborate burial customs, and large settlements) are found within a setting of heterarchical social structures. In this case, heterarchy refers to corporate entities based on lineage and kinship which lack 'institutionalized mechanisms of inequality or restricted access to the instruments of authority'. Rather than seeing these forms of social organization as dimorphic-either tribe or state-Szuchman argues that they are part of 'one and the same tribe-state complex' (Szuchman 2009). A similar argument comes from Rowton's concepts of dimorphic chiefdom and enclosed noma?ism emerging from his studies of modern tribal groups in Baluchistan, Luristan, and elsewhere 111 the Near East, as well as through a careful assessment of the ancient cuneiform record (e.g. Rowton 1976, 1981). According to Rowton, 'Dimorphic social and political structure, or dimorphic structure for short, is the outcome of close interaction between nomad and sedentary, between tribe and the urban based state' and has 'the dimorphic chiefdom as its most typical polity' (Rowton 1976: 219). A dimorphic chiefdom, then, comprises tribal and non-tribal populations living in both nomadic and sedentary contexts (Rowton 1976:222). Enclosed nomadism existed where nomadic tribes constituted autonomous polities and formed part of old established states (Rowton 1981). Rowton cites several examples from the ancient Near East, including the Kassites and 2ndmillennium BCE Mari. Modern examples abound, such as the palatial residence of a paramount chief of the Qashqai nomads in Shiraz (Rowton 1976:222-23). Such sedentary tribal elements range from unfortified natural strongholds to towns with substantial defensive works. Rowton notes that these tribal strongholds were sometimes allowed to survive into modern times as the chiefs were essential to maintaining regional stability and security. Rowton's dimorphic chiefdom thus comprises 'essentially a tribal confederation with an urban nucleus' (Rowton 1976:228). While
132 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Parpola's focus on nationalism is appropriate to the definition of imperial Assyria, alternative approaches such as Szuch man's tribe-state complex or Rowton's dimorphic chiefdom are more apt in describing an Aramaean polity. The primary difficulty in assessing the identity of an ancient social group in the ancient Near East is the uneven nature of our two primary sources: contemporary written texts describing ancient social configurations, and archaeological data derived from surface surveys and excavations. That these sources are uneven is certainly true within the narrow context of the early 1st millennium BCE of southeastern Turkey, and is also broadly true for much of the ancient world. Epigraphic and archaeological sources allow for sometimes complementary and sometimes contradictory interpretations of past identities and actions (see Ross, Feldman, and Porter, this volume). In some instances, our attribution of identity corresponds well to modern concepts of ethnicity or nationality while in other cases we cannot relate the ancient concepts to modern ones in any reliable or meaningful way (Parpola 2004). Likewise, the source material itself is uneven; the same term used in one text to describe an ethnic group or area may be used to describe an entirely different group or area in another context. Likewise, the issue of scale also complicates the study of group identity in the case of Assyria's relationship with outside polities as it is not always clear when the texts refer to a large centralized kingdom or state, or when smaller-scale kin-based polities are the point of reference; see, e.g., Brown (1986) for a discussion of Assyrian administration of the central and northern Zagros regions and terminology related to the Medes. Finally, artifacts found at two archaeological sites may be similar because the people who made and used them shared a common ideology, or one group may have simply adopted styles and forms through participation in a common market, trade, diffusion of ideas, or another means (see Magness, this volume, on food preferences and material culture). While material similarities may exist because individual artifacts are symbolic of or associated with an ideology, we must be careful not to overextend our interpretation as the common valuation of desirable or rare goods often exists even in the absence of other shared cultural and ideological elements. Because of these difficulties, it is tempting to dismiss outright any attempt to relate specific ethnicities to specific material cultures, but it is my opinion that such a dismissal simply avoids a discussion of fundamental importance. In the case at hand, the Late Assyrian cuneiform texts provide us with a wealth of place, personal, and cultural group names. Clearly, these marked meaningful ancient distinctions; their use by the ancient scribes was not a random occurrence, even if the terms often shifted in meaning through time or in some contexts were used as part of figurative language (e.g. Michalowski 1986; Steinkeller 1998). In some cases, there may have been an element of scribal agency as to what names were used when and where (see Ross, this volume). In my opinion, the key to understanding the Iron Age social landscape of southeastern Anatolia is to explore such distinctions in the epigraphical and archaeological record systematically, acknowledging that constructions of identity are fluid, sometimes personal, and should not be expected to form simple equations of 'pots equal people' (Kramer 1977). . Turning to the case of the Aramaeans and Assyrians in the Middle Iron Age of the upper Tigris River valley, we might extend the concepts of Szuch man and Rowton to the Aramaean polities, seeing Amidu as the urban nucleus of a tribal confederation. It follows that we would expect that nomadic and tribal populations of Aramaeans might have a sedentary component, including villages or towns where tribal chiefs lived more permanently. Tribal groups such as Bit Zamani could have incorporated urban elements, settled agricultural communities, and seasonal pastoralists into a single polity while maintaining both hierarchical and heterarchical structures. The adoption and use of existing Anatolian Iron Age material culture, such as handmade ceramic styles (e.g. Groovy Pottery, discussed below) and a lack of monumental public buildings within Bit Zamani suggest, to Szuchman, that the Aramaean polities were deliberately rejecting Assyrian hierarchical and restrictive
MATERIAL CULTURE AND IDENTITY
133
forms of state control as seen by the use of standardized fast-wheel thrown Assyrian pottery and monumental architecture. Thus the Late Bronze Age transition from Middle Assyrian to Early Iron Agel settlement in the upper Tigris River valley features a change in emphasis from state to tribal orientation and a rejection of Assyrian hierarchical forms rather than the replacement of one ethnic group (Assyrians) by other groups, including Aramaeans. The approaches noted above all offer useful methods for interpreting the historical and material differences between Assyrian and non-Assyrian material culture. For example, Parpola and Szuchman have an element of agency built into them. In the case of Parpola, agency is resident in the corporate decision-making which creates and promulgates an official state culture (including elements of dress, language, and art). For Szuchman, individuals are seen as making choices to use material culture to challenge or reject Assyrian authority. In both cases, identity is deliberately constructed through active social agency. The model I develop below borrows elements from these approaches. Before turning to model building, however, it is important first to account for physical geography as a critical element affecting the relationship between Aramaeans and Assyrians. Indeed, an alternative view to Szuchman's model might be to suggest that until late in the 7th century BCE, these groups intermingled and that the primary distinction between them is geographical, with the Assyrians living along the frontier at the Tigris River and to the south and the Aramaean tribal groups being located to the north. It is a central tenet of this paper that one way to go beyond 'pots equal people' formulations is to add physical space, regional landscapes, and settlement systems as elements of ethnic identification. The types of settlements and their geographical locations reflect important aspects of economy and political organization.
Geographical and Chronological Boundaries The geographical area covered in this chapter is a stretch of the upper Tigris River valley starting at the point where the river first forms in the catchment of the high Taurus Mountains some 70 km north of the modern city of Diyarbalm, ancient Amidu (Figure 1, bottom). Ten kilometers south of Diyarbalm, the river turns sharply to the east and runs through a broad valley with rich agricultural land for a distance of 70 km. It is in this stretch of the river that the major fortified Assyrian centers of O~teperndu and Ziyaret Teperru~han are located. The confluence of the Tigris River with its left-bank tributary of the Batman Su marks a point at which the river changes to cut a narrow gorge through the bedrock and becomes deeper and faster. There are fewer archaeological sites located along the 55 km where this narrow channel is cut. At the confluence of the Garzan ~ay and Bohtan ~ay, the Tigris River again widens out while making a sharp bend to the south for 35 km until the modern site of the IiJsu Dam just north of the Turkish-Syrian border. The length of the Tigris River just outlined is some 240 km; the width of the river valley itself rarely exceeds 5 km, being broadest at the confluences of its major tributaries. While ancient settlement is concentrated along the river and its floodplain, the upland areas away from the river are not uninhabited. Indeed, upland areas played a crucial role in the interaction between the Assyrians, Aramaeans, and other indigenous peoples of Iron Age southeastern Anatolia. According to the cuneiform textual evidence, initial Assyrian interest in the upper Tigris River valley started when the Middle Assyrian kings incorporated the area into their empire, probably under Shalmaneser I, in the middle of the 13th century BCE (Schachner 2003:156). The upper
1. In this chapter, Early Iron Age refers to the period from the end of the Middle Assyrian (Late Bronze Age) occupation to the beginning of the Late Assyrian occupation of the valley (ca. 1070-882 BeE), the Middle Iron Age refers to the period of Late Assyrian dominance (ca. 882-611 BeE), and the Late Iron Age refers to the period between the end of the Assyrian empire and the Hellenistic period (ca. 611-330 BeE).
MATERIAL CULTURE AND IDENTITY
134 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Tigris River valley would have served a number of purposes: as a defensive frontier, as a gateway to the resources of mountainous eastern Anatolia and the Anatolian plateau, and as an additional source of agricultural land. The Assyrians established a stronghold at Ziyaret Tepe-Tushhum as it was then known-and held sovereignty over the Upper Tigris region until around 1076 BCE. The empire's fortunes soured after the death of Tiglath-Pileser I and soon the Middle Assyrian kings appear to have lost control of the region in the mid-ll th century BCE. Speaking to this, a small cache of Middle Assyrian cuneiform tablets discovered by Andreas Schachner at Giricano Tepe, and dating to 1069 or 1068 BCE, included documents on loans which were never repaid, perhaps due to the loss of Assyrian influence in the upper Tigris River valley at this time (Schachner 2003: 156). Postgate (1992:249) interprets the broader cuneiform record as suggesting that the Middle Assyrian empire was eclipsed in the Upper Tigris region by the incursion of Aramaean tribes. By 900 BCE, Postgate argues, these Aramaean groups had coalesced into minor dynasties across much of northern Mesopotamia. After nearly two centuries, the Assyrians again became a dominant political power in the upper Tigris River valley in 882 BCE with the successful military campaigns of Assurnasirpal II into the region. The fortified city at Ziyaret Tepe, now called Tushan, was rebuilt, and much of southeastern Anatolia thereafter remained in Assyrian hands until the end of the empire in the late 7th century BCE (Radner and Schachner 2001). It is worthwhile to note that there is a brief lacuna in Assyrian documentation for the region following the reign of Shalmaneser III, which may be evidenced archaeologically in rebuilding of parts of Ziyaret Tepe in the latter part of the Late Assyrian period. Textual evidence from Ziyaret Tepe suggests that the last remnants of the Assyrian imperial bureaucracy continued to operate in the region until around 611 BCE, when the city was abandoned following the destruction of the imperial heartland (Parpola 2008). Of particular value here is the observation that the nearly three hundred years of Late Assyrian rule built upon an earlier Middle Assyrian presence, as well as a long intervening period in which Aramaean dynasties presumably held political sway along the upper Tigris River. In terms of identity, the Assyrian cuneiform texts provide us with a wealth of place, personal, and cultural group names from the 1st millennium BCE from which we can derive a general understanding that the region was home to a complex and dynamic cultural and linguistic array (see McMahon, this volume, for comparable perspectives on the Hittite empire). Using correspondence from the time of Sargon II (721-705 BCE), Lanfranchi and Parpola (1990) have attempted to untangle the complex relationship between the partly independent frontier states and the imperial Assyrian bureaucracy. The kings of these states, such as Shubria, Hubushkia, and Musasir, paid tribute to Assyrian kings, but appear to have simultaneously maintained a degree of sovereignty. Other polities, like the state of Kumme, appear, at least in some texts, to be less autonomous and to hold status as Assyrian client states. Parpola and Porter (2001) have similarly undertaken an extensive review of toponymns in order to locate these states spatially on the geographical and political landscape, using the traditional techniques of historical geography. In general terms, we distinguish sharply between those areas organized into formal Assyrian provinces and those areas acknowledging Assyrian domination while maintaining some autonomy (Postgate 1992:251). The former, the 'Land of Assur', was administered directly by the Assyrian central bureaucracy, supplied offerings to the city of Assur according to a fixed rotation, and was ideologically focused on the symbolic center of the city of Assur and on its national god (see also Parpola 2004). The latter, the 'Yoke of Assur', was differentiated by the Assyrian bureaucracy and administered in a very different manner. Unlike the provinces of the Land of Assur which provided taxes in the form of basic foodstuffs like grain, the client states within the Yoke of Assur paid annual tribute in valuable gifts: metal, animals, and other exotica. The same basic idea also holds for the administration of other ancient empires such as the tributary and political provinces of the Aztec
135
Empire (Berdan et al. 1996) and the Inka Empire (D'Aitroy and Earle 1985; D'Aitroy 2001). The relationship Postgate posits between Assyria and its client states is a secular one between rulers, an agreement which allows for considerable cultural autonomy for states outside of the Land of Assur (Postgate 1992).
A Model of Iron Age Identity The model presented here attempts to wed this general understanding of the timeline of Assyrian interests in the region and its geography with a complex and dynamic regional array of cultural and linguistic elements and a spatial distribution of material forms and practices. Rather than looking specifically for Shubrians, Hubushkians, Musasirians, Kummeans, Assyrians, and Aramaeans, I describe the broader social landscape and what that landscape might have looked like in terms of material culture. This requires us to try to recognize material differences among intrusive Assyrian settlements, client states, independent states, indigenous and semi-nomadic peoples, while admitting that the material, social, and linguistic boundaries which distinguish such groups almost certainly did not neatly correspond. In this paper, I work towards this goal by first generating a general model of what we might expect to find in the archaeological record based on epigraphic sources, and then map this model onto real geographical and social space as documented through archaeological excavation, recognizing that the placement of sites across the landscape was part of a deliberate strategy to solve specific problems (Figure 2). Starting with a conceptual blank slate, the first element of the interaction model are the three Late Assyrian settlements attested in the cuneiform texts as being major Assyrian centers established by the Assyrians along their northern frontier: Tushan, Sinabu, and Ddu: modern Ziyaret Tepe, Pornak, and O~tepe, respectively. We have known about these centers through travelers' observations since the mid-1800s, when Taylor published an account of his travels along the Upper Tigris (Taylor 1865). These are large, imposing sites set along the Tigris River between the modern cities of Diyarbalm and Batman. The historical geography of the region has been established in rough outline since the work of Kessler in the early 1970s, and in more detail following the survey work of Algaze in the late 1980s and its interpretation by Parker (Kessler 1980; A1gaze et al. 1991; Parker 2001). These large Assyrian centers were in contact with one another via established riverine and overland routes. Archaeological evidence is especially strong, given that two of them-Ddu and Tu~han-have been excavated (Koroglu 1998; Matney et al. 2002, 2003, 2007; Matney and Rainville 2005) and provide unambiguous evidence of Assyrian imperial occupation, including fortifications, monumental architecture, a cuneiform archive, and Assyrian imperial material culture. Artifacts virtually identical to those commonly found at the Late Assyrian capitals in northern Iraq are found in large quantities at Ziyaret Teperru~han, where they are clearly either exports from the Assyrian heartland, or the work of imported Assyrian artisans. In addition to contact with one another as part of a unified defensive frontier, these cities would also have been closely connected to the Assyrian heartland. Cuneiform documentation tells us, for example, that the Assyrian kings and other high officials visited or lived at Tu~han where they consecrated buildings, initiated raids, cut timber, and collected tribute (Lanfranchi and Parpola 1990; Grayson 1991; Parpola 2008). At this point it is important to note that maps showing ancient political units are inherently misleading. Usually, an empire is shown as a solid color, providing us with the impression of vast contiguous areas of control. Early empires were rarely uniform; probably 'patchy' is a more apt description. Other scholars have used metaphors of islands, networks of communication nodes, even oil stains. The borders and areas of control were fluid within early empires, evolving through time from a myriad of influences and developing multiple strategies of provincial control (see, e.g., Smith and Berdan 1996:1-12 for a comparative example from the Aztec empire). This said, there is an
136 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST argument to be made that control of land was more contiguous-conceptually and administratively-in the immediate area of the Land of Assur, than in the disputed territories of the peripheries (i.e. in the Yoke of Assur). Textual evidence suggests that local Iron Age populations of the region were not entirely destroyed, nor did they flee the region upon the arrival of the Assyrian military in the early 9th century BeE. Surviving indigenous Iron Age populations continued to occupy smaller settlements, either near the Tigris River, or in the hills north of the river and away from day-to-day Assyrian control, or within the Assyrian-controlled area south of the river's floodplain. These settlements would have been in contact with the Assyrians at Tushan. In some cases, these settlements, mostly of village size, would have been part of the northern provinces, the Land of Assur, and been administered directly through an Assyrian governor installed at the provincial capital ofTushan. In other cases, these settlements are part of semi-independent client states. I call the latter illdigellolls Iroll
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settled them in the province of Tushan (Tadmor 1994:63). I have added them into the model as separate elements, although they might well have been spatially intermixed in the Assyrian centers, or with the local indigenous communities. Ripped from their local power structures, such populations would have been at once dependent upon connections with the Assyrian bureaucracy, while maintaining the cultural traditions of their homeland and, depending on who the potters were, using material culture of the locality in which they found themselves.
Age communities. One goal of Late Assyrian expansion, in addition to getting access to raw materials, was to make land more agriculturally productive (Parker 200 I). In short, the increased scale of the mban Assyrian capitals in the heartland and the expansion of imperial control required 'associated incorporation of the countryside and rural settlement into the sphere of urban influence' (Wilkinson et al. 2005 :25). This led to a process callecllandscape infilling in which new settlements were created to bring more land under grain production for AssUl'. The end result is a more dispersed settlement pattern, with the introduction of agriculture into previously unfarmed areas. A 'new' city like Tushan would have been surrounded by many small settlements in the countryside-villages-or to quote Wilkinson, 'fairly humble farmsteads' (Wilkinson et al. 2005 :40). Parker has taken the survey data from the Upper Tigris and noted that there are both more sites in the Late Assyrian period than the Early Iron Age, and that these sites occupy a greater total area. Parker also notes that many of these are lIew settlements in the Late Assyrian period, supporting Wilkinson's idea of landscape infilling (Parker 20(1). In addition to this agricultural colonization by the Assyrians, there is attendant constl'llction of large-scale canals for irrigation (cf. Ur 2005 for a discussion of this phenomenon in the Assyrian heartland), and the import,ltion of deportees, to which I return later. In terms of the model, we would expect to find Late Assyrian remains at a number of smaller settlements in the region. These settlements would represent small agraria1/ comlllullities of either Assyrian settlers, 01' local populations who had adopted Assyrian material culture, or, more likely, a mixture. Three of the cuneiform tablets from Ziyaret Tepe (ZTT 12, ZTT IS, and ZTT 23) refer to small farm holdings (Budaia and Zizanu-i1t) ncar the major Assyrian center of Tushan (Parpola 20(8), documenting the network of settlements established in the upper Tigris River valley. The material culture at these communities could be expected to be a mixture of Assyrian and indigenous styles, indicative of cultural heterogeneity. The political uniformity of the Assyrian provincial system did not necessarily dictate material cultural homogeneity. For example, J>ostgate (1992) cites evidence for the influence of Assyrian imperial styles towards the periphery (e.g. the painted wall decorations at Til-Barsip copying those of the Late Assyrian capitals), as well as influence from the peripheries towards Assyria (e.g. the Assyrian borrowing of the bit hi/alii from its northern and western peripheries). Postgate refers to these as 'selective borrowings' (Postgate 1992:259). Late Assyrian texts are also quite clear about the use of, and importance of, Assyriall dep()rtees to setrle the frontier zones of the empire. Royal inscriptions tell us that signilicant populations were moved to southeastern Anatolia from other parts of the Ncar East, both to increase the agricultural productivity of the area, and to break down local power structures in potentially problematic areas. Farmers, artisans, war prisoners, and even entire communities were moved, usually towards the core of the empire (Oded 1979; Tadmor 1982; Wilkinson et al. 20(5). For example, Tiglath-Pileser III (r. 744-727 BeE) claims to have deported 83,000 people from Hamath and its environs and
Assyrian center
Figure 2. Model of Iron Age settlelllents in the upper Tigris River valley.
Finally, we must consider an element of the population which is always present, but rarely seen in the archaeological record, that is sellli-IIOIII(u/ic groups. Again, the texts suggest that nomadic groups played an important role in the economy of the region. The Tigris River ncar the Assyrian city ofTushan sits approximately halfway between the high Taurus Mountains to the north, and the lowlands of the northern jazira to the south. Pastoralists moving their flocks from summer pastures in the Taurus Mountains would have I1rst passed through the fertile, low-lying upper Tigris River valley before reaching the traditional winter pastures of northern Syria approximately 120 km south of Ziyaret Tepe. The use of these areas by semi-nomadic groups for grazing their flocks is well documented into modern times. The problem with semi-nomadic groups is that their camps arc archaeologically ephemeral. Their impact on the settlements of the region is difficult to quantify and probably varied considerably through time.
138 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Based on these observations, an interaction model for the region is presented in Figure 2. What does this simplification of a presumed reality, with circles and arrows, really tell us about identity and the relationship of the Assyrians with the Early Iron Age peoples of eastern Anatolia? First, it emphasizes the multiplicity of forces which made the upper Tigris River region materially complex. The conquest of the region by the Assyrian military was only the beginning. Movement of goods and raw materials was achieved through tribute and trade, and involved the diffusion of material, as well as stylistic influences, both into and out of Assyria. Displaced populations brought exotic goods into the Upper Tigris region, while also imitating the Assyrian elites. Culturally, the indigenous Iron Age peoples experienced assimilation, especially in regions incorporated into the Land of Assur south of the river, while those in the Yoke of Assur north of the river maintained considerable cultural independence. It is important to keep in mind that the distribution of sites and their relationship to each other and to physical resources represents a key element in this discussion of identity, ethnicity, and agency. The resolution of our archaeological data is coarse, on the scale of whole sites separated by kilometers of intervening agricultural and pastoral fields. However, the distribution of sites itself reflects goal-oriented decision-making of corporate groups who chose the location, size, and function of new settlements with deliberate reference to both the physical and human landscapes they encountered.
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Tigris region Groovy Pottery is found near Ziyaret Tepe at small sites such as Gre Dimse, Giricano Tepe, and Hirbemerdon Tepe (see below). It is also found in the Elazig region at sites like Korucutepe, Nor§untepe, and Habibu§agl, on the Euphrates at Lidar Hoytik and Tille Hoytik. To the north, Groovy Pottery is found in the Erzincan province at Btiytikardl~, and in Transcaucasia and the Lake Urmia basin (Koroglu and Konyar 2008: 128). In the south, it is found in the Khabur region at sites like Tell Brak, where it is a minor element of the ceramic repertoire. This pottery has been typically dated to the Early Iron Age prior to the arrival of the Late Assyrians and, in fact, there is evidence that some villages and towns where handmade Groovy Pottery is found were abandoned with the arrival of the Assyrians in the early 9th century BCE. Wheelmade variants are found in the Van region, where it is dated to the Middle Iron Age (Koroglu and Konyar 2008). Thus Groovy Pottery is found widely across eastern and southeastern Anatolia, and into northeastern Syria, northwestern Iran, and Transcaucasia.
Groovy Pottery as One Possible Marl<er of Identity Herein lies the crux of the identity problem: Who were these indigenous peoples encountered by the Assyrians and their scribes? What can we say about them materially? As noted above, there are more sites with Late Assyrian ceramics than with indigenous Iron Age ceramics in the upper Tigris River valley (Roaf and Schachner 2004). The interpretation of this as evidence of landscape infilling in order to further Assyrian economic goals relies upon these ceramic types being spatially overlapping as well as chronologically distinct assemblages. At Ziyaret Tepe, there is a clear stratigraphic break separating the Middle Assyrian levels from the Late Assyrian levels (Matney et al. 2002:6268). The intervening stratum, which we generically call Early Iron Age, has large pits but no discernable architecture. The ceramics are very different from those associated with the Assyrian imperial tradition, being dominated by a distinctive handmade assemblage which came to be known as Groovy Pottery. The most common forms of Groovy Pottery are bowls, especially hemispherical examples, and holemouth vessels with characteristic grooved decoration incised immediately below the rim (Matney and Rainville 2005 :23-26) (Figure 3). During the Early Iron Age, occupation at Tu~han appears to have been limited to a small village of a few hectares characterized, in part, by this pottery. Continued excavation at Ziyaret Tepe, however, has shown that the 'typical' Early Iron Age forms, such as Groovy Pottery, did not simply disappear with the foundation of the Late Assyrian city. Rather, Groovy Pottery continued to form a minor element of the ceramic assemblage well into the Late Assyrian period (Middle Iron Age), and is found side-by-side with Late Assyrian forms. This discovery severely complicates the use of survey data to support chronological assessments of landscape infilling. A further complication is reliance upon the assumption that Groovy Pottery itself represents a homogenenous assemblage; there is considerable evidence now arguing against such an interpretation (e.g. Koroglu 2003). One must be careful not to use such material as unambiguous chronological markers, or to assume a cultural homogeneity, even in the most Assyrianized places within the frontier. If Groovy Pottery is not an absolute chronological marker for the Early Iron Age, can we then assume that the typical Late Assyrian assemblage was being used exclusively by Assyrians, or Assyrian imitators, and that the typical Iron Age assemblages continued to be used exclusively by incligenes after the time of Assyrian occupation? Is Groovy Pottery 'Aramaean' pottery? In the Upper
o
20
~"~==~"-===~I
em
Figure 3. Some typical Groovy Pottery forms from the upper Tigris River valley.
Despite these geographical and temporal coincidences, Roaf and Schachner explicitly reject the idea that Groovy Pottery can be equated with Aramaean populations, suggesting instead that we either identify Groovy Pottery geographically with the vaguely defined Nairi lands, or preferably that Groovy Pottery be seen as used by 'a variety of peoples of various ethnicities' and not be
140 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST correlated specifically with anyone group (Roaf and Schachner 2004: 119-20). Koroglu (2003) also rejects the equation of Groovy Pottery with Aramaeans, noting that the origins of Groovy Pottery appear in the Elazig region of eastern Turkey, while the Aramaean populations presumably entered into this part of southeastern Turkey from the south. He also notes that Groovy Pottery, in addition to its co-occurrence with Late Assyrian forms, is found contemporaneously with typical Urartian wares. Here we may again be looking at the difference between national and ethnic identities. As discussed above, Szuch man sees the adoption of Groovy Pottery by indigenous groups during the transition from the Late Bronze Age to the Early Iron Age as a resistance to imperial attempts at Assyrianization of the region by the Middle Assyrian kings. From these objections, and due to a general anthropological distaste for 'pots equal people' formulae, I believe it grossly oversimplies the situation to say that all Groovy Pottery was used by ethnic Aramaeans. Rather, evidence suggests that some Aramaean-speaking groups employed Groovy Pottery as one element of a non-Assyrian (and non-Urartian) material culture in the upper Tigris River area and elsewhere. This conclusion permits the elaboration of the spatial model presented here in two ways. First, we might expect a mix of material culture styles at sites serving different functions within the regional landscape. In elite quarters in the major Assyrian centers and the small agrarian communities tied closely to Assyrian cities on the Tigris River we might expect to see a predominance of the imperial style, due to either direct imports or local production by Assyrian-trained craftsmen. Through imitation, diffusion, or assimilation, we might also expect a strong Assyrian cultural component in the deportee camps, but much less so in the indigenous Iron Age communities. Conversely, an indigenous style would be expected throughout the upper Tigris River valley, especially in the indigenous Iron Age communities, although I would also expect a limited quantity of indigenous material to be found in modest domestic quarters within Assyrian centers or small agrarian communities. Exotic wares, brought in through long-distance trade in elite artifacts and materials, or through the Assyrian deportation of conquered groups, would appear in both the major Assyrian centers and in the Assyrian deportee settlements. Finally, we must consider seminomads, who may have been a significant economic factor trading various products, including perishable goods, with city inhabitants. The material influence of semi-nomads on the settled populations is probably very limited, and remains largely undocumented, despite their important role in the economic functioning of the provinces. These four broad categories of material culture styles are represented by different shades of gray in the pie charts representing the different settlement categories within the model. In other words, rather than directly equating Assyrian ceramics with strictly Assyrian populations and Groovy Pottery with strictly Aramaean populations, I recognize that individual choices will blur or even contradict simple one-to-one equations, while at the same time acknowledging that broad patterning can still be expected in the archaeological record. Likewise, the site, location, and functional attributes further support the complexity of the Iron Age social landscape.
Mapping the Model Finally, it is possible to elaborate on the model by mapping actual archaeological sites onto the hypothetical space, adding schematic geographical features, and even noting the expected goods to be moved between sites. In order to keep the model readable, I have not attempted to render the distances or even the cardinal directions accurately. The model is meant to represent conceptual rather than Cartesian physical space. So, for example, we can map Parker's observation that the sites largely characterized by indigenous ceramic assemblages tend to be outside the upper Tigris River valley, while sites largely characterized by an Assyrian cultural assemblage tend to be in the river valley and its environs (Parker 2001). Likewise, the movement of nomads from highland
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pastures to the north Syrian Jazira can also be shown. The final model seen in Figure 2 summarizes our current epigraphic and archaeological evidence, and predicts what might be found in future archaeological investigations. Below, I attempt to test the model by examining in brief the excavated evidence from archaeological sites in the upper Tigris River valley. The synopses presented here are the results of excavations undertaken as part of the international Ilisu Dam Salvage Project initiated by the Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism in the late 1990s. Twelve excavated sites have produced Iron Age remains from within 20 km of Ziyaret Tepe (Figure 1, bottom).
Ziyaret Tepe The identification of Ziyaret Tepe with the Assyrian regional center of Tushan has been widely accepted based on the epigraphic evidence from excavations in the lower town (Parpola 2008) and that from Giricano Tepe (Radner 2004). At 32 ha, Ziyaret Tepe's massive Late Assyrian fortifications, monumental buildings, and wealth of imperial Assyrian material culture place it clearly at the center of our model. Typical Late Assyrian ceramic forms have been recovered at a number of smaller settlements, which argues for a direct connection with the regional center at Ziyaret Tepe. The remaining settlements, except for T1du and Sinabu, are all much smaller in size and represent a variety of the site types described above. These sites are discussed in order from west to east with their distances given in relationship to the major Assyrian center in the region.
Kavu§an Tepe At Kavu§an Tepe, excavations under the direction of Gulriz Kozbe have uncovered remains from a 1.3 ha settlement approximately 8.5 km west of Ziyaret Tepe near the confluence of the ~eyhan <;;:ay and the Tigris River (Kozbe et al. 2004). Kavu§an Tepe is a multiperiod site with occupation spanning from the Chalcolithic to the Medieval period. Architectural remains dated to the Middle Assyrian period establish that the site was occupied at the transition to the Iron Age. Subsequent Late Assyrian levels include a number of modest buildings with paved surfaces. A series of cremation burials also dating to the Late Assyrian period were found at Kavu§an Tepe. Cremation burials are not a normal Assyrian practice, although recent evidence from Ziyaret Tepe and Tell Shaikh Hamad provide examples of cremations in clear Assyrian contexts (Matney et al. 2009). Sherds of Groovy Pottery have been recovered from Kavu§an Tepe, but there is no architecture associated with these remains. Given the closeness of the ceramic parallels with Late Assyrian Ziyaret Tepe and with other Late Assyrian imperial centers, it seems likely that Kavu§an Tepe was a small agrarian community which was tied closely to the imperial center at Ziyaret Tepe{fushan. Grain and other commodities produced at Kavu§an Tepe were probably brought to Ziyaret Tepe either for trade or taxes.
Hakemi Use Continuing east, Hakemi Use is a small low mound just over 1 ha in area and a few meters high near the modern road leading from Bismil to Batman. It is located less than 5 km west of Ziyaret Tepe on the same side of the Tigris River. Tekin (2004) reports the presence at Hakemi Use of both Late Assyrian wheelmade pottery and Groovy Pottery. There are no clear architectural layers here for the Iron Age remains. Graves with nipple-based goblets date to the Late Assyrian period. Like Kavu§an Tepe, Hakemi Use probably represents a small agrarian community with a 'mixed' material culture, although the poor architectural contexts do not allow us to rule out the possibility that a pre-existing indigenous group was replaced by an Assyrian one. It is perhaps notable that Hakemi Use is located at the midway point between Kavu§an Tepe and Ziyaret Tepe.
142 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Giricano T epe Across the Tigris River at Giricano Tepe, there is a very different type of occupation. Giricano Tepe is geographically the closest site to Ziyaret Tepe, 4 km west of the provincial center, although it would have required a river crossing to reach and was, therefore, less accessible than Hakemi Use. Giricano Tepe was perhaps 2 ha at its maximum extent and, like the other mounded sites in the upper Tigris River basin, had a long occupational sequence. The excavator, Andreas Schachner, has recovered remains of a Middle Assyrian settlement which include an important cache of cuneiform tablets described above. These identify the site as Dunnu-sa-Uzibi and clearly link the occupants with nearby Tushan (Radner 2004). There is also a subsequent stratigraphic level which contains Groovy Pottery. However, despite the importance of the Middle Assyrian settlement, Giricano Tepe produced no Late Assyrian pottery forms, suggesting that unlike Kavu§an T epe and Hakemi Use, Giricano Tepe is best classified as an indigenous Iron Age community.
Boztepe Lying 4 km north of the Tigris River and 5.5 km from Ziyaret Tepe, Boztepe is a 1 ha low mounded site excavated by Bradley Parker (Parker et al. 2001). At Boztepe, Parker recovered considerable evidence for a Late Assyrian presence with two building levels, the latter of which was destroyed in a severe fire: 'The small finds discovered in these levels, which include loom weights, spindle whorls, and several mortars, indicate that these rooms were utilized for craft production, domestic activities and food processing' (Parker et at. 2001:586). Parker reported no indigenous Iron Age remains at Boztepe. Of particular note was an enigmatic ceramic vessel reconstructed from pieces which has four interlocking chalices held together by a series of hollow clay rods (Parker et al. 2001 :Fig. 6). Parker suggests this vessel has parallels with the Levant, possibly being Phoenician, noting that in inscriptions, Tiglath-Pileser III claimed to have settled peoples from the seacoast in the west in the province of Tushan. The identification of Boztepe as a potential settlement of Phoenician deportees as part of the Assyrian colonization of the area is based on a single artifact; otherwise the ceramic assemblage is imperial in nature. For purposes of building the model, I have tentatively categorized Boztepe as a deportee colony. In any case, its location at a substantial distance from the river and not along a tributary makes Boztepe a geographical outlier in terms of the Late Assyrian settlements of the region.
Kenan Tepe Immediately north of the river, just under 5 km northwest from Ziyaret Tepe but hidden from its view by a range of low hills, Kenan Tepe is a one of the largest settlements in the region at 6 ha. The site has a long occupational history from the Late Chalcolithic through the Early Iron Age. During the Early Iron Age, however, Parker estimates that the size of the settlement was 1.1 ha, similar to other settlements in this study area. There are only indigenous ceramic forms and there does not appear to be Neo-Assyrian occupation, according to the excavator (Parker et al. 2004). Based on his assumption that Groovy Pottery was replaced by the classic Late Assyrian forms in the region, Parker suggests that Kenan Tepe was abandoned or destroyed during Assyrian colonization in the 9th century BCE. Given that Groovy Pottery has now been shown to continue in use through the 7th century BCE, the material from Kenan Tepe might usefully be reexamined. I have designated this as an indigenous Iron Age community.
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included here since intensive survey took place (Parker et al. 2001). The site size can be estimated from Parker's maps at perhaps 0.8 ha. The Iron Age pottery published from Talava§ Tepe is consistently 'indigenous' with several examples of Groovy Pottery. There are no clear imperial Assyrian forms suggesting this site was an indigenous Iron Age community, like the site of Giricano Tepe. It must be kept in mind that Talava§ Tepe could have been abandoned before the Late Assyrian occupation of the region.
Salat Tepe Salat Tepe is a conical mound approximately 2.1 ha in extent and some 30 m high. It is located 11 km northeast of Ziy.~ret Tepe on the opposite side of the Tigris River. Salat Tepe has been excavated by Tuba Okse, whose work demonstrates a long sequence of occupation from the Chalcolithic to the Med~~val period. Despite preliminary reports of an important Late Assyrian presence at Salat Tepe (Okse 2004), continued fieldwork has revised Okse's initial dating of the relevant levels and the only stratified object of the Late Assyrian period from Salat Tepe is a single pot, quite possibly from a grave. There is Groovy Pottery at Salat Tepe, suggesting that it might best be seen as an indigenous Iron Age community.
MuslUmantepe The site of Miisliimantepe lies south of the Tigris River at a distance of 13 km east of Ziyaret Tepe. Miisltimantepe is a medium-sized site, approximately 3 ha, and was excavated by Eyytip Ay (Ay 2004). Unfortunately, very little has been published of the Iron Age remains from the site, so it is not possible to determine the extent of occupation during this period. Ay describes briefly the discovery of a Late Assyrian building level as well as 'workshops on the skirt of the mound' (Ay 2004:383). Tentatively, I have assigned Miisli.imantepe to the category of small agrarian settlement, although its relationship to the imperial center of Ziyaret Tepe and the other Late Assyrian settlements in the region awaits further clarification.
Gre Dimse Across the Tigris River from Miisliimantepe, at a distance of 15 km east of Ziyaret Tepe, the site of Gre Dimse has produced interesting Early Iron Age and Late Assyrian finds. Gre Dimse in many ways has the closest parallels of all the upper Tigris River valley sites to the imperial center of Ziyaret Tepe. Excavations by Norbert Karg produced a corpus of Late Assyrian ceramics which have many parallels with Ziyaret Tepe (Karg 2002). Likewise, a terracotta 'Hand of Ishtar' recovered at Gre Dimse closely parallels a number of similar pieces from Ziyaret Tepe. Importantly, the Ziyaret Tepe examples come from contexts near large public buildings, especially the city gates. The Groovy Pottery from Gre Dimse is similar to examples found stratified in Early and Middle Iron Age contexts at Ziyaret Tepe. Karg summarized the materials from Gre Dimse by noting 'the inhabitants of the village, whether under direct Assyrian control or not, tried to imitate Assyrian forms or imported those from centres south of the river' (Karg 2002:733). The site's location at the confluence of the Tigris River and Batman Su is probably significant and may explain its strong Assyrian influence. Gre Dimse seems to fall most appropriately into the category of small agrarian community.
Hirbemerdon Tepe Talava§ T epe Talava§ Tepe, also investigated by Parker, is a small site on a natural hill overlooking an intermittent tributary of the Salat <.::ay 10.5 km northeast of Ziyaret Tepe. This site was not excavated, but is
Finally, the site of Hirbemerdon Tepe (Laneri and Schwartz 2007) is a moderately large site of 7.9 ha set at the eastern edge of the agricultural zone of the upper Tigris River valley approximately 20 km east of Ziyaret T epe. The broken uplands further east from Hirbemerdon Tepe are suitable only
144 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST for herding and have a long antiquity of pastoral encampments. The site, excavated by Nicola Laneri, has an important Middle Bronze Age component which has been the focus of the archaeological fieldwork there. At Hirbemerdon Tepe, Groovy Pottery is found alongside what may be crude imitations of Late Assyrian pottery. This is probably an indigenous Iron Age community and perhaps one with close connections to the pastoral populations further east beyond the direct influence of the imperial Assyrians. The spatial extent of the Iron Age occupation of the site has not been determined. Here we might expect to find the closest ties to our proposed nomadic populations. Mapping these sites onto the model derived from the texts, we see that there is a reasonably close fit between expected and excavated results. Examples of four major types of sites are documented (semi-nomadic encampments have not yet been found), and there is a mixture of elements of material culture found at almost all sites, including the major Assyrian center of Ziyaret Tepe/ Tushan. Of the eleven sites considered, four fall into the category of small agrarian communities with strong ties to Ziyaret Tepe (Kavu§an Tepe, Hakemi Use, MUsli.imantepe, and Gre Dimse). These represent all of the sites south of the Tigris River, suggesting strong Assyrian control of the area, except at Hirbemerdon at the far edge of the cultivable area of the upper Tigris River valley. The outlier is Gre Dimse, which is stylistically closest to Ziyaret Tepe, and the only site in this category north of the Tigris. Gre Dimse is probably an important second-tier center to Ziyaret Tepe, representing one of the Assyrian control points known textually but not yet confirmed. In order to distinguish this new possible category, Gre Dimse is marked with an additional concentric circle on the model. Five sites represent indigenous Iron Age communities: Giricano Tepe, Kenan Tepe, Talava§ Tepe, Salat Tepe, and Hirbemerdon Tepe. The first four of these sites are somewhat evenly spread at 4 to 6 km intervals north of the river, suggesting that this is some kind of optimal spacing for these non-Assyrian communities. Hirbemerdon Tepe, as noted above, remains anomalous. As a final note, it is important to re-emphasize that these sites cannot be shown to be contemporary. At the moment, we are unable to provide a strict internal chronology of the Iron Age settlements in the upper Tigris River valley. Some of these sites may predate the Late Assyrian presence in the region altogether, but we must await further excavation and final publications before more definitive statements can be made.
Concluding Thoughts on Ancient Identity In order to map lived, geographical space populated by sites and people, the archaeologist faces two tangible problems. The first is the bias of the ancient texts themselves. As Michalowski (1986: 132) reminds us regarding the cuneiform record: The powerful negative metaphors that are used to characterize the dwellers of foreign lands tell us very little about the inhabitants of those regions. Passages ... are instructive for the understanding of the cultural values of the writers and can hardly be interpreted as ethnographic depictions. The intentionality of the agents writing the texts themselves is of key importance, especially when dealing with royal inscriptions meant as propaganda. We must acknowledge that such texts represent an invaluable historical source, although we cannot assume their neutrality. The second problem is recognizing materially the difference between social groups-in this instance between intrusive Assyrian settlements and the indigenous Iron Age populations with whom they interacted. To determine what, if anything, materially distinguishes Shubria, Hubushkia, Musasir, Kumme, Assyrian, and Aramaean populations from one another, we should ideally abandon the approach of simply equating ceramic forms or assemblages recovered from archaeological surveys and excavations with specific ethnic or cultural identities. The problem here is analogous to
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that facing the epigrapher: how do agency and intentionality shape the ancient record? In the current case study our sources of evidence are limited. We lack a well-defined corpus of indigenous Iron Age architecture for sites of the upper Tigris River valley. Indeed, their occupational levels are primarily distinguished by the presence of large pits and a lack of architecture. Likewise, no systematic study of the entire indigenous Iron Age assemblage has been undertaken, so other potential material markers are as yet unidentified. Rather, I have relied upon the distribution, size, and relationship of sites relative to resources and to each other, and upon the relative proportions of different ceramic markers to model the ancient human landscape. One conclusion to be drawn here is that there is no easy, unambiguous manner by which we can attribute ethnic or cultural identity at those sites where extensive written archives are lacking. I would argue, however, that the model presented here is important because it requires the archaeologist to situate the archaeological site itself within a hypothetical social landscape derived from an independent dataset, in this case the written record. Ethnicity is not defined abstractly or on the basis of a simple trait list, but rather it is defined in relationship to the constructed identities of others. Likewise, the social identification of an archaeologically defined population should not be expected to be defined on the basis of a few pottery types, but rather on the complex distribution of overlapping assemblages mapped across a real social space. Thus, I have approached the delicate issue of defining 'Assyrian-ness', or 'Aramaean-ness', by considering the spatial placement of sites, the types of subsistence and settlement systems employed, the proximity of sites to specific resources, and the military or strategic importance of a given location. Finally, the historicity of the actors within a lived social landscape must be part of any attempt to model real human behavior, hence the need to put real place names on the model. Naturally, one should not see this model as a final product, but rather as a starting point for an ongoing discussion which will necessitate amending the model as new epigraphic and archaeological data become available and as the applicability of this approach is expanded to other geographic and temporal settings.
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146 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Fischer, Bettina, Genz, Hermann, Jean, Eric, and Koroglu, Kemalettin (eds.) (2003) Identifying Changes: The Transition from Bronze to Iron Ages in Anatolia and its Neighbouring Regions. Istanbul: TUrk Eskic;;ag Bilimleri EnstitUsU. Grayson, A. Kirk (1991) Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium Be. Vol. 1 (1114-859 BC). Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia, Assyrian Periods 2. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Karg, Norbert (2002) Sounding at Gre Dimse 2000. In Salvage Project of the Archaeological Heritage of the Iflsu alld Carchemish Dam Reservoirs: Activities ill 2000, edited by N. Tuna and J. Velibeyoglu. Ankara: Middle East Technical University, pp. 699-738. Kessler, Karlheinz (1980) Untersuchen zur historischen Topographie Nordmesopotamiens lIach keilschriftlichell Quellell des 1. jahrtausellds v. Chr. Beihefte zum TUbinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients B 26. Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert Verlag. Koroglu, Kemalettin (1998) Ot;tepe I. Ankara: TUrk Tarih Kurumu. -(2003) The transition from Bronze Age to Iron Age in eastern Anatolia. In Fischer et al. 2003 :231-45. Koroglu, Kemalettin and Konyar, Erkan (2008) New comments on the Early/Middle Iron Age Chronology of Lake Van Basin. Ancient Near Eastern Studies 45: 123-46. Kozbe, Gulriz, Koroglu, Kemalettin, and Saglamtemir, Haluk (2004) 2001 excavations at Kavu§an Tepe. In Tuna, Greenhalgh, and Velibeyoglu 2004:494-503. Kramer, Carol (1977) Pots and peoples. In Mountains alld Lowlallds, edited by T.e. Young and L.D. Levine. Malibu: Undena Publications, pp. 91-112. Laneri, Nicola and Schwartz, Mark (2007) Hirbemerdon Tepe archaeological project 2006: a preliminary report. KaZI SOllut;lart Toplalltlsl 29.3: 137 -48. Lanfranchi, G. B. and Parpola, Simo (1990) The Correspondence ofSargon II, Part II. State Archives of Assyria 5. Helsinki: Helsinki University Press. Matney, T., Greenfield, T., Hartenberger, B., Keskin, A., Koroglu, K., MacGinnis, J., Monroe, W., Rainville, L., Shepperson, M., Vorderstrasse, T., and Wicke, D. (2009) Excavations at Ziyaret Tepe 2007-2008.
Anatolica 35:37-84. Matney, Timothy, MacGinnis, John, McDonald, Helen, Nicoll, Kathleen, Rainville, Lynn, Roaf, Michael, Smith, Monica L., and Stein, Diana (2003) Archaeological investigations at Ziyaret Tepe, 2002. Allatolica
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Timothy, Rainville, Lynn, Koroglu, Kemalettin, Keskin, Azer, Vorderstrasse, Tasha, FII1(hk, Nursen Ozkul, and Donkin, Ann (2007) Report on excavations at Ziyaret Tepe, 2006 season. Allatolica 33 :23-74. Matney, Timothy and Rainville, Lynn (2005) Archaeological investigations at Ziyaret Tepe, 2003 and 2004. Anatolica 31: 19-68 (with contributions by T. Demko, S. Kayser, K. Koroglu, H. McDonald, J. MacGinnis, K. Nicoll, S. Parpola, M. Reimann, M. Roaf, P. Schmidt, and J. Szuchman). Matney, Timothy, Roaf, Michael, MacGinnis, John, and McDonald, Helen (2002) Archaeological excavations at Ziyaret Tepe, 2000 and 2001. Allatolica 28:47-89. Michalowski, Piotr (1986) Mental maps and ideology: reflections on Subartu. In The Origills of Cities ill DryFarming Syria alld Mesopotalllia ill the Third Millenllium BC, edited by H. Weiss. Guilford: Four Quarters Publishing Co., pp. 129-56. Nissen, Hans-Jorg and Renger, Johannes (cds.) (1982) Mesopotamiell und seille Nachbam: Politische ulld kulturelle Wechselbeziehullgen im Altell Vorderasiell yom 4. bis 1. jahrtallsalld v. ChI'. 25 th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale Berlin, July 3-7 1978. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag qded, Bustenay (1979) Mass Deportations in the Neo-Assyriall Em/lire. Weisbaden: Ludwig Reichert Verlag. Okse, A. Tuba (2004) 2001 rescue excavations at Salat Tepe. In Tuna, Greenhalgh, and Velibeyoglu 2004:630-
40. Parker, Bradley (2001) The Mechallics of Empire: The Northem Frontier of Assyria as a Case Study ill Imperial DYllamics. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Parker, Bradley, Creekmore, Andrew, and Dodd, Lynn Schwarz (2004) The Upper Tigris Archaeological Research Project (UTARP): a preliminary synthesis of the cultural history of Kenan Tepe. In Tuna, Greenhalgh, and Velibeyoglu 2004:581-600.
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Parker, Bradley, Creekmore, Andrew, and Easton, Charles (2001) The Upper Tigris Archaeological Research Project (UTARP) excavations and survey at Boztepe and intensive survey at Talava§ Tepe, 1999: a preliminary report. In Tuna, Greenhalgh, and Velibeyoglu 2001:584-91. Parpola, Simo (2004) National and ethnic identity in the Neo-Assyrian empire and Assyrian identity in postempire times. journal of Assyriall Academic Studies 18.2:5-22. -(2008) Cuneiform texts from Ziyaret Tepe (Ancient Tusijan), 2002-2003. State Archives ofAssyria Bulletin 17: 1-113. Padova: Sargon Editrice e Libreria. Parpola, Simo and Porter, Michael (eds.) (2001) The Helsinki Atlas of the Near East in the Neo-Assyrian Period. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Postgate, J. Nicholas (1992) The Land of Assur and the Yoke of Assur. World Archaeology 23.3:247-63. Radner, Karen (2004) Das Mittelassyrische Tontafelarchiv von GiricanolDunnu-sa-Uzibi. Excavations at Giricano 1. Turnhout: Brepols. Radner, Karen and Schachner, Andreas (2001) From Tushan to Amedi: topographical questions concerning the Upper Tigris region in the Assyrian period. In Tuna, Oztiirk, and Velibeyoglu 2001:753-94. Roaf, Michael and Schachner, Andreas (2004) The Bronze Age to Iron Age transition in the Upper Tigris region: new information from Ziyaret T epe and Giricano. In Anatolian Iron Ages 5: The Proceedings of the Fifth Allatoliall lroll Ages Colloquium, held at Vall, 6-10 August 2001, edited by A. <;ilingiroglu and G. Darbyshire. London: British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, pp. 115-24. Rowton, Michael B. (1976) Dimorphic structure and the tribal elite. In AI-Bahit: Festschrift joseph Hennillger Zllln 70. Gehurtstag am 12. Mai 1976. Bonn: St. Augustin bei Bonn, pp. 219-57. -(1981) Economic and political factors in ancient nomadism. In Nomads and Sedentary Peoples, edited by J. S. Castillo. Mexico City: EI Colegio de Mexico, pp. 25-36. Schachner, Andreas (2003) From the Bronze to the Iron Age: identifying changes in the Upper Tigris region: the case of Giricano. In Fischer et al. 2003: 151-66. Smith, Michael and Berdan, Frances F. (1996) Introduction. In Berdan et al. 1996: 1-12. Steinkeller, Piotr (1998) The historical background of Urkesh and the Hurrian beginnings in northern Mesopotamia. In Urkesh alld the Hurrialls: Studies ill Honor of Lloyd Cotsen, edited by G. Buccellati and M. Kelly-Buccellati. Bibliotheca Mesopotamica 26. Malibu: Undena Publications, pp. 75-98. Szuchman, Jeffrey (2009) Bit Zamani and Assyria. Syria: Revue d'Art Oriental et d'Archeologie 86:55-65. Tadmor, Hayim (1982) The Aramaization of Assyria: aspects of western impact. In Nissen and Renger
1982:449-70. -(1994) The Inscriptiolls of Tiglath-Pileser III, Killg of Assyria. Jerusalem: Israel Academy. Taylor, J. G. (1865) Travels in Kurdistan, with notices of the sources of the eastern and western Tigris, and ancient ruins in their neighbourhood. joumal of the Royal Geographic Society 35 :21-58. Tekin, Halil (2004) Preliminary results of the 2001 excavations at Hakemi Use. In Tuna, Greenhalgh, and Velibeyoglu 2004:450-94. Tuna, Numan, Greenhalgh, Jean, and Velibeyoglu, Jale (eds.) (2004) Salvage Project of the Archaeological Heritage of the I1,su alld Carchell/ish Dam Reservoirs: Activities in 1999. Ankara: Middle East Technical University Press. Tuna, Numan, Oztiirk, Jean, and Velibeyoglu, Jale (eds.) (2001) Salvage Project of the Archaeological Heritage of the I1,su and Carchell1ish Dam Reservoirs: Activities ill 2001. Ankara: Middle East Technical University Press. Ur, Jason (2005) Sennacherib's northern Assyrian canals: new insights from satellite imagery and aerial photography. Iraq 67:317-45. Wilkinson, T. J., Wilkinson, Eleanor B., Ur,Jason, and Altaweel, Mark (2005) Landscape and settlement in the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Bulletill of the Americall Schools of Oriental Research 340:23-56. Zaccagnini, Carlo (1982) The enemy in the Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions: the 'ethnographic' description. In Nissen and Renger 1982:409-24.
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Object Agency? Spatial Perspective, Social Relations, and the Stele of Hammurabi • Marian H. Feldman
Can Objects have Agency? Though perhaps unorthodox, I feel this article requires a somewhat lengthy introduction before embarking on the specifics of the case study at hand. When I first agreed to contribute to a volume on agency and the ancient Near East I thought it would be relatively straightforward in terms of the guiding concept of agency; I envisioned my challenges to lie instead in the details of my case study. As a scholar who takes material culture as my primary focus and approaches it through an anthropol~gically in~ormed lens of social engagement, I did not anticipate the force of the reaction against the Idea of object agency that I encountered in my various discussions with colleagues as the project took shape. This resistance took the form of comments such as: things can't act, only people can; or: agency can only be ascribed/attributed to things, because all 'real' action stems fr0111 an individual's intentions. Despite the fact that definitions of agency and agent even in Webster's Dictionary and the Oxford English Dictionary embrace objects as 'actors" I I found that the notion of object agency troubles many within the field of the ancient Near East. . It became apparent to me that the term agency itself came freighted with expectations, assumptIOns, and baggage that were rarely acknowledged by my interlocutors. And while many of these assumptions have been addressed and, in my opinion, in large measure resolved in scholarship in .. This article owes a gr~at debt to work done by an undergraduate student at UC Berkeley, My Chau (Class of ~008) for t1~~ McNair Sch?lars Program. Many of my thoughts were inspired and shaped by Olll' conversations. ~n additIOn, I wou.ld hke to t?ank Madeleine Fitzgerald, Greg Levine, Bernard Knapp, Glenn Schwartz, Jenlllfer Stager, and Nlek Veldhuls for reading early drafts, as well as colleagues at the Center for Advanced Study in the Behav~oral SCienc.es at Stanford University who provided stimulating insights on the concept of agency. The resultll1g conclUSIOns are, however, wholly my own responsibility. 1. Webster's Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language (2001) includes in its defini~ion of agell~y: 'the state of being in action or of exerting powerj a means of exerting power or influencej ll1strumentahty'j and for agent: 'a natural force or object producing or used for obtaining specific results'. The OED (2n~ ed., 1989), in its definition of agency as instrumentality and intermediation, cites 19th-century usage to describe fire and the sea (accessed online, Oct. 2, 2008 at: http://dictional'y.oed.com/cgi/entI'Y/ 50004307?que.ry_type=word&queryword=agency&first= 1&max_to_show= 1O&single = 1&sort_type =alpha&case_ld=TubP-zIQuKc-9149&p= 1&d= 1&sp= l&qt= 1&ct= O&ad= l&print= 1).
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other fields, this literature has had little impact within the sphere of ancient Near Eastern studies (see, e.g., Tilley 2006a:9-10; Hoskins 2006; Farquhar 2006: 154-55). At the crux of the issue lie the philosophical ontologies within which we practice our scholarship and of which for the most part we are unaware. At its crudest (and most reductionist) level, it devolves around the dichotomy between Cartesian and phenomenological philosophies concerning the place of human beings in and their relationship with the world (Thomas 2006:46). Are human beings, by dint of their minds, completely other than the world they inhabit (as per Descartes), or are they ensnared and enmeshed within a fabric of physical existence such that it is impossible to abstract them? I ask for the reader's patience with the following excursus on object agency, as it is necessary for me briefly to unpack the implications of these thoughts before I can move on to the specifics of my project. In recent years, Alfred Gell's scholarship (1998, 1999) has provided the greatest stimulus for discussions regarding object agency, and in particular that of objects that Gell calls art due to their formal complexity and technical accomplishment. In Gell's conception, art objects act as secondary agents in conjunction with specific human associates; they acquire agency when enmeshed in social relationships (1998: 17). Objectification in a concrete physical form is how social agency manifests and realizes itself (GeIl1998:21). Gell himself notes the paradox of attributing agency, which for him is based on an intentionality to act, to inanimate objects, but argues that human agency can only be exercised within a material world because there must be physical mediation for the 'agent' and 'patient' to interact (1998:19-20). Objects in this formulation are essential to the execution of agency, and in turn, agency can be abducted (that is surmised) from the object as its (the agent's) index. Since the posthumous publication of Gell's Art and Agency in 1998, anthropologists and art historians have analyzed its various theoretical complexities and contradictions (especially, Dobres and Robb 2000a; Pinney and Thomas 2001; Gardner 2004; and Osborne and Tanner 2007b) and have questioned both the conceptual and terminological appropriateness of assigning 'agency' to objects (Dobres and Robb 2000a; Winter 2007). Within the ancient Near Eastern context, Irene Winter (2007) argues that we should maintain a distinction between 'agency' as a distinctly human quality and 'affect' as a property of inanimate (non-human) entities. This qualm rests in part on the question of intentionality; that is, does agency only denote socially significant, intentional action (Dobres and Robb 2000b:10; Gardner 2004:6)? If one answers in the affirmative (e.g. Ortner 2006: 134-36), then object agency tends to be precluded. However, if one defines agency as action that effects real social consequences, then one has to accept both unintended consequences of intended action and unconscious activity of the sort considered to be the main drivers of social traditions by scholars such as Paul Connerton (his 'incorporated practices'; 1989) or Pierre Bourdieu (his concept of habitus; 1977). Since people often act without any conscious evaluation of what their actions mean and their actions often have unintended consequences, a definition of agency that rests on intentionality is too restricted. While part of the difficulty in defining agency lies in the question of intentionality, an even larger quandary for object agency revolves around the vexing notion of 'personhood' and of the 'individual' as the sole vehicle of agency (Dobres and Robb 2000b). The bounded nature of the Cartesian individual locates agency solely within the corporeal being of the human body (or more precisely, within the mind, which is somehow part of yet distinct from the body), which is conceived of as the entirety of the person. Ethnographic studies, however, have demonstrated that different societies have 'different concepts of the person, different understandings of the boundaries of and interpenetrations between people and things and one person and another' (Fowler 2004:6; also Hodder 2000:23-24; Gardner 2004:3; Van der Toorn 1996:115). Thus, we cannot posit a universal notion of individual personhood. Karel Van der Toorn (1996: 115) has argued that for the Old Babylonian period, with which this study is concerned, the concept of personhood should be
150 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST understood as a social role, rather than as an inwardly directed personality. For him, 'the virtual absence of interiority and subjectivity in the Babylonian (auto)biographical tradition follows from the concept of person as a social role and character. Individual identity, in this view, is not what you are deep down, but what you manifest to be: it is public and social' (Van der Toorn 1996: 117). Gell proposes a concept of distributed personhood-whereby agents (and by extension agency) can exist both within a physical body and beyond it-derived from the ethnographic work of Marilyn Strathern (1998) in Melanesia. Winter (2007) likewise espouses this concept for Mesopotamia, because it allows for the need by a viewer to have awareness and analysis of the properties that generate the affect and thus permit appropriate inferences. Whitney Davis (2007), in a critique of Gell's work, points out that, despite calling for personhood distributed over many indexes, in practice Gell always points to a singular agent. Davis (2007:210) argues instead for a concept of 'multiple, ramified agency of extended mind or distributed personhood', referring to agency that is not limited to the individuated personal bodies of patrons, artists, or viewers, but rather one that includes them all as well as their settings of interaction, a point to which I will return shortly. A further complicating factor in the study of object agency is the so-called 'double hermeneutic' (Barrett 2000:66) that acknowledges the complicated relationship between indigenous 'emic' views of how ancient societies conceived of agency (for example, in beliefs such as shamanism or animism) and our own, culturally informed understanding of how agency operates (Winter 2007:61; Moore 2000:259). Ancient Mesopotamians themselves, as inferred from the textual and material record through time and space, consistently appear to have held rather strong views regarding the capacity for objects to exert agency (Winter 2007; Feldman 2009). Yet in addition, I would suggest that it is not so easy to determine what 'our' views are on object agency. It is too simplistic to give the 'party-line' of rational, enlightened thinkers who recognize that nonhuman entities are passive when there is so much anecdotal evidence for the agentive qualities of material culture, such as photographs, even today (Mitchell 1996; 2005 :6-9; Freedberg 1989). Moreover, cultural psychologists are demonstrating that much of what we might consider to be action or agency generated by our own intentions in fact derives from a vast field of social stimuli that extends well beyond our individual body/mind (Markus et al. 2006; Markus and Kitayama 2003, 2004). Following Davis, one can make the argument that all 'agency' is distributed, since no one thing or person exists by its/him/herself in isolation-all are part of a socially connected and physical world (see, e.g., Thomas 2006). One can still acknowledge that objects require human interactions in order for them to became animated and acquire agency, as becomes evident when one pushes the envelope in 'subjectivizing' objects (e.g. Mitchell 1996). Yet at the same time I would argue the reverse as well, that people require materiality for social relations, and thus we too are incarnated and acquire agency through our interactions with the material world around us. It is, therefore, not an oppositional but rather a dialectical and constitutive relationship between things and people (Meskell 2004; Tilley 2006b:61). When viewed from this perspective, agency can be seen as a fundamentally social phenomenon, derived from interactions between people and people and between people and things. An intriguing variant of this stance has been proposed by the sociologist of science Andrew Pickering in his concept of the mangle of practice (1995). Refining the actornetwork theory put forth by Bruno Latour (e.g. 2005) that sees society as a field of human and nonhuman (material) agency, Pickering argues for a symmetry between human and material agency that while parallel to one another are not equivalent and cannot be interchanged (1995: 11-15). He describes the dialectical relations between the two instead as a process of 'constitutive intertwining' (Pickering 1995).2 2. A semi-popular narrative that traces the different ways that human and nonhuman agents affect one another and evolve together within social networks is Michael Pollan's The Botany of Desire (2001).
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Working through these issues surrounding the concept of object agency has led me to recognize that ultimately I am interested less in our terminology-whether we call it agency, affect, power, enchantment, or something else-and more in disentangling the specific means by which objects participate in and change social outcomes. In my quest for a better understanding of past social situations, it is this element of effecting relational change that initially drew me to the concept of agency. Because all human-material interactions involve social activity that can be understood as agency, I see a universality for the agentive capacity of objects, while at the same time acknowledging that the specific configuration of this object agency is historically and culturally contingent (for related arguments, see Ortner 2006:136-37; Knapp and van Dommelen 2008; and see Castro Gessner, this volume). Such a broadly based understanding of agency may generalize it to the point of analytical uselessness (as noted by Dobres and Robb 2000b:l0). Nonetheless, I would argue that all entities, human and nonhuman, participate together in agentive interactions and that this should constitute the background not the foreground of our studies, just as, say, the concept of material culture having style constitutes the background for studies on the specific forms and mechanics of object style. Despite (or because of) the semantic burden of the term agency, it is perhaps time to move beyond a debate about its applicability to a closer analysis of the mechanisms of change themselves. In the remainder of this paper, I would like to explore one particular mechanism by which objects produce social change: the formal properties of spatial rendering, or what we call perspective. Specifically, I argue that the depiction of representational space acts to position and constitute the viewer through a combination of distancing and ensnarement.
The Stele of Hammurabi and Agentive Perspective Visual perception of spatial relationships is one particularly strong force in the dynamic enmeshment of art object and viewer and thus can be considered participatory or agentive with respect to both object and audience. To examine this phenomenon, I focus on the Stele of Hammurabi (ca. 1760 BCE)-' and the shift in the two-dimensional rendering of the divine horned headdress from a frontal to a profile perspective seen on it (Figure 1). In contrast, examples of profile-facing deities from the periods preceding Hammurabi's reign, such as on the Stele of Ur-Namma from Ur (ca. 2100 BCE), depict the horns frontally (Figure 2). When removed from teleological explanations of artistic progress toward naturalism, as is argued below, this occurrence poses the question of why this particular visual shift took place at this particular time. I suggest that we can approach the problem through what Hanneke Grootenboer (2006:497) has recently dubbed 'histories of vision' involving patterns of looking and strategies for showing that mobilize the field of engagement between art and human beings. The importance of vision and visuality in Mesopotamian culture is already well established (Winter 2000).4 Here, I explore how a specific visuality of spatial relations, materialized in the perspectival rendering on Hammurabi's stele, served as an agent in the fashioning of the Old Babylonian subject. The Stele of Hammurabi sits squarely within the accepted 'canon' of Mesopotamian monuments and has received its fair share of scholarly inquiry in the fields of legal studies, Assyriology, and art history.s That it was also highly esteemed during antiquity is evident in both its removal as booty to 3. Throughout this essay I use the Middle Chronology. 4. Conventionally, a distinction has been made between 'vision' as the physiological mechanism of sight through the lens of the eye and 'visuality' as the psychological and socially contingent practice of seeing/viewing (Nelson 2000a:1-6; Bryson 1988:91-92; Foster 1988a:ix). The monument is traditionally referred to as the 'Code of Hammurabi'; however, it is now widely 5. accepted that these laws do not constitute a true 'law code' in the modern sense, but rather are part of a tradition of 'juridical scholarship' (Westbrook 2003: 18; Rubio 2007:31-34). The bibliography is lengthy.
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Susa nearly 700 years after its creation and the continued copying of its text into the middle of the 1st millennium BCE as part of the scribal training tradition (Andre-Salvini 2003). The stele, of highly polished black basalt standing over seven feet tall (225 cm), was erected late in Hammurabi's long reign (1792-1750 BCE). Taking the shape of an elegantly elongated yet irregular stele, the monument's surface is primarily devoted to the exquisitely incised laws that embrace and support a figural representation at the top. This scene shows the sun god Shamash seated on a throne to the right, with archaizing sunrays rising from his shoulders. He extends the so-called rod and ringemblems of authority-to Hammurabi who stands facing him. The congruence of the written laws, the sun god who is associated with just pronouncements, and the reference in the inscribed text to the 'King of Justice' has led to the general acceptance of this piece as a monumental statement of Hammurabi's projected kingly ideal as the divinely sanctioneel upholder anel dispenser of justice. While the monument offers potential for numerous different avcnues of inquiry, in this essay I will limit my study to the carved figural scene and in particular to the formal, and I would argue agentive, relations it cstablishes between the two clepicted figures, and with the viewcr.
Figl1l'e 2. Detail of the Stele of Ur-Namma, found at Ur. Penn Musellm object B16676, imagc Ifl41417.
Figure I. Detail of the Stele of Hammurabi, found at Susa. Photo: Rcunion des Musces Nationaux / Art Resource, NY.
Within art historical discussions of the stele's carved scene/' scholars frequently remark upon the directness of the relationship between I-Iammurabi and the god Shamash (Gl'Ocnewegen-Frankfort I 9R7: 16X; Frankfort 1996: 119; Winter 2000:3 7-3X; Andrc-Salvini 2003: 16; Schmandt-Besserat 2007: 94-95; Bahrani 200X: 115). The 'altars' and astral symbols that had been present between and above the two protagonists in earlier examples, stich as the Stele of Ur-Nall1ma, are absent, serving to close the space between the figures. Moreover, this space has literally been bridged so that the figures touch one another at the pivot point of the rod and the ring. With this comes a heightened immediacy of vision between the confronting prollie faces of king and god. Other formal elements further emphasize the closeness. For example, a horizontal link is created through thc line that runs across the waist of Shamash, along his bent left arm, and then his bent right arm, through the rod and ring to I-Iaml11urabi's left arl11, which follows a horizontal line across his waist (Chau 2008: 11). Less mentioned but more significant in terms of my inquiry into the agentive nature of visual perception is the rendering of the divinity's headdress with true profile horns (Moortgat 1969:85-86;
Listed here are just a few of the more recent references, which include earlier references: Andrc-Salvilli 20(H; 200!l:cat. no. 17; M. Richardson 2000; Roth 1997.
6. I lise this rather artificial distinction to refer to studies of the figural representation in contrast to studies that focus mainly on the inscription. A recent unpublished paper and talk by Stephanie Langin-Hooper (n.d., 200X) blurs this distinction in an innovative study of the tcxt and image together.
154 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Coli on 1995 :99), which reinforces the close bond between king and god (Chau 2008). We can add to the perspectival rendering of the horns the very high relief of the carving that accentuates a sense of volumetric mass existing in space (Moortgat 1969:87). Henrietta Groenewegen-Frankfort pointed out in 1951-though no one since has mentioned it-that the profile faces of both Hammurabi and Shamash are carved so deeply that the eyes appear to be in true profile as is the horned headdress (on which she doesn't comment), which intensifies the reciprocity of sight between the two figures (1987:168 n. 1). These two techniques-profile horns (and eyes) and high relief-surely were deployed together because of their mutually reinforcing formal properties. With the rendering of the horns in true profile, the headdress can be read as occupying the same space as the profile heads of the king and god in a coherent, unified manner. Such a depiction follows the logic of what is typically referred to as linear perspective, considered to have been fully perfected during the Italian Renaissance and described in Alberti's 1435 treatise De pictura. For Alberti, 'Painters should only seek to present the form of things seen on this [the picture's] plane as if it were of transparent glass. Thus the visual pyramid could pass through it, placed at a definite distance with definite lights and a definite position of center in space and a definite place in respect to the observer' (cited in Preziosi 1987:57). In the early 20th century, Erwin Panofsky drew upon Alberti to describe perspective in his influential art historical treatise as,
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Hammurabi was approaching this stage when we see definite attempts at perspective suddenly appearing during this period ... The sculptor is creating a completely new precedent, however, a first step towards perspective ... From such a teleological view point, inconsistencies of perspectival rendering, for example, that Hammurabi's robe clings to his arm rather than falling 'naturalistically', would be seen as 'incorrect' (Schmandt-Besserat 2007:96).
... the capacity to represent a number of objects together with a part of the space around them in such a way that the conception of the material picture support is completely supplanted by the conception of a transparent plane through which we believe we are looking into an imaginary space (cited in Grootenboer 2005: 164). According to these definitions, perspective structures a geometric system with a vanishing or centric point in or beyond the art surface and the eye of the artist at the other end, both of which are understood as static and fixed Gay 1988:6-7). Yet, before we return to the Stele of Hammurabi and its profile horns, it is important to recognize that for us (20th- and 21st-century scholars), perspective is more than just a mechanical means of depiction; it is also a mode of thinking, particularly its association with geometry and physics and by extension with truth-what James Elkins has called a metaphor for ordering our own perceptions and subjectivities (Elkins 1994; Grootenboer 2005: 118-19). As a structuring principle of thought (d. Barrett 2000:65), the notion of Renaissance perspective has influenced profoundly the development of the discipline of art history from the 18th through the 20th century of our era, such that all art has been either implicitly or explicitly analyzed through the rhetorical lens of perspective (Grootenboer 2005:113-19; Preziosi 1987:57; Bordo 1987:62-68). In this way, 'perspectivism' has come to be inextricably linked with concepts of illusionism (in the sense of creating an illusion of reality) and mimesis, which serve as the measure of an artwork's quality (Elkins 1994: 11; Bahrani 2003:73-95). It is not surprising then that the sudden appearance of profile horns on a profile head in 18thcentury BCE Mesopotamia should have been greeted with applause as a first step in attaining 'true' representational perspective. Thus, Anton Moortgat could write in 1969, 'we shall find a notable advance in Old Babylonian art in the treatment of perspective in two-dimensional art-namely that when the gods' heads were shown in profile their horned crowns were also shown in profile-and this advance can in all probability be dated at the end of Hammurabi's life' (1969:71). It is worth quoting at length Moortgat's analysis (1969:85-86): Only when the artist has realized that the world of perception, felt by man with hand and seen by his eyes, is fundamentally an image of actual reality, a way of reflecting existence, can he strive in his artform not merely to portray a symbol of things independent of their incidental shape, but rather to capture reality in a copy, which the eye can recognize as an image. We must assume that the spirit of
Figure 3. Drawing of inner panel of the Investiture Scene, found at Mari. After Parrot 1958:pl. XI. We are, however, faced with a complicated situation. On the one hand, we can now reject evaluative judgments of the sort made by Moortgat, recognizing the fallacy of any teleological drive toward mimetic perspectival ism (Bahrani 2003). Yet on the other hand, we must still acknowledge and seek to explain this fundamental shift in the manner of rendering a three-dimensional object on an essentially two-dimensional surface. Are we dealing here with a unique masterpiece of
156 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Hammurabi's that operated within its own reality? In fact this is not the case; rather it appears to be part of a broader sociocultural shift in the rendering of spatial perspective seen in other art objects, both monumental and small-scale. Furthermore, once this shift takes place, subsequent representations conform to the new mode. The use of profile horns for a deity's headdress also appears on another monumental art work that has been dated to just prior to Hammurabi's stele: the so-called Investiture Scene wall painting at Mari (Figure 3). The Investiture Scene, a painting preserved on the wall of the courtyard just outside the throneroom of the palace at Mari, gets its name from the central image in which the goddess Ishtar extends the rod and ring to a standing ruler. This ruler is often identified as Zimri-Lim (1775-1762), the last king of Mari before Hammurabi's conquest of the city in 1762, but the painting has recently been reattributed to an earlier ruler, Yahdun-Lim (ca. 1810-1794).7 Cylinder seals appear to follow the same general dating horizon in depicting horned headdresses in profile. Collon (1986:21) follows Moortgat in dating the use of profile horns on seals to the reign of Hammurabi. This chronological range, however, may be too narrow given the redating of the Investiture painting. She lists six examples (all unfortunately undated) in her catalogue of the British Museum's Old Babylonian seals (1986). One sealing on a tablet from Tell Hannal, dated to the tenth year of Ibal-pi-EI II of Eshnunna (ca. 1778-1765), a contemporary of Hammurabi, may show the seated god Tishpak-holding the rod and ring-with profile horns; however, without being able to examine the tablet itself (held in the Iraq Museum), it is difficult to say with certainty from the published photos and drawings (Otto 2000:no. 420; Werr 1988:no. 76a). Here, unlike Hammurabi's stele and the Investiture Scene from Mari, the god is more removed from the 'worshipper' who approaches through the mediation of a lesser deity. The worshipper, however, most likely is not the king Ibal-pi-EI, but rather the seal owner named in the inscription as Tishpak-gimil. A careful study of datable seals might be revealing in terms of both chronology and the co-occurrence of profile horns with intimate scenes between the god and 'worshipper' but lies beyond the scope of the present paper. Mould-made clay plaques provide another corpus of artistic production that shows the perspectival shift in the rendering of horns. Clay plaques as a genre of material cultural production in themselves are particularly numerous during the first centuries of the 2nd millennium, encompassing a wide range of imagery that includes deities, myths, music, 'everyday' scenes, and 'erotic' scenes (Barrelet 1968; Assante 2002). Their production seems to have begun during the Ur III period (ca. 2113-2029) and virtually ceases at the end of the First Dynasty of Babylon (ca. 1595). While in general the plaques depict deities frontally, a few examples show profile gods and goddesses. An example from Tello shows a minor goddess in profile with a frontal horned headdress (Barre let 1968 :no. 296). Profile horned headdresses appear on plaques from Larsa (Barrelet 1968:no. 573) and Mashkan-shapir (Stone and Zimansky 2004:91, AbO 88-223) in the south and from Ishchali (Hill and Jacobsen 1990:pl. 35d) and Khafajah (Delougaz 1990:pl. 62a) in the Diyala. Unfortunately, within the Ur III-Old Babylonian span of production, it is rarely possible to provide more precise dates for the plaques. The Khafajah plaque of a god stabbing a cyclops might date to the 19th century; it was found in the Sin Temple of Mound 0, which contained an archive contemporaneous to the earliest rulers of the First Dynasty of Babylon, Sumu-abum and Sumu-la-EI, in other words, the period of Isin's waning and Larsa's waxing power (Harris 1955). Mashkan-shapir,
7. The original excavator, Andre Parrot, dated the painting to the very end of Zimri-Lim's reign, a date also argued for by Moortgat on stylistic grounds. Recent reevaluation of the archaeological evidence, however, has suggested that the painting predates the Shamshi-AdadIYasmah-Adad interregnum, and the current excavator Jean-Claude Margueron dates it to the reign of Yahdun-Lim at the end of the nineteenth or beginning of the 18th century BCE (Margueron 1990; 2004:509).
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though occupied from at least Ur III times, saw its main urban growth during the late Isin-Larsa and early Old Babylonian periods, which might provide a general date in the late 19th or early 18th century for its plaque (Stone and Zimansky 2004:26-42). Given the widespread occurrence of this perspectival shift, we might turn to the idea of a social history of seeing, suggesting that the 18th (and perhaps 19th) century represents a horizon for a new viewing mode, which emphasized a new model for rendering spatial relationships. What though is the significance of this new visuality? In this regard, it is helpful to consider the ways in which perspectivally rendered objects spin a web of connections between figures within and without the pictorial frame. The positioning of the viewer in relation to an image, as constructed through idealized Renaissance perspective schemes of unified form and theme, has been understood to create distance between viewer and artwork and has been associated with the emergence of the concept of the individual during the early Modern period (Nelson 2000a:5j Fowler 2004:12-13; Preziosi 1987:58; for Graeco-Roman art, see Elsner 2007:24). To cite Martin Jay (1988:8), 'The abstract coldness of the perspectival gaze meant the withdrawal of the painter's emotional entanglement with the objects depicted in geometricalized space. The participator involvement of more absorptive visual modes was diminished if not entirely suppressed, as the gap between spectator and spectacle widened'. Yet at the same time, recent discussions of Renaissance perspective provide a useful avenue into how visual perception of spatial rendering can generate agency rather than disembodiment. Grootenboer (2005: 121), discussing Hubert Damisch's Origin of Perspective, notes that the vanishing point determines the position of the viewer, not the other way around (see, for example, Damisch 1994:380). In this way, perspective gives meaning to the place of the viewer/subject within the artwork's established network; it 'anticipates possible ways of looking at it through its perspectival configuration' (Grootenboer 2005: 10). Elkins (1994) notes that, while it is a misconception that perspective requires a single, motionless eye fixed on a vanishing point, it nevertheless does serve to constrain and limit the 'wandering' of the eye. As he puts it, perspective lines 'tug at the eye', capturing and directing it (Elkins 1994: 176). Similarly, Donald Preziosi (1987:58) has described perspective as a system that 'incarnates' a viewer, stating that both viewer ('Subject') and artwork ('Object') are 'captured and fixed along the centric ray passing back and forth between point of view and vanishing point'. This concept was already acknowledged by Panofsky in 1927: 'Perspective creates distance between human beings and things ... ; but then in turn it abolishes this distance by, in a sense, drawing this world of things, an autonomous world confronting the individual, into the eye' (1991 :67). The dynamic relations that perspective establishes between the viewer and the artwork, as well as among the 'objects' depicted in the artwork, constitute a critical means of generating agency by entangling the viewer in the schemata of the art. The spatial immediacy and profile horns seen on the Stele of Hammurabi's figural depiction surprisingly have rarely been analyzed together. The two scholars who note the profile hornsMoortgat and Collon-say next to nothing about the connotations derived from the two figures' placement. Moortgat (1969:85) goes so far as to state that the stele's subject matter is of no particular interest. Collon (1995 :99) says only that the relief had a profound impact on Mesopotamian art as evinced in similar reliefs found elsewhere. Those scholars who focus on the visual and communicative relationship between Hammurabi and Shamash make no mention of the profile horns. I would argue, however, that the relationship of these two formal features-to each other and to the viewer-is fundamental to the generation of the monument's agency. And, indeed, it is the nexus of viewer-god-king that creates the dynamic space in which agency 'happens'. While the formal arrangement of the figures on the Stele of Hammurabi can be seen as an intensified relationship between god and ruler that simultaneously distances the viewer/subject, I argue that this distancing is not one of exclusion, but rather of dynamic interaction and positioning of the viewer, in effect an
158 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST agentive triangulation that mobilizes relations among the depicted subject, the object, and the viewing subject (see also Chau 2008). In short, we have here with the Stele of Hammurabi not a leap of progress in the illusionist depiction of a three-dimensional world on a two-dimensional surface, but a radical shift of viewing modes and the agentive relationships generated from them. There is, in fact, a tension created by the formal properties of the depiction of horned headdresses on figures with profile faces. On the one hand, the frontality of the earlier horned headdresses, such as on the Stele of Ur-Namma, might imply greater involvement with the viewer as do the frontal torsos, because they directly confront the audience; but, the profile faces of the figures mitigate this to some extent. The profile horns of the Stele of Hammurabi, on the other hand, could be seen to distance the viewer further, as is the generally accepted idea of perspective, while drawing the figures of Hammurabi and Shamash closer together in their mutual profiles turned toward one another, along with the other formal features noted above. Yet at the same time, the use of perspective to render objects in space insists on locating the viewer within a spatial relationship with the artwork. Thus, the image of Hammurabi and Shamash draws the viewer in while at the same time establishing a distance between them. Such positioning could therefore be understood to heighten a viewer's awareness of his/her place in relation to the king and god by geometrically locating him/her in relation to it (for a similar argument for the Renaissance period, see Bordo 1987:59-73). In this way, the monument acts to structure space both within and beyond the image and to generate an agentive force that constitutes subjects within a social hierarchy. This seemingly paradoxical drawing in while setting apart of the viewer is further accentuated by the placement of the image at the top of the stele above the eyelevel of the viewer. Likewise, the archaizing rotation of the inscribed text ninety degrees so that it flows vertically pulls the viewers' eyes up the monument to the image and beyond, connecting viewer, earth, stele, temple (in front of which the stele would have been erected), and heaven (Langin-Hooper n.d.).8 The dynamic relationship of viewer to stele is also established in the content of the text inscribed on the monument. Hammurabi's special and intimate relationship with Shamash is clearly set forth in the prologue: 'Hammurabi, the pious prince, who venerates the gods, to make justice prevail in the land, to abolish the wicked and the evil, to prevent the strong from oppressing the weak, to rise like the sun-god Shamash over all humankind, to illuminate the land' (i 28-49, translation Roth 1997:76-77, my italics). Here, Hammurabi directly equates himself with Shamash, placing himself on par with the god as he does in the figural representation. This is a common literary trope at least as early as the Ur III period (Polonsky 2002:437, 485-92, 504-10) and might not warrant special mention except that the viewer is also brought into the relationship in the epilogue: 'Let a wronged man who has a lawsuit come before my image, the just king [or "the king of justice"], and have my inscribed stele read out loud to him; let him hear my precious words, let my stele reveal to him the matter. Let him see his case; let it soothe his heart ... ' (xlviii 3-19, translation Slanski 2003 :261, my italics). Just as the perspectival rendering of space locates the viewer as a distant but present participant in the scene, so the text positions the viewer who is both to hear and see (have revealed to him) the monument. Moreover, the text continues with the specific words that the viewer is meant to say in praise of Hammurabi and a command for him to pray on behalf of Hammurabi. It then presents similar admonishments for future viewers, extending the agency of the monument beyond any 'present' into a 'future' (see the following section of the epilogue, xlviii 59-94, and for a related discussion, Slanski 2003:265). Can we then understand the perspectival shift seen on the Stele of Hammurabi as part of a process of configuring new subjectivities in Old Babylonian Mesopotamia, and not just those of the 8.
For a recent discussion on the rotation of script, see Studevent-Hickman 2007.
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king and god but in particular those of the viewers who are implicated by the stele?9 Grootenboer (2006:506 n. 17), in regard to 18th-century CE European miniature eye paintings, poses the question of whether ruptures in the social fabric generate new modes of visuality. Might we, having encountered a radically new mode of visuality on the Stele of Hammurabi and elsewhere, postulate something similar for 18th-century BCE Mesopotamia? Or might it in fact be less unidirectional, that is, can we see new modes of visuality as participating in the coming into being of new subjectivities and new social fabrics at one and the same time? The text literally constitutes the viewer as a 'subject' of the king and as one who is to respond to the monument in quite specific ways. But is this something new? Or better put, how is this particular constitution of the subject-since presumably such constitutive acts would be at the center of any political representation-new? To answer this, we need to look at other aspects of the Old Babylonian period to see what, if any, social ruptures with previous times there might have been.
Object Agency and the Fashioning of the Old Babylonian Subject The most striking difference between the Old Babylonian period (including the Isin-Larsa periods of the 20th and 19th centuries) and that preceding it (the Ur III period) is the rise of the Amorite dynasties throughout Syria and Mesopotamia at cities such as Babylon, Mari, and Eshnunna. Indeed, in a recent political history of the first four centuries of the 2nd millennium, Dominique Charpin argues for calling this the 'Amorite Period' (Charpin 2004:38). Certainly, the designation Old Babylonian is problematic, particularly in the years before Hammurabi's unification of southern Mesopotamia. Yet as Norman Yoffee (2007) has posed in a review of Charpin's proposal, what does this 'ethnic' shift actually entail? Although we can identify these Amorite rulers by their nonAkkadian names, and they often take titles that signal their tribal Amorite heritage (Charpin 2004:38; JaI1l12007), they do not appear to assert other strongly marked expressions of a uniquely Amorite identity (Yoffee 2007; see also Feldman 2007:58). Moreover, the Amorite dynasties established themselves immediately following the collapse of the Ur III state around 2000 BCE, predating the perspectival shift of the 18th century by around two hundred years. We might also consider the role of law in constituting subjects. Zainab Bahrani (2008) has recently proposed this as the central and defining aspect of Hammurabi's stele, linking it to the core social identity of the state's subjects. Martha Roth (1997:2) argues for the close relationship established by the 'historical-literary' prologues and epilogues of the law collections (belonging to UrNamma/Shulgi of Ur, ca. 2100; Lipit-Ishtar of Isin, ca. 1930; the laws of Eshnunna, ca. 1770; and Hammurabi) to relate the laws to the role of the king as divinely sanctioned judge. She notes that it is probably no coincidence that the very first legal provisions listed in Hammurabi's laws address the consequences of false accusations in the political realm and establish the state's right to impose the death penalty (Roth 1997:2). Yet the public and monumental expression of royal law collections cannot fully explain the representational shift, since such laws date back to the time of Ur-Namma and his stele with frontally oriented horned headdresses. Could our explanation lie instead in the shift from a city-state oriented concept of governance to more of a territorial state, which Marc Van de Mieroop (2004:39) suggests is the main legacy of Hammurabi's lengthy rule? The last ten years of Hammurabi's reign, during which the stele was erected, witnessed the consolidation of his newly acquired territorial state (Charpin 2003: 13). In this light, it is not surprising to find, in the prologue of the law collection, a politically motivated grouping of place names that map over his kingdom both spatially and chronologically (Charpin 9. Identifying 'subjects' has its own set of challenges and risks. For a recent discllssion of some of these, see Smith 2004.
160 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST 2003: 104-5). The consolidation of a large and diverse group of lands must have presented increasing challenges to Hammurabi's governance (as well as to his peers and rivals in Eshnunna, Mari, and Aleppo, who were also attempting to expand their territorial states). The moulding of subjects within this new state would have been of central importance in this endeavor. As has already been noted, the idea of fashioning the state subject would not be anything new in the Old Babylonian period; certainly this is central and fundamental to most royally sponsored visual arts and would have been a preoccupation for earlier states, including those of extensive territories such as the Ur III and Akkadian states. Nonetheless, the particular means by which this was accomplished could vary by time and place, and it seems that it is to the particularities of governing and administering that we should turn. During the Old Babylonian period a newly complex socioeconomic dynamic in the relationships between institutions and individuals emerged that would have both required and produced new subject identities. The economic situation in Old Babylonian Mesopotamia is particularly well represented in our surviving textual corpus, perhaps indicative of its relevance within Old Babylonian society itself. 10 From this documentation, we can reconstruct (with more or less confidence) the complicated interweaving of the three traditional Mesopotamian economic sectors-the palace, the temple, and the private/community sector-in ways that diverged from previous periods (Renger 2000,2007; Stol 2004; Goddeeris 2007). Indeed, it is often difficult to disentangle these sectors (Goddeeris 2007:204). Nearly all private individuals whose documents survive were in one way or another involved with the palace or temple as officials, entrepreneurs, or prebend holders. Seen from the reverse angle, this might be called a partial 'privatization' of the economy, especially at the level of the palace (Van de Mieroop 2007:93-94). The institution of temple prebends, by which office holders received renumeration for their services, first surfaced in Ur III times, but in the Old Babylonian period the practice became extremely complicated as offices were subject to increasing fragmentation through hereditary division and the selling of vanishingly small shares (Postgate 1992: 125; van Driel 2005). On an everyday level, the fragmentation of prebends served to multiply, complicate, and even diffuse the bonds between personnel and the temple itself. Both temples and especially palaces contracted non-dependent individuals to manage their institutions' economic activities, while the palaces attempted to redirect temple surpluses to themselves (Goddeeris 2007:204). In the case of the palace, the leasing and contracting of economic activity-both in the production and administration spheres-ollt of the institution to private individuals or entrepreneurs allowed the palace to escape the cost of maintaining permanent personnel and transferred risk to the entrepreneur, whose increasing debt burden required the periodic erasure of debts through a royal edict (misarum) (Renger 2000; Charpin 2000; StoI2004:919-44; Goddeeris 2007). These reconfigurations of the relationships between the palace and society displaced more subjects from a position of actual dependency on the institution, in effect distancing the subject from the palace, while at the same time broadening the socioeconomic networks external but nevertheless connected to the palace. While varying degrees of remove and connectedness between the palace and independent households characterize the Old Babylonian period in general, the uniqueness of the important role played by the private element stands out. Though it is difficult to chart accurately the diachronic and geographic ebbing and flowing of these relationships-perhaps to be reduced to greater private involvement at the beginning in northern Babylonia (God deer is 2002), with increasing palace 10. One must, however, be cautious in generalizing about widespread social and economic systems due to the spotty coverage of the surviving documents, the nature of literacy in general in Mesopotamia, and archaeological happenstance (see, e.g., Postgate 1992:292; S. Richardson 2002: 13; Stone 2002; Stol 2004:644).
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control in the middle Old Babylonian period under the rulers of Larsa and Hammurabi, and then once again an increase back in the direction of outsourced activities (Yoffee 1977; Ellis 1976; S. Richardson 2002)-they mark a fundamental and distinctive component in any attempts at royal territorial control. If then there was an unprecedented independence from both palace and temple during the Old Babylonian period, one might expect also a growing concern on the part of 'expansionist' rulers like Hammurabi to establish the proper relations between the state and its subjects. Without attributing any directional cause and effect, I suggest that the changing mode of seeing, documented in the arts, went arm-in-arm with the reconfiguring of private-royal relationships. This may sound like a radical conclusion, but one that I would suggest is fully in line with my contention of object agency and the participation of new modes of visuality in the constitution of new subjectivities. It is important here to note, however, that this does not appear to be a rupture-there remain strong continuities with earlier arts and cultic traditions-and in fact these continuities would have been critical in any centralized royal propaganda that sought to overcome the growing lack of state control that the evolving economic system included. Nonetheless, we can connect the radically new formal properties seen in the figural depiction on the top of Hammurabi's stele-the unified perspectival rendering of the figures in space that engages with the viewer while also locating him/her in the distance-as a prime agent in the constitution of royal subjects. As such, Hammurabi's stele stands as an exemplar of how formal properties of visual representation and perception generate agency in their relationship with their viewers; in the process of engagement, the viewer is becoming the king's subject as he/she situates him/herself in response to-and is situated by-the stele. In this light, then, the object agency of Hammurabi's stele can be understood as operating as a central component in the fashioning of the 'subject' that found expression in new ways of seeing the relationship between subject and king.
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162 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST -(2004) Histoire politique du Proche-Orient amorrite (2002-1595). In Attinger et al. 2004:25-480. Chau, My (2008) The cylindrical Warka Vase and cylinder seals: repetition and reference as visual strategies of communication in the ancient Near East. The Berkeley McNair Research Journal 15:1-18. Collon, Dominique (1986) Catalogue of the Western Asiatic Seals in the British Museum, Cylinder Seals III, Isin-Larsa and Old Babylonian Periods. London: British Museum Publications. -(1995) Ancient Near Eastern Art. Berkeley: University of California Press. Connerton, Paul (1989) How Societies Remember. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Damisch, Hubert (1994) [1987] The Origin of Perspective, translated by J. Goodman. Cambridge: MIT Press. [Originally published as L'Origine de la perspective.] Davis, Whitney (2007) Abducting the agency of art. In Osborne and Tanner 2007a:199-219. Delougaz, Pinhas (1990) Old Babylollian Public Buildings in the Diyala Regioll, pt. II. Khafajah Mounds B, C, and D. Oriental Institute Publications 98. Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Dobres, Marcia-Anne and Robb, John (eds.) (2000a) Agency in Archaeology. London: Routledge. -(2000b) Agency in archaeology: paradigm or platitude? In Dobres and Robb 2000a:3-17. Elkins, James (1994) The Poetics of Perspective. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Ellis, Maria de J. (1976) Agriculture alld the State in Allcient Mesopotamia: All Introduction to Problems of Land Tenure. Occasional Publications of the Babylonian Fund 1. Philadelphia: University Museum. Elsner, Jas (2007) Roman Eyes: Visuality alld Subjectivity in Art and Text. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Farquhar, Judith (2006) Food, eating, and the good life. In Tilley et al. 2006: 145-60. Feldman, Marian H. (2007) Frescoes, exotica, and the reinvention of the Northern Levantine kingdoms during the second millennium B.c'E. In Heinz and Feldman 2007:39-65. -(2009) Knowledge as cultural biography; lives of Mesopotamian monuments. In Dialogues in Art History, from Mesopotamia to Modern, edited by E. Cropper. Studies in the History of Art 74. Center for Advanced Study in the Visual Arts, Symposium Papers 51. New Haven: National Gallery of Art and Yale University Press, pp. 40-55. Foster, Hal (1988a) Preface. In Foster 1988b:ix-xiv. -(ed.) (1988b) Vision alld Visuality. Dia Art Foundation Discussions in Contemporary Culture 2. Seattle: Bay Press. Fowler, Chris (2004) The Archaeology of Persollhood: All Allthropological Approach. London: Routledge. Frankfort, Henri (1996) [1954] The A,t and Architecture of the Allciellt Oriellt. 5th edn. New Haven: Yale University Press. Freedberg, David (1989) The Power of Images: Studies ill the History alld Theory of Respollse. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Fried, Michael (1980) Absor/Jtion alld Theatricality: Pailltillg alld Beholder ill the Age of Diderot. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gardner, Andrew (2004) Introduction: social agency, power, and being human. In Agellcy Ullcovered: Archaeological Perspectives 011 Social Agency, Power, alld Beillg Human, edited by A. Gardner. London: University College London Press, pp. 1-15. Gell, Alfred (1998) Art alld Agellcy: All Allthropological Theory. Oxford: Clarendon Press. -(1999) [1992] The technology of enchantment and the enchantment of technology. In The A,t of Allthropology: Essays alld Diagrams by Alfred Gell, edited by E. Hirsch. Oxford: Berg, pp. 159-86. [First published in Allthro/Jology, Art alld Aesthetics, edited by J. Coote and A. Shelton.] Goddeeris, Anne (2002) Ecollomy alld Society ill NO/them Babylollia ill the Early Old Babylolliall Period (ca. 2000-1800 BC). Leuven: Peeters. -(2007) The Old Babylonian economy. In Leick 2007:198-209. Groenewegen-Frankfort, H. A. (1987) [1951] Arrest and Movemellt: All Essay 011 Space alld Time ill the Represelltational A,t of the Allciellt Near East. Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. [First published by Faber and Faber Ltd.] Grootenboer, Hanneke (2005) The Rhetoric of Perspective: Realism alld IIIusiollism in Seventeellth-Century Dutch Still-Life Painting. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. -(2006) Treasuring the gaze: eye miniature portraits and the intimacy of vision. Art Bulletill 88:496-507.
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Harris, Rivkah (1955) The archive of the Sin Temple in Khafajah (Tutub).Journal of Cuneiform Studies 9:3158. Heinz, Marlies and Feldman, Marian (eds.) (2007) Representations of Political Power: Case Histories from Times of Change and Dissolving Order in the Ancient Near East. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Hill, Harold D. and Jacobsen, Thorkild (1990) Old Babylonian Public Buildings in the Diyala Region, pt. I. Excavations at Ishchali. Oriental Institute Publications 98. Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Hodder, Ian (2000) Agency and individuals in long-term processes. In Dobres and Robb 2000a:21-33. Hoskins, Janet (2006) Agency, biography and objects. In Tilley et al. 2006:74-84. Ja1111, Brit (2007) The migration and sedentarization of the Arnorites from the point of view of the settled Babylonian population. In Heinz and Feldman 2007:193-209. Jay, Martin (1988) Scopic regimes of modernity. In Foster 1988b:3-23. Knapp, A. Bernard and van Dommelen, Peter (2008) Past practices: rethinking individuals and agents in archaeology. Cambridge Archaeological Joumal18: 15-34. Langin-Hooper, Stephanie (2008) Text as art: interaction and connections between the image, text, and visual aspects of the text in the illu Anum $irum Stele of Hammurabi. Paper presented at the Annual Conference of the American Schools of Oriental Research, Boston, November 19-22, 2008. -(n.d.) Text as art: interaction and connections between the image, text, and visual aspects of the text in the inu Allum $irum Stele of Hammurabi. Unpublished paper. University of California, Berkeley. Latour, Bruno (2005) Reassemblillg the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Leick, Gwendolyn (cd.) (2007) The Babylonian World. London: Routledge. Margueron,Jean-Claude (1990) La peinture de I'Investiture et I'histoire de la cour 106. In De la Babylonie d la Syrie, en passant par Mari, melange J. R. Kupper, edited by O. Tunca. Liege: Universite de Liege, pp. 11425. -(2004) Mari: Metropole de l'Eu/Jhrate au IIIe et au debut du IIe millenaire avo J. C, Paris: Editions A. et J. Picard. Markus, Hazel R. and Kitayama, Shinobu (2003) Culture, self, and the reality of the social. Psychological
Inquiry 14:277-83. -(2004) Models of agency: sociocultural diversity in the construction of agency. In Cross-Cultural Differences in Perspectives 011 the Self: The 49 'h Allnual Nebraska Symposium on Motivation, edited by V. MurphyBerman and J. Berman. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, pp. 1-57. Markus, H. R., Uchida, Y., Omoregie, H., Townsend, S. S. M., and Kitayama, S. (2006) Going for the gold: models of agency in Japanese and American contexts. Psychological Science 17:103-12. Meskell, Lynn (2004) Object Worlds in Ancient Egypt: Material Biographies Past and Present. Oxford: Berg. Mitchell, W. J. T. (1996) What do pictures 'really' want? October 77:71-82. -(2005) What Do Pictures Wallt? Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Moore, Henrietta (2000) Ethics and ontology: why agents and agency matter. In Dobres and Robb 2000a:25963. Moortgat, Anton (1969) The Art of Allcient Mesopotamia: The Classical Art of the Near East. London: Phaidon. Nelson, Robert S. (2000a) Introduction: Descartes's cow and other domestications of the visual. In Nelson 2000b:I-21. -(ed.) (2000b) Visuality Before and Beyond the Renaissance: Seeing as Others Saw. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ortner, Sherry B. (2006) Anthropology and Social Theory: Culture, Power, and the Acting Subject. Durham: Duke University Press. Osborne, Robin, and Tanner, Jeremy (cds.) (2007a) Art's Agency and Art History. Oxford: Blackwell. -(2007b) Introduction: Art and Agency and art history. In Osborne and Tanner 2007a:I-27. Otto, Adelheid (2000) Die Entstehung und Entwicklung der Klassisch-Syrischen Glyptik. Untersuchungen zur Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archaologie 8. Berlin: W. de Gruyter.
164 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Panofsky, Erwin (1991) [1927] Perspective as Symbolic Form, translated by C. S. Wood. New York: Zone Books. [Originally published as Die Perspektive als 'symbolische Form'. Vortriige der Bibliothek Warburg 1924-1925:258-330.] Parrot, Andre (1958) Mission archeologique de Mari, vol. II, Le palais, pt. 2, Peintures murales. Institut Fran!;ais d'Archeologique de Beyrouth. Bibliotheque archeologique et historique 69. Paris: Libraire Orientaliste Paul Geuthner. Pickering, Andrew (1995) The Mangle of Practice: Time, Agency, and Science. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pinney, Christopher and Thomas, Nicholas (eds.) (2001) Beyond Aesthetics: Art and the Technologies of Enchantment. Oxford: Berg. Pollan, Michael (2001) The Botany of Desire: A Plant's Eye View of the World. New York: Random House. Polonsky, Janice (2002) The Rise of the Sun God and the Determination of Destiny in Ancient Mesopotamia. Ph.D. dissertation. University of Pennsylvania. Postgate, J. N. (1992) Early Mesopotamia: Society and Economy at the Dawn of History. London: Routledge. Preziosi, Donald (1987) Rethinking Art History: Meditations on a Coy Science. New Haven: Yale University Press. Renger, Johannes (2000) Das Palastgeschaft in der altbabylonischen Zeit. In Bongenaar 2000: 153-83. -(2007) Economy of ancient Mesopotamia: a general outline. In Leick 2007:187-97. Richardson, M. E.]. (2000) Hammurabi's Laws: Text, Trallslation and Glossary. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Richardson, Seth F. C. (2002) The Collapse of a Complex State: A Reappraisal of the End of the First DYllasty of Babylon, 1683-1597 B.C. Ph.D. dissertation. Columbia University. Roth, Martha T. (1997) Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor. 2nd edn. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Rubio, Gonzalo (2007) From Sumer to Babylonia: topics in the history of Southern Mesopotamia. In Cu"ellt Issues in the History of the Ancient Near East, edited by M. W. Chavalas. Publications of the Association of Ancient Historians 8. Claremont: Regina Books, pp. 1-51. Schmandt-Besserat, Denise (2007) Whell Writing Met Art: From Symbol to Story. Austin: University of Texas Press. Slanski, Kathryn E. (2003) The Babylonian Elltitlemellt narQs (kudurrus): A Study ill Their Fonn alld Functioll. Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research. Smith, Adam (2004) The end of the essential archaeological subject. Archaeological Dialogues 11.1: 1-35. Stol, Marten (2004) Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft in altbabylonischer Zeit. In Attinger et al. 2004:641-975. Stone, Elizabeth C. (2002) The Ur III-Old Babylonian transition: an archaeological perspective. Iraq 64:79-84. Stone, Elizabeth c., and Zimansky, Paul (2004) The Anatomy of a Mesopotamian City: Survey alld Soundings at Mashkan-shapir. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Strathern, Marilyn (1988) The Gender of the Gift. Berkeley: University of California Press. Studevent-Hickman, Benjamin (2007) The ninety-degree rotation of the cuneiform script. In Ancient Near Eastern Art in Context: Studies in Honor of Irene j. Winter by her Students, edited by J. Cheng and M. H. Feldman. Leiden: Brill, pp. 485-513. Thomas, Julian (2006) Phenomenology and material culture. In Tilley et al. 2006:43-59. Tilley, Christopher (2006a) Theoretical perspectives. In Tilley et al. 2006:7-11. -(2006b) Objectification. In Tilley et al. 2006:60-73. Tilley, Chris, Keane, Webb, Kuechler, Susan, Rowlands, Mike, and Spyer, Patricia (2006) Handbook of Material Culture. London: SAGE Publications Van de Mieroop, Marc (2004) King Hammurabi of Babylon. Oxford: Blackwell. -(2007) A History of the Allcient Near East: ca. 3000 to 323 BC. 2nd rev. edn. Oxford: Blackwell. Van der Toorn, Karel (1996) Family Religion in Babylollia, Syria alld Israel: Continuity alld Challge in the Fonns of Religious Life. Leiden: Brill. Van Driel, G. (2005) Pfriinde. Reallexikon der Assyriologie 10:518-24. Werr, Lamia al-Gailani (1988) Studies ill the Chronology and Regional Style of Old Babylollian Cylinder Seals. Malibu: Undena Publications.
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Westbrook, Raymond (2003) Introduction: the character of ancient Near Eastern Law. InA History ofAncient Near Eastern Law, edited by R. Westbrook. Leiden: Brill, pp. 1-90. Winter, Irene]. (2000) The eyes have it: votive statuary, Gilgamesh's axe, and cathected viewing in the ancient Near East. In Nelson 2000b:22-44. -(2007) Agency marked, agency ascribed: the affective object in ancient Mesopotamia. In Osborne and Tanner 2007a:42-69. Yoffee, Norman (1977) The Economic Role of the Crown in the Old Babylonian Period. Malibu: Undena Publications. -(2007) Review of Pascal Attinger, Walther Sallaberger, and Markus Wafler, eds., Mesopotamien: Die altbabylonische Zeit. Annaherungen4, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 160/4. journal of the American Oriental Society 127.1:79-81.
J,
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Akl
The history of social theory embodies in and of itself notions of recursive practice. Functionalism, structuralism, post-structuralism were each acted on by people whose thought was largely shaped by the very position they were critiquing, giving rise, bit by bit, to the new theory. Sometimes the developments are linear, sometimes parallel, but they are all very closely related, if not entangled, in a web of self-reference that adds another dimension to recursion. Postmodernism seems like a radical disjuncture, yet its architects (most of whom would reject identification as such)-Iike Foucault, Lyotard, Derrida-were deeply embedded in modernism by their very critique. That which is most radical appears at the same time, when viewed in context, as simply a logical outcome of the flaws of its intellectual predecessor. But is it? Surely, unless predestined, each of these writers might equally well have developed very different ideas to those which did in fact emerge. Were they locked into particular paths marked out by social or cultural conventions and constraints, the work of their predecessors restraining rather than enabling their own individual and particular intellectual creativity? Are people only able to think that which they are preconditioned to do, unable to interrogate the practices which form that conditioning? These are fundamental questions that theorizations of agency seek to address: what are the respective roles of institutions and culture, as structure and process, and individual actions and creations, as praxis and intentionality, in bringing about change or inhibiting it? It seems obvious that if change is the focus of both history and archaeology (but cf. Gamble 2007:5)-identifying, describing and explaining it-then agency would not only be a core concern of those disciplines, but the point at which they come together, and not just with each other. Archaeology is that space where, to adapt Giddens (1979:8), history, sociology, and anthropology should be 'methodologically indistinguishable'. Agency is certainly a concern of archaeologists working in the Americas, Great Britain, and Europe, especially in the guise of 'practice theory', if the spate of works on the subject since the turn of the millennium are anything to go by (see Ross and Steadman, this volume). But it is not to archaeologists of the Near East, who are much slower, as a field (there are of course some individual exceptions), to invest in self-conscious theorization. This divergence is hard to explain if not by a return to questions of agency. It cannot be that the concerns of agency with questions such as the
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individual and individualism as well as intentionality play well to the practitioners of an archaeology of the west, however, because for one, it is in these fields that subaltern and indigenous voices have been prominent, wresting claims of inheritance from western appropriation. For another, it is western practitioners who have until very recently been pretty much the sole archaeologists working in Near Eastern contexts-or rather, the only ones who are given credit, by themselves, for competence. Partly it is no doubt a matter of demographics, who is in what position at which university, and for how long, as well as the degree to which their students may depart from their views. Partly, perhaps, it is a matter of the closer association of Near Eastern archaeology with departments of art history as well as the history of archaeology in America, where its embeddedness in American anthropology led to the dominance of neo-evolutionary theory. And yet American archaeologists working in the Americas were able to break out of this on the one hand (although cf. Pauketat 2007), while European archaeologists working in the Near East, presumably located in the same European intellectual traditions as the philosophers who have produced much of this thought, remain largely uninflected by theory altogether-again, with only a very few notable exceptions. Perhaps it is the availability of written sources in the Near East which might seemingly obviate the need for considerations of agency-yet nowhere is the gap between text and material culture greater, nor more fiercely preserved. Near Eastern archaeology is sited in regard to agency theory then in a rather different position to that of most other archaeologies because it is the very dialectic between text and artifact, history and archaeology that has, I would suggest (cf. Zettler 2003), significantly contributed to this situation-practitioners of both fields are deeply, viscerally, vested in reactionary positions vis-a-vis each other, unreflexive historical discourse about 'great men', or at the very least, kings, gives birth to a tenacious grasp on its opposite, process and system in archaeology. At the same time, a lack of any awareness of the possibility of the individual, whether in persons or material histories, promotes its own antithesis. This lack is certainly evident in discussions of the third quarter of the 3rd millennium in northern (or Upper) Mesopotamia, that is, modern Syria. Characterized as the culmination of 'political centralization and urbanization' (Schwartz 2007a:62) on the basis of settlement patterns and excavation data from certain sites, and documented as a period of frequent war in texts (Archi and Biga 2003; Sallaberger 2007) and possibly, although hotly contested, destruction levels (such as Matthiae 1981, 1995; Margueron 2004), it is as if, reading archaeological discussions, cities rose, were reconfigured, and occasionally fell during this time without any impact whatsoever on the lives of their occupants other than, perhaps, the elites who controlled them and the goods within them, while, when reading history, the material existence of tens of thousands of people was entirely dependent on the activities of a series of bellicose kings. Of course, there would be no bellicose kings if there were no thriving cities to provide the resources with which those kings could not only conduct their wars, but which partly fueled their expansionary ambitions in the first place. As critically, the complex geopolitical realities in which the cities of the north were embedded are not taken into account when considering the processes by which those cities originated and were perpetuated (Butterlin 2007:227). Texts clearly show the interconnectedness of key polities over a very broad geographical swathe. What happened in the sizeable triangle dominated by Ebla, Nagar, and Mari in this period (see Figure A), and as seen in the material record, cannot be understood without awareness of the fact that Kish, far to the southeast, even indeed the more distant Elam, played crucial roles in the fortunes of these players (Liverani 1993a; Archi and Biga 2003; Sallaberger 2007), a situation more convincingly attested by administrative tablets from Ebla than by the boastful inscriptions of southern kings. The significance of this is not just a matter of the identification of this destruction level with the activities of that king, something that will always be highly problematic on the basis
168 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST of chronological synchronisms if nothing else, or this Akkadian word for that object recovered in excavation. These inter-polity, inter-regional relationships involved intra-polity interactions in the constant movements of goods and people that accomplished political intent. A very clear example is to be found in the records of statuary at Ebla (Archi 2005). Both the metals that clad many of the figures, and the techniques and even possibly the artisans that created them, came from Mari. These statues/statuettes figured large in royal pageantry including the translation of the royal couple into the particular states of being that allowed them to ascend to the throne (Porter 2007b), where statuettes were left as offerings to the gods and royal ancestors at various stages of the ritual (Archi 2005:91 n. 34). This surely has implications for the material culture and hence material remains of all these places in a number of different ways, and not just of the administrative personnel at varying levels between whom these goods circulated directly, but for those that extracted, processed, and shipped the materials as well (e.g. Archi 2005: 90). Since goods given in diplomatic exchange, in tribute, as pay-offs for loyalty, as support for war, or as compensation for information and the service of messengers (see Archi and Biga 2003 for details; also Archi 1999), involved both the sublime and mundane from gold-adorned chariots to hunks of meat, woolen cloth, and bushels of grain, people, not just institutions or processes, but people from all parts of the socioeconomic system, participated in this international world. Recognition of this requires de-privileging the position of elites in archaeological and historical analyses and reconsidering a multiplicity of actors in a multiplicity of arenas. It also requires continued interrogation of analytical links between artifact, social and political identities, and the production and dissemination of material cultures. The diverse sociopolitical relations that converge around certain jars belonging to the stewards, or SAGI, of Ebla, or for which they were at least responsible, serve as another example. Stewards were the conveyors and recipients, not only on behalf of the ruler, but also for themselves, of vast quantities of precious materials and more ordinary goods transferred in diplomatic relationships, whether those relationships were equal at the time, or assymetrical. Significant quantities of the lapis lazuli, for example, used at Ebla came not directly from the source, but were gifts from the SAG I of Mari (Archi 1999). In this instance unfortunately we do not have any of the actual jars themselves, only records of the deliveries of precious metals that went into making them. However, the inlaid vessel in the form of an ostrich egg from Ur (Aruz 2003: 118-19 no. 70a) comes to mind as an illustration. Hundreds of kilos of gold and silver were used to shape these vessels (some of which were massive), that clearly comprised a considerable part of the state's store of wealth and at the same time ceremonial paraphernalia (a crown and tray were also counted in this equipment). These jars were not simple: they were conceived of as made in parts, such as base, mouth, lid, handles, decorative attachments, including figurines, which might be found on each of the above, and the materials were allocated accordingly (Archi 1999), probably involving multiple craftsman in their composition. Moreover, these vessels were, from indirect evidence, employed in rituals that engaged others, including very possibly mortuary ones (Archi 1999). Therefore the jars both figured in and were instrumental to far-reaching interactions, including those between polities, those between the craftsmen who made the vessels (and see Archi 2005: 90 for the presence at Ebla of stonecutters and metalworkers from Mari), between the craftsmen and the state, the people participating, attending, and observing the rituals in which these vessels were used or displayed and those who served the ritual, ranging from cultic specialists to anonymous servants. All of these individuals extracted signification from the jars, indeed the jars acted upon them, not just in their golden glory but in their ritual role, and so could be said to have an agency of their own which was the very intent of such investment in the first place (on object agency, see Gell 1998 and Feldman, this volume). To assume that the vessels were made, or held meaning, only for elites, or only those directly engaged with the materials, is to deny agency to the subordinated, to
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accept that because they were powerless they were also mindless, unable to interrogate the actions of those around them and the environment in which they themselves acted. To assume that the jars were to impress upon the subordinate the superiority of the elite is also to deny the ability of the former group to engage such goods in their own dialogues. Increasingly academic discourse is recognizing that subordinate groups, especially oppressed ones, had their own means of appropriating and suborning the culturallideologicallritualmaterials of the dominant group, inverting, or at least recasting, them to express covert resistance (Lhamon 1998), and the only access that we have to this in antiquity is through material culture. Although at this point we do not know how such participants received and then deployed their experience with the golden jars of the SAGI (such as Saunders 2001; d. Ferguson 1991), and they may have ignored them altogether, we at least know now to ask the question. The significations of the steward's jar were unquestionably multiple, influenced amongst other things by one's relationship to the system. In simply asking who would have interacted with the steward's jar and what did it mean to them, we come much closer to the presence of otherwise invisible participants. Although in this particular instance most of the information about the jars comes from texts, similar considerations may be addressed to any actual artifact. This is one way that historical and archaeological data may be brought together, but it is not of course the only way. Unifying historical and archaeological data, theory, and method in a more complex way than has to date been the case (d. Stein 2001 :357; Zettler 2003) is not simply a matter of interspersing historical destructions between periods of material flourishing. Nor is it enough to rationalize away one source in favor of another on scientific or historiographic grounds, for example, that the extent and impact of wars are exaggerated in the process of a ruler's self-aggrandizement, undoubtedly the case but certainly not the point. By interrogating concepts of agency in regard to both sets of data it becomes clear that not only must the respective sources be understood as two realities existing in tension with each other, but also that without invoking all social players as participants in the cause and effect of their own histories, archaeology and history even when put together (such as Sallaberger and Ur 2004; van de Mieroop 2004; Porter 2007a) are still woefully inadequate accounts of the past. A history refracted through agency and materiality however is a very different discourse to that based on the biographies of great men and economic transactions. Not only do great men act within a framework of the agency of others as much as their own, the fact that this is so is what allows for the recognition, at the very least, of unseen, unrecorded, players in the game. And once they are recognized, traditional discourses of power in the Near Eastern context must be rewritten. An archaeology refracted through history immediately moves beyond process unpopulated by living, thinking beings to a discipline where the production of material culture is an outcome of the daily actions of cognizant persons acting in multiple social, political, and economic networks taking place, not over undifferentiated centuries, but within human life-spans (Hodder 2000). And once those arenas are recognized, traditional discourses of power in the Near Eastern context must be rewritten. In both instances, power can no longer be understood as concentrated in the hands of a few who exercise their will on others untrammeled, but as responsive to the power of others. But to date the relationship between Near Eastern history and Near Eastern archaeology remains that very opposition of the individual versus society, action versus structure, I that both Giddens's structuration theory and Bourdieu's practice theory are designed to transcend, and one of the core elements, agency, is the vehicle through which both reconciliation and rupture may be 1. Thomas (2004:121) suggests that Hodder and followers inappropriately equate the individual with agency and society with structure, but Giddens himself (such as 1993 :4) sees the interplay of agency and structure as explaining the relationship between the individual and society. Thomas however is right to see that individual and society have become reified as two distinct entities in archaeological discourse, counter to Giddens's intent.
170 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST accomplished. Reconciliation, where agency dissolves the boundaries between the approaches, if not sources, of archaeology and history; rupture, where inherited traditions of academic practice no longer constrain us. Of course in practice, whether Giddensian or Bourdieuian, this last is simply not possible. Past practices, established structures, act in us even as we act on them; they limit us as they enable us (Giddens 1979:70). But agency, or at least some understandings of it, does allow for the past not to entirely shackle us so that we may break free, gently or dramatically, from ideas bled dry of insight. There are a variety of ways agency is put to use however, and they are not all compatible. There are those archaeologists who turn to agency in order to understand the limitations of subjectivity (Smith 2001), and those who seek to transcend the boundaries of structure to find the lives, even biographies, of individual persons (Hodder 2000; d. Barrett 2000; see Porter n.d. for further discussion). There are those who try to understand the reproduction and perpetuation of societies and cultures, while others wish to study moments of change (Gillespie 2001). There is, as well, somewhat of a divide between followers of Bourdieu (Dietler and Herbich 1998) and Giddens (Porter 2000; Pauketat 2001), with a Bourdieuian view of practice, especially the notion of habitus, seeming to dominate. What is at stake here as much as anything, is, as Fowles (2002) points out, the time scales within which individual archaeologists want, or are able, to work (see also Dobres 2000). But Giddens's structuration theory offers resolution to some of the difficulties of Bourdieuian practice-Bourdieu tends to focus on the limits of agency (Smith 2001) for example, allowing only a 'certain latitude in action' (Dietler and Herbich 1998:247) and underemphasizing 'conscious deliberation' (Jenkins 1992:71), while Giddens is more concerned with its possibilities. For Giddens (1984:284), all actors have the potential to understand mechanisms of social reproduction and to use that knowledge in what they do. For Giddens, change is episodic, discontinuous (ergo nonevolutionary), and contingent. In addition, the idea of the duality of structure carries with it the implication that the seeds of change are present in every moment of the constitution of social systems across time and space ... [T]he concept of social reproduction ... is not in and of itself an explallatory one: all reproduction is contingent and historical (Giddens 1981 :27).
For Bourdieu (1977:78), in contrast, 'habitus ... produces practices which tend to reproduce regularities'. The differences between Bourdieu and Giddens therefore have major implications for archaeological understandings of change. A Bourdieuian view accounts for the apparent longevity of the cultural phases and chronological periodizations we rarely have any choice but to accept, yet Bourdieuian practice is often so thoroughly recursive, playing perpetually backwards on itself, that it inclines us to see the passage of time as rolling along an inexorable path, and change as predominantly gradual and accumulative. This perspective is very comfortable for an archaeology struggling with its processual roots. It takes something extraordinary to break out of habitus. That is, since habitus consists of quotidian and mundane practices that shape us by our execution of them, and that thereby constitute the system so that we are conditioned to subscribe to the system, breaking out of Bourdieu's habitus requires far more revolutionary intent than does Giddens's structuration. Giddens's idea of change is born of the fluid relationship between the individual and structure, which at any point in time is at the least potentially different than at any other. In Near Eastern historical narratives, ancient and modern, great kings are treated as having the power to bring change through their intent (see McMahon, this volume). Some of the most significant of those kings come from the dynasty of Akkad (ca. 2350-2150 BCE), in particular the founder of that dynasty, Sargon, and, perhaps even more important, his grandson, Naram-Sin. These two kings, it is believed, brought about one of the major changes in human history, a redefinition of the
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nature of polity that resulted in the world's first empire. This Akkadian empire has been viewed variously as an evolutionary stage in the progression of power (Liverani 1993a:3), 'qualitatively new' (Cooper 1993: 14), or, as for Giddens (1981:100), a truly dislocative event. The consolidation of the south was certainly presaged by earlier, less extensive attempts (Steinkeller 1993: 129), but the true novelty of Akkadian power lies in its supposed conquest of the north, a geographic extent never before accomplished. In order to fathom the nature of this change, how it came about, and why it had such far-reaching implications, however, Akkadian ambitions to the north must be situated in multiple levels of agency. It is perhaps obvious to suggest that the actions of the kings of Akkad must be understood as interwoven with the actions of their northern counterparts, although the proposal that the north had power over the south is in fact somewhat of a radical suggestion. The north has long been seen as simply inferior to the strength and power of the south (Klengel 1992:33), at least in part because its cities do not display the wealth, nor its settlements the size or grandeur, clearly evident in the south (e.g. Stein 1994,2004). However the golden jars of the SAGI, and other items in the deliveries list discussed by Archi (1999), indicate that it is not necessarily the quantity, but the deployment of wealth that varies between north and south. Northern cities are hardly less complex than southern ones-burial remains alone now indicate this-but the way populations and economic activities are distributed across the vastly different landscapes of north and south varies, resulting in the north in an equal, but less concentrated and therefore less apparent, complexity. It is perhaps not so obvious, but equally essential, to situate the actions of the northern kings with whom Akkad interacted within the framework of the actions of the unstoried actors that comprise their world. The actions of Naram-Sin, for example, should be seen as occurring within a world created by the ideologies and practices of bakers and builders as well as brokers and bureaucrats. Too often we think of these people, the vast undifferentiated subordinate mass, only in terms of the effect that the exercise of power has upon them. We do not consider them to exercise power over the great men themselves. And yet their agency constitutes part of the structure within which great men act. It is here I think that Giddens has something to offer that Bourdieu does not. In New Rules of Sociological Method (1993: 8 and d. 1979: 55) Giddens defines agency (interchangeable with action) as 'the stream of actual or contemplated causal interventions of corporeal beings in the ongoing process of events-in-the-world'. Agency then invokes two key ideas that Giddens elaborates at varying lengths. One is the corporeal being, or actor, who makes the intervention, the other is the nature of the intervention itself and its relationship to intention. Many discussants seem to conflate notions of the actor with notions of the individual (Giddens rarely uses this word himself) as having separate and distinct value from, and over, the collective, and to use intention as the conscious awareness of an aim the actor has clearly in mind, along with plans to accomplish that aim. This, Giddens (1993:83; 1979:56) states categorically, it is not. Existence is not a series of distinct and discrete acts with aims or purposes simply strung together (Giddens 1979:55), it is a 'continuing stream of purposive activity in interaction with others and with the world of nature ... that is only grasped reflexively by the actor' (Giddens 1993 :89). Rather than aim, it is knowledge that is central to intentionality (Giddens 1993:90), for 'every actor knows a great deal about the conditions of reproduction of the society of which he or she is a member' (Giddens 1979:5), in contrast to Bourdieu's ancient actors at least, who are blind to their situation (Smith 2001). That knowledge for Giddens is both practical and discursive, and it is the pivot of the interplay between action and structure that is the very essence of structuration theory. It is not a matter of which predominates, the individual or society, but understanding the multiple ways in which, and the multiple levels on which, the individual and society constitute each other, alter each other, and perpetuate each other (see also Joyce and Lopiparo 2005; and see Ross, this volume).
172 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST The key lies in the dual conceptions of consciousness. Practical consciousness is the 'tacit knowledge which is skillfully applied in the enactment in courses of conduct but which the actor is not able to formulate discursively' (Giddens 1979:57), that is, the implicit awareness of the rules and resources of the actor's context that both constrain and enable him or her, while discursive consciousness is the actor's explicit articulation of the reasons he or she does what he or she does. It is this last where structure is filtered through the specific constituents of the individual-genetic, psychological, and social-that are themselves conditioned at least in part by practical consciousness. This has little to do with western concepts of the individual and her/his relationship to the collective, an issue that has emerged as a key element of agency in archaeology (Knapp and van Dommelen 2008; Meskell1999; Thomas 2004), and most certainly does not require the agent to be thought of as either free or autonomous as Thomas (2004: 119) sees him/her. Meskell and Thomas are both right in their quite opposing views on the relationship between archaeological discourse and ideas of the individual in non-western societies-Thomas (2004: 123), when he claims that the individual is a western notion the attribution of which to non-western societies reinforces western agendas of superiority, and Meskell (1999: 10,20) when she argues that when anthropologists attribute individualism to themselves but deny it to others they are perpetuating western hegemonies-but if such notions of the individual are central to agency in archaeology (Thomas 2004: 122), they are not to Giddens. Whether, and how, people effect change, albeit singly or as a collective, is far more the concern of Giddensian agency than a search for the life history of the individual. Contra Knapp and van Dommelen (2008; d. Feldman this volume) therefore, I do not think intentionality, rather different from 'freely acting' (Dobres 2000; Dobres and Robb 2000a) and from will, the emphasis on which is more Bourdieuian than Giddensian, is to be abandoned as either limited to the western experience of the world or as dependent on specific notions of the individual and individualism. Giddens's understanding of both practical and discursive consciousness most certainly allows for them to be variably socially and culturally constructed. That is what the actor's knowledge is. The one universal that Giddens proposes is that humans have knowledge. Giddens does not declaim what that knowledge should be, nor indeed that the knowledge an actor holds should be recognizable to us. That actors know a great deal about the conditions of society does not presume that they have any particular relationship with society. Whether detachable from it, or synonymous with it, humans may still act intentionally upon it. In fact intentionality can110t be separated from Giddens's conception of agency for to do so is to risk arguing, as I think Bourdieuian practice theory ultimately does, not only that at best free will is restricted only to those who hold all power, but that there is no mind (also Hodder 2003:85), no thought, thereby becoming dangerously like the very functionalist notion that Giddens's work aims to eliminate, the view that humans exist only to do the work of institutions that may thereby be perpetuated, like much of processual archaeology (as Moore 2000:261 and Thomas 2004: 120 note). Moreover, as Dietler and Herbich (1998:253) express habitus for example, change occurs in response to demands, an extraordinarily passive view of the maker. This does not mean that what is intended is accomplished as desired however; unintended consequences are as powerful as intended ones. Sargon and Naram-Sin were both most certainly acting with intent in their military endeavors in the northern lands, whatever the gap between their discursive awareness and practical consciousness. They were also acting within structure formed in part by precedent, for the city of Kish, from whence the sources claim Sargon originated, not only provided at least a pattern of interaction between north and south but was no doubt well entrenched there as Sargon came to power. Kish itself was part of a long tradition of intense interaction between southern Mesopotamia and the north (Steinkeller 1993) begun at least as early as the 4th millennium if not even before. The notion
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of habitus then comes into play. In one aspect, the Akkadians were not the radical political innovators we have long imagined, but acting within well-trodden paths, conditioned to understanding the north as the key to power and control. The difference being only that Akkad was successful-at least in terms of the extremely long-lasting effects of their own propaganda-with some modern historians still inclined to believe every word of it. And yet if Akkadian attraction to the north is indeed 'the intentionless invention of regulated improvisation' like a 'train laying its own rails' (Bourdieu 1990:57), that Akkad was successful and that its success wrought change in the south is in itself a matter of knowledge: the knowledge of kings and the knowledge of commoners. That knowledge comes together in and through the agency of things (Gell1998; Feldman, this volume). For just as the jars of the SAGI serve as a locus for the intersection of multiple players that are always present at any moment in the ancient world, so too another set of objects-far more mundane this time-enriches depictions of southern engagement with the north, by providing a lens through which we may view all the participants in this relationship and have some sense of the multiple strategies of knowledge and power that they brought to that relationship, not just those of the great man who left his name behind. One of the Akkadian materials giving witness to southern presence in key northern cities is a set of bricks stamped with Naram-Sin's name 2 preceded by the divine determinative, bricks that derived from a building consequently known as 'Naram-Sin's Palace' at Tell Brak, ancient Nagar, in the Khabur region of Northern Syria (Mallowan 1947; Oates et al. 2001). These bricks, as any object, mediate social agency (Ge1l1998) and if viewed within the framework of materiality (Meske1l2005; Miller 2005) a wide range of agents who intersect in the stamped name on a brick suddenly appear in the ancient record. Naram-Sin of course is a given. But also present in some way are the maker of the stamp, the makers of the bricks, the builders of the structure, those who supervised construction, and those responsible for recording aspects of construction. Is it possible to know what they thought? Perhaps, perhaps not. But we do know that these individuals were conscious beings with minds engaged with, and able to interrogate, their own actions, the actions of others, their surrounds, their lot in life, no matter the level of their discursive knowledge, accuracy of their analysis, and access to power. Equally present given this understanding of people were those who were intended to use the building, who participated in the activities that the building housed and serviced, even if they never entered it, and those who merely lived in its shadow or passed it in the street. An artist's reconstruction of such a scene should be peopled then with multiple figures from various walks of life. It should also be pregnant with multiple understandings of the organization, distribution, and operation of power-their understandings of power as well as Naram-Sin's. Because while these bricks are seen by us as evidence of Naram-Sin's great military strength on the one hand and ideological power in his self-deification on the other, the DINGIR sign attached to his name may have little to do with Naram-Sin and everything to do with the people into whose midst this building was inserted. For these people, the attachment of DINGIR to human names was understood in a very specific way-not as deification but, as at Ebla, ancestralization. While stamped bricks are not known otherwise in Syria to my knowledge, and seem to be rare in the south in the Akkadian period where they are only attested as dedicatory inscriptions in a very particular formula from temple builder to the god the temple housed (Frayne 1993: 120-21), the association of DINGIR with human names is known in the north, in two lists of deceased kings' names from the archive of Palace Gat Ebla (TM.75.G.2628 [ARET VII,150] and TM.74.G.120 [ARES 1]; Archi 1986, 1988b, 1996,2001). These are on the one hand lists of offerings made to the deceased kings; on the other, they are genealogies of the current king, and the connection 2. n.d.).
Although a short summary is all that is possible here, this subject is discussed in full elsewhere (Porter
174 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST between the two is reinforced by the use of the term 'DINGIR father'. There is no other indication that humans, royal or otherwise, could be deified in Syria, and it is widely accepted that the use of DINGIR indicates a very particular status-otherworldly status-to these names (Porter 2000:25055; Astour 1992; d. Archi 1988a). At the same time, the dead kings were not gods. Rather, van der Toorn (1994) understands this combination as a hendiadys, indicating not that the dead were gods, the same as gods, or on a par with gods, but that this was the way the living signified that the dead are, as the gods are, supernatural beings, belonging to the other world, although the distinctions between them were no doubt fuzzy. The king lists of Ebla are no more or less than royal ancestors of the then incumbent of the throne (Archi 2001 :8). The cultural specifics of ancient Nagar are not as yet well understood, but its political and economic contexts are. Nagar as a key polity in 'the Syrian triangle' was in constant engagement with Ebla and Mari and no doubt many of the smaller polities in between these giants. The king of Nagar was married to an Eblaite princess, the daughter of Ebla's last king (Biga 1995). And at Ebla and Mari, and many of the smaller polities in between, there is considerable evidence, written and material, to indicate not only that practices that created and perpetuated ancestors were widespread (Archi 2002; Schwartz 2007b; Peltenburg 2007; Hempelmann n.d.), but that ancestors figured large in multiple, and varying, ideologies of power and, as well, social interactions (Porter 2002a, 2002b, 2007b, 2009). Ancestors were created and maintained by people from all sociopolitical ranks and various sub-state social groupings. Although no elite burials have as yet been recovered from Tell Brak, it is hard to imagine that Nagar would not also have participated in this environment where the dead, or at least some of them, were instrumental in the organization and conduct of social relationships and systems of power. Two separate views of the world intersect here then: the modern if not ancient Mesopotamianist's view, where a powerful human could become a god; and the Syrianist's view, where a royal name with the DINGIR sign is an ancestor-otherworldly, but not divine. Chronology therefore becomes crucial to understanding the implications of this conjuncture. Does Naram-Sin adopt a local practice that then gets transferred to the south where it is reconfigured-either by modern scholarship or by ancient subjects? Or was he already divine, in which case the reception of this idea within the framework of another conceptual system becomes the central problem? In either case, these bricks-simple mundane bricks-with text, become ripe with multiple meanings to multiple audiences. It is the intersection and consequent negotiation of those meanings that is ultimately transformative (Lopiparo 2002)-of the north, where new structures of authority seem to be enacted by the very making of these bricks as Nagar is in some way brought into direct contact with the south, whether through a diplomatic mission or outright control (Eidem et al. 2001; van de Mieroop 2004:63), and of the south, where Naram-Sin's DINGIRized name is appropriated, politicized, and re-inscribed with further, and apparently rather different, meaning (Bern beck 2008). We simply do not know the first time DINGIR is used with Naram-Sin's name; current consensus has it occurring after the great revolt, when a group of southern kings tried to cast off his control midway through his reign. The assertion that the Brak inscriptions postdate this is based on two lines of reasoning-deification took place after the great revolt as a reward for his success and 'the expectation that the king pursued his campaigns in a systematic manner in various regions' (Frayne 1993: 85). Of course this is not necessarily the case, as Frayne acknowledges. Nevertheless, a campaign to the north (against Talhadum) where the divine determinative is missing from the inscription is placed with those that took place in roughly the same area after deification (Frayne 1993:86; but d. Sallaberger 2007:428). It is certainly possible that Naram-Sin had been in the north before the great revolt-after all he fights one of its most famous battles (to us) at Jebel Bishri (Frayne 1993: 104-8; Sommerfeld 2000), where the rulers of the 'upper lands' (thought to be the Khabur), are already loyal to him (Sallaberger 2007:426), that is, before he is 'DINGIRized'.
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But whether or not there is evidence of direct contact between Naram-Sin's Akkad and Nagar before the great revolt, Akkad was certainly engaged in the north long before Naram-Sin came to the throne (Sallaberger 2007:423-25); indeed, as seen above, the south was involved in the north before Akkad even existed. The question is, was it sufficiently involved to understand local sociopolitical structures and ideologies? I would argue yes, if only because the public performance of funerals and commemorative rituals and the very different and distinctive mortuary structures, especially above-ground ones/ found throughout the north would raise in any ruler, soldier, or official who had been there questions as to the differences between their own practices and those of others. For dynasts and their entourage were equally as capable of interrogating their surroundings as artisans and laborers. It is reasonable to postulate that Naram-Sin was familiar with the ancestor practices of the local northern polities when the structure that would bear his name was commissioned; that it bore his name, in this form, in order to situate him in a tradition that would both facilitate his inclusion into northern discourses of power and establish a past dimension to his presence (much as Samsi Addu was to do later [van de Mieroop 2004: 101]). As I have argued elsewhere (Porter 2002a), these very traditions, even when deployed as legitimation for exclusionary practices of power, derived from sub-state social structures, the kinship systems that everyone in the polity belonged to in addition to their position in social hierarchies, so that the very identity of northern political power, not to mention the frame of its operation, was constituted by the practices and ideologies of the population as a whole, and not just of a ruling elite. Naram-Sin's stamped bricks therefore are an engagement between all levels of northern-and southern-society, high and low, and in various ways. The DINGIR symbol is appropriated by ruler from subordinates and in turn by would-be conqueror from vassal. It is received by the people who encountered the bricks in the construction and use of the building at Nagar, and the people to whom Naram-Sin brought this idea home. Long used to seeing all developments in power, its organization and its possession, as coming from the south, we have been blinded to the possibility that not only were the interactions between north and south productive of changes in both areas, but also that it was perhaps from the north that this very impetus for conquest disseminated, that it was the territorial ambitions of Ebla and Mari against which Akkad, as Kish, was reacting (although d. Steinkeller 1993: 127). After years o~ a constant jockeying for regional power, in which Kish was deeply concerned, Ebla defeated a Man weakened by natural disaster (Butterlin 2007:238), but not in such a way that the city was annihilated, nor brought under Eblaite control; three years later Mari turned around and devastated Ebla, bringing to an end its 3rd-millennium dominance (Archi and Biga 2003). With Mari and its history of belligerence dominating the Middle Euphrates, whatever its effective power at that time, a threa~ to Akkad's security no doubt remained. As it is now generally accepted, Sargon destroyed Man (Archi and Biga 2003 :35; Butterlin 2007). But whether a weakened north glimmered tantalizingly on the horizon as a prime target, a strong north loomed threateningly on the borders of the empire, or the southerners were simply facing their own internal crisis (Weiss and Courty 1993), the economic structures of individual cities were rooted in the long history of these inter-polity interactions, especially in the circulation of wealth through prestation, and the nature of sociopolitical interactions internal to those cities were configured in part through external contacts. For at the same time, these wars were themselves a dynamic shaping both the nature of the northern polities and their very materiality. As noted at the outset of this paper, this period of war, as seen through texts, is the zenith of material culture in the north as seen through archaeology: a maximum density of settlement is reached, with sites manifesting massive monumentalism and 3. One might speculate that Naram-Sin's predilection for burial mounds (see Frayne 1993:129, 144; Porter n.d.) was also of northern origin.
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176 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST considerable wealth. Agriculture is intensified as the organization of political territories extends to include multiple orders of settlement size and function (Porter 2007a:97). That these two phenomena, these two data sets, are integrally related is unavoidable even if counter-intuitive. While it would seem that militarism should devastate the country if only because agricultural producers were conscripted and their fields left to wither (Sallaberger 2007:423), it is certainly possible that actual battles were limited, and as well highly targeted, so that their impact and the numbers of people required in their execution were localized. Growth might have been needed to fuel the war machine; competitive display in the aggrandizement of great men might have led to war. But that there is a relationship between territorial ambition and the mobilization and deployment, not just of resources, but of materiality, seems sure. Political ambition is evident in, negotiated through, and conditioned by, materiality at Tell Brak in the Akkadian period; here too the agency of people and things intersect. But that Akkad adopted the pre-Sargonic attributes of Nagar's role as a major regional center is a matter neither of structure, nor habitus, but choice. Nagar had previously co-opted a number of other settlements such as Nabada (Tell Beydar) within its orbit to supply its agro-pastoral needs (Sallaberger and Ur 2004), in a move that may be related to Nagar's role in the internecine warfare generated by Ebla and Mari. A list of workers from surrounding settlements in the Akkadian period (Eidem et al. 2001) is entirely parallel to the situation evident in the pre-Akkadian Beydar texts. Moreover the so-called 'Akkadian' ceremonial buildings at Brak4 include a bent-axis temple (Oates et al. 2001:fig. 42) of a style not known at other Syrian sites but found in the Diyala in the Early Dynastic and Akkadian periods (Oates et al. 2001 :388)-a temple dedicated to a local god, Shamagan, who features in the same Beydar texts as a point of linkage between center and subordinate in an intriguing dialectic where the ruler of the center travels to participate in the religious rituals of the subordinate settlement (Ismail et al. 1996; Milano et al. 2004; Porter 2007a). If indeed the Brak temple is an Akkadian structure for Shamagan, the god of animals and the steppe (and who interestingly also features on the Ebla lists of DINGIRized kings [Archi 1988a)), then an intricate engagement of multiple players through both new and traditional means of legitimating political, as well as economic, relationships is in evidence. What does this mean for the daily lives of the local population? For one, external authority is not maintained through unmitigated brutality. Rather, complex networks of power are recognized by that authority and accommodated, surely a product of both practical and discursive consciousness engaged in what Giddens terms a 'dialectic of control'. And here we needs must return to a consideration of theory, for if a common critique of Bourdieu is his one-dimensional, one-directional understanding of power, then Giddens's delineation of the dialectic of control offers an important, and much underutilized corrective. For Giddens, all people have some form of power, some means of resistance to even extreme oppression and exploitation, whether on the smallest-or grandest-scale. People may choose to live outside the system, they can choose to affect the system, they can choose to overturn the system. They may throw a spanner in the works or sacrifice their lives. They can, and repeatedly do, all these things. By not doing these things, they make a choice equally as much as by doing these things. Agents therefore are not so thoroughly trapped by habitus because they are either ignorant or powerless that they may never escape the constraints of structure; they choose the conditions in which they live to a much greater extent than practice theory allows. This is critical in the constitution of social groups, especially political groups. Participation is-to some extent or another-voluntary. It is an act.
4. Michalowski (1993:76) is right to criticize archaeologists for indiscriminately using such terms to designate time periods as well as culture.
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In emerging complex societies especially, the monopoly of violence is simply not all that operable for a number of well-delineated reasons: the state cannot penetrate society very far and it is easier to physically withdraw from its control; there is no standing army or policing agency until a certain point, so that essentially people are called up by the state in the fulfillment of corvee obligations to police themselves. The other oft-cited means of coercion of compliance is ideology, but this is a far more complex situation than the imposition of ideas to mask hegemony and manipulation; a dialectic of control exists here too. Elites cannot simply manufacture a system of beliefs and symbols and say 'here, unthinking beings, believe this'. The simplistic notions of power relations that have dominated Near Eastern archaeology-and history-in the past, where a small number of powerful people simply sit on top of a large number of powerless people, fail to recognize that people, as individuals and as members of a social group or class, are always in dialogue with each other as much as they are embedded within habitus. Ideologies are appropriated, shared, contested, and subverted, and this takes place in multiple arenas and through multiple vehicles: politics, economy, and religion; performance, stories, rituals, and things. As with the bricks stamped with Naram-Sin's name, governing bodies are always engaged in one capacity or another with the people they rule and that engagement is bi-directional; there is always therefore a need to investigate the relationship of the general public to the events of history we see only in the records of the governing bodies. This can be accomplished by examining the interplay of history and practice, agency and structure, people and things, in order to move towards an understanding, and rendering, of the complexity of the past. It should be clear then that consideration of the agency of documented rulers does not necessarily render archaeology subservient to history, a misplaced fear born of the sense that history has in the end better, or truer, information that has long inhibited the effective integration of the two fields. If postmodernism has revealed nothing else about text, it has surely shown that written sources are no more authoritative, and no less in need of decoding, than material ones. Nor does the involvement of documented rulers exclude consideration of the 'relations between various structural positions and actors that create opportunities for both assent and praxis' (Smith 2001: 160); indeed it positively demands it. But neither is it sufficient to dismiss the role of political leaders as 'big-men aggrandizers' whose prime motivation is the rational amassing of all power unto themselves (Barrett 2000; Silliman 2001) and as therefore analytically uninteresting, not only because rationality is a relative concept and human beings are far more complex in their motivations, but also because these figures do have power to shape the worlds in which they live. They do not act autonomously, however, no one does. One person's 'intervention in the ongoing process of events-in-the-world' always intersects, or is situated within, the context of the interventions of others. All action and intent is in a complex dialogue with past and future action and intent, and what is more, extends in multiple directions at once. In a metaphor borrowed from kinship terminology where ego is at the center of an ever-widening circle of social relationships, we should imagine in agency a series of egos at the center of a series of everwidening circles that very quickly, and very densely, overlap. It is not then a matter of determining who or what caused which outcome, but of delineating the chain of actions and events, the players and their interdependence over time.
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Gillespie, Susan (2001) Personhood, agency and mortuary ritual: a case study from the ancient Maya. journal
of Anthropological Archaeology 20:73-112. Hempelmann, Ralph (n.d.) Die Ausgrabungen im Bereich K. In Ausgrabungen in Tell Chuera in Nordostsyrien II-Vorbericht der Grabungskampagnen 1998-2005, edited by J.-W. Meyer, C. Falb, R. Hempelmann, E. Vila, and J. Wahl. Hodder, Ian (2000) Agency and individuals in long-term processes. In Dobres and Robb 2000b:21-33. -(2003) Archaeology Beyond Dialogue. Foundations of Archaeological Inquiry. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Ismail, Farouk, Sallaberger, Walther, Talon, Philippe, and van Lerberghe, Karel (cds.) (1996) Administrative Documents from Tell Beydar (Seasons 1993-1995). Subartu 2. Turnhout: Brepols. Jenkins, Richard (1992) Pierre Bourdieu. London: Routledge. Joyce, Rosemary A. and Lopiparo, Jeanne (2005) PostScript: doing agency in archaeology. journal ofArchaeo-
logical Method and Theory 12.4:365-74. Klengel, Horst (1992) Syria 3000 to 300 B.c. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Knapp, A. Bernard and van Dommelen, Peter (2008) Past practices: rethinking individuals and agents in archaeology. Cambridge Archaeological journal 18.1: 15 -34. Lhamon, W. T. (1998) Raising Cain: Blackface Perfonnance from jim Crow to Hip Hop. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Liverani, Mario (1993a) Akkad: an introduction. In Liverani 1993b:1-10. -(ed.) (1993b) Akkad, the First World Empire: Structure, Ideology, Traditions. Padova: Sargon srI. Lopiparo, Jeanne (2002) A second voice: crafting cosmos. In The Languages of Archaeology, edited by R. A. Joyce. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 68-99. Mallowan, M. E. L. (1947) Excavations at Brak and Chagar Bazar. Iraq 9:1-259. Margueron, Jean-Claude (2004) Mari: Metropole de l'Euphrate au IIIe et au debut du lIe millenaire avo j.-e. Paris: Picard/Editions Recherche sur les Civilisations. Marro, Catherine and Kuzucuoglu, Catherine (eds.) (2007) Societes humaines et changement climatique a la fin dll Troisieme Millellaire: ulle crise a-t-elle eu lieu en Haute-Mesopotamie? Varia Anatolica 18. Paris: De Boccard. Matthiae Paolo (1981) Ebla: An Empire Rediscovered. Garden City: Doubleday. -(1995) Fasi storiche e cronolgia archeologica. In Ebla: Aile origini della civilta urbana, edited by P. Matthiae, F. Pinnock, and G. Scan done Matthiae. Milan: Electa, pp. 86-95. Meskell, Lynn (1999) Archaeologies of Social Life. Oxford: Blackwell. -(2005) Introduction: object orientations. In Archaeologies of Materiality, edited by L. Meskell. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 1-17. Michalowski, Piotr (1993) Memory and deed: the historiography of the political expansion of the Akkad state. In Liverani 1993b:69-90. Milano, Lucio, Sallaberger, Walther, Talon, Philippe, and Van Lerberghe, Karel (cds.) (2004) Third Millellllium CUlleiform Texts from Tell Beydar (Seasons 1996-2002). Subartu 12. Turnhout: Brepols. Miller, Daniel (2005) Materiality: an introduction. In Materiality, edited by D. Miller. Durham: Duke University Press, pp. 1-50. Moore, Henrietta (2000) Ethics and ontology: why agents and agency matter. In Dobres and Robb 2000b:25963. Oates, David, Oates, Joan, and McDonald, Helen (eds.) (2001) Excavations at Tell Brak. Vol. 2, Nagar in the Third Millellnium Be. Oxford: British School of Archaeology in Iraq. Pauketat, Timothy (2001) Practice and history in archaeology: an emerging paradigm. Anthropological Theory 1:73-98. -(2007) Chiefdoms alld Other Archeological Delusions. New York: AltaMira. Peltenburg, Eddie (2007) Enclosing the ancestors and the growth of socio-political complexity in Early Bronze Age Syria. In Bartoloni and Benedettini 2007:91-124. Porter, Anne (2000) Mortality, MOllllments and Mobility: Ancestor Traditions and the Trallscendence ofSf~ce. Ph.D. dissertation. University of Chicago. UMI Ref. No. 9957906. Ann Arbor: ProQuest DIgItal Dissertations.
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-(2002a) The dynamics of death. Ancestors, pastoralism and the origins of a third millennium city in Syria. Bulletin of American Schools of Oriental Research 325: 1-36. -(2002b) Communities in conflict: death and the contest for social order in the Euphrates River valley. Near Eastern Archaeology 65.3:156-73. -(2007a) You say potato, I say ... typology, chronology and the origin of the Arnorites. In Marro and Kuzucuoglu 2007:69-115. -(2007b) Evocative topography: experience, time and politics in a landscape of death. In Bartoloni and Benedettini 2007:71-90. -(2009) Beyond dimorphism: ideologies and materialities of kinship as time-space distanciation. In Nomads, Tribes, and the State in the Ancient Near East: Cross-Disciplinary Perspectives, edited by J. Szuchman. Chicago: Oriental Institute Publications, pp. 199-223. -(n.d.) Of bricks and bodies: materiality, power and the individual in Near Eastern archaeology. Unpublished manuscript. Sallaberger, Walther (2007) From urban culture to nomadism: a history. In Marro and Kuzucuoglu 2007:41756. Sallaberger, Walther and Ur, jason (2004) Tell BeydarINabada in its regional setting. In Milano et al. 2004: 51-71. Saunders, Rebecca (2001) Negotiated tradition? Native American pottery in Mission Period Florida. In The Archaeology of Traditions, edited by T. Pauketat. Gainesville: University of Florida Press, pp. 77-93. Schwartz, Glenn (2007a) Taking the long view on collapse: a Syrian perspective. In Marro and Kuzucuoglu 2007:45-67. -(2007b) Status, ideology and memory in third millennium Syria: 'Royal' Tombs at Umm al Marra. In Performing Death: Social Analyses of Funerary Traditions in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean, edited by N. Laneri. Chicago: Oriental Institute Publications, pp. 39-68. Silliman, Stephen (2001) Agency, practical politics and the archaeology of culture contact. Journal of Social Archaeology 1.1: 190-209. Smith, Adam T. (2001) The limitations of doxa: agency and subjectivity from an archaeological point of view. Journal of Social Archaeology 1.2: 155-71. Sommerfeld, Walther (2000) Naram-Sin, die 'Grosse Revolte' und MAR.TUki. In Assyriologica et Semitica. Festschrift fur Joachim Oelsner, edited by j. Marzahn and H. Neumann. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 252. Munster: Ugarit-Verlag, pp. 419-36. Stein, Gil (1994) Economy, ritual and power in 'Ubaid Mesopotamia. In Chiefdoms al/d Early States ill the Near East: The Orgallizatiol/al DYllamicsofComplexity, edited by G. Stein and M. Rothman. Monographs in World Archaeology 18. Madison: Prehistory Press, pp. 35-46. -(2001) Understanding ancient state societies in the Old World. In Archaeology at the Millenllium: A Sourcebook, edited by G. Feinman and T. D. Price. New York: Kluwer Academic Press, pp. 353-79. -(2004) Structural parameters and sociocultural factors in the economic organization of north Mesopotamian urbanism in the third millennium B.C. In Archaeological Perspectives 011 Political Ecol/omics, edited by G. Feinman and L. Nicholas. Foundations of Archaeological Inquiry. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, pp.61-78. Steinkeller, Piotr (1993) Early political development in Mesopotamia and the origins of the Sargonic empire. In Liverani 1993b:l07-30. Thomas, julian (2004) Archaeology and Modernity. London: Routledge. Van de Mieroop, Mark (2004) A History of the Ancient Near East, ca. 3000-323 BC. Oxford: Blackwell. Van der Toorn, Karel (1994) Gods and ancestors in Emar and Nuzi. Zeitschrift fl1r Assyriologie 84:38-59. Weiss, Harvey and Courty, Marie-Agnes (1993) The genesis and collapse of the Akkadian Empire: the accidental refraction of historical law. In Liverani 1993b: 131-55. Zettler, Richard (2003) Reconstructing the world of ancient Mesopotamia: divided beginnings and holistic history. Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Oriel/t: Excavating the Relations betl/Jeel/ Archaeology and History in the Study of Pre-Modem Asia {Part 2J 46.1 :3-45.
Agency, Identity, and the Hittite State Gregory McMahon
In the introductory article of their book dedicated to agency in archaeology, Dobres and Robb, while arguing for the validity of agency as a valuable theoretical tool for archaeologists, also acknowledge that 'there is little consensus about what "agency" actually means' (Dobres and Robb 2000:3). Several pages later one finds as well their admission that the most 'contentious' part of using agency theory is in fact defining agency (Dobres and Robb 2000:8, italics mine). As someone trained in the disciplines of philology and history, I find myself in sympathy with this concern over the vagueness of any definition for agency. I can, however, accept the basic notion, developed at great length by social theorists, of a fundamental tension between the individual and society, between agents and structure. However, if we are to apply a theoretical principle developed by, and possibly for, modern societies to the ancient Near East, we must bear in mind that the modern world (starting perhaps even as early as Classical Greece) places an emphasis on individual worth and independence of thought and action which did not necessarily characterize Near Eastern antiquity. If we are to sort out that basic agent-structure tension we must bear in mind that what sociologists may think of as social norms or constraints was construed by the ancients (Hittites, for example) partially as the expectations of their deities, and partly as the models which their ancestors or dynastic predecessors attempted to establish, to affect their decisions directly. Sometimes minimized by modern scholars, the structure created by perceived divine will appears to me to provide the expectations which ancients are least likely to ignore. Also conditioning the structure within which even elite agents must act are the political or military actions of other groups, e.g. attacks from other polities, or 'revolts' of previously conquered groups within an empire. We must in addition remind ourselves that agency as a theoretical construct was developed by Western scholars, a group of people most strongly characterized (we hope) by an insistence on thinking for themselves, and famous also for a willingness to believe that they know better what people in other societies are 'really' doing with their decisions and behavior. Agency makes sense as an interpretive tool because it allows scholars to provide some individualism to otherwise nameless individuals, and often can allow us to 'discover' and integrate non-elites into a historical narrative (see Ross, Porter, and Matney, this volume, for similar approaches). This chapter attempts rather to apply the agency concept to an individual depicted in a written text from the early history of Anatolia as we consider the choices made by Anitta of Nda, the first Hittite king (mid- to late 18th century BCE), in response to the structural constraints within which he worked, or which he adapted or attempted to impose. The Hittites, as we call them, created the first large unified polity in Anatolia in the 17th century BCE. Their language, preserved on thousands of clay tablets written in cuneiform and discovered mostly at the site of their capital tIattusa (Turkish Bogazkale, formerly Bogazkoy; see Figure A), is
..
182 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST the oldest attested Indo-European language. The Hittite state is therefore the oldest identifiable Indo-European state. The culture of this society, as revealed by the tablets, is consciously synthetic; the Indo-Europeans seem to have contributed primarily the aggression and organization necessary to unify and control most of central Anatolia, while mythological narratives and their associated rituals were borrowed from the Hattians, an older Anatolian culture. Any group, once it identifies itself as such, will act to protect and further its interests. Since Sargon of Akkad, almost every group in the ancient Near East which became sufficiently organized to leave a historical record, acquired the resources for that recordkeeping apparatus partly through expansion and conquest. If we define an empire as a state which grows by expansion of a core group to encompass territory not 'originally' its own, we can ask the universally applicable question of how empires treat the people and/or the culture of the acquired areas: how in fact they deal with the difficult problem of having potentially created a new structure within which agents must act. This also brings up the question of the degree to which newly incorporated groups may have resisted that structure (see also Matney, this volume, and for groups incorporating elite practice, see Magness, this volume). Successful expansion, of necessity, makes the structure organic, since expanding and conquered groups must inevitably interact. How consciously or unconsciously does the conquering group attempt to create a new synthetic structure, accepting social traditions and expectations from those conquered, or alternatively, to impose elements of its own culture? Does a synthetic approach tend to further the interests of the expanding group? Empires in the ancient Near East provide examples of radically different approaches to this universal problem. In the Hebrew account of the Israelites' entrance into Canaan, the so-called Conquest narrative, the most fundamental structural expectation, communicated in this case as divine will, was the total destruction or driving out of the existing population (Joshua 8:24-28 and passim). In this case the potential benefits of cultural synthesis, as exemplified in the Anitta Text discussed below, were eschewed (although not completely: Judges 1:22-35) because of a perceived divine command. A diametrically opposite approach to the interaction of culture groups under the pressure of imperial expansion may be seen in the policies of Cyrus the Great, who, as he essentially inherited the Assyrian empire via the Neo-Babylonian dynasty, exemplified a possibly unexpected agency in developing his own approach to the problem of multiple cultural groups within the empire. As can be seen in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah, Cyrus's approach to dealing with this universal problem of empires was to allow each cultural group as much autonomy as possible. Although seemingly opposite approaches, both of these examples portray an attempt to prevent, or at least avoid, cultural synthesis. In these cases the expanding group identified itself as different from (and superior to) the groups it was attempting to conquer or control. Late Bronze Age Hebrews and 5th-century Persians share the characteristic not only of perceiving themselves and conquered peoples as different, but also of developing policies to maintain that difference. The books of Samuel and Kings in fact depict the tension between Hebrews who insisted on maintaining a separate identity from the conquered and those who sought a rapprochement, and cultural synthesis, most specifically through the adoption of the conquereds' cult (Judges 2: 13; 1 Samuel 7:3, etc.). One of the only historical traditions from the ancient Near East not controlled by the state through official government versions of events, texts of the Hebrew Bible such as Samuel and Kings provide an unusual glimpse also into the agency of the writers who chose to create and maintain a critique of the intermittent government policy of integrating cultures through adoptive cult. The critique in these texts is consistent, across several generations of anonymous writers, who understood that shared identity for the ancient Hebrews was essential to their survival; it was bound up in language, a distinctive religion, and a group which was theoretically closed to intermarriage with other cultures. The imposed structure of perceived divine will seems to have been meant to preclude human
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agency in the area of cultural exchange or synthesis. The experience of the ten tribes of the northern kingdom of Israel after the Assyrian deportation, apparently irretrievably assimilated with other populations, becomes the incontrovertible example of the necessity of shared identity; the survival of the group became dependent for the remaining Hebrews on closed cultural boundaries. Ultimately this attitude became prescriptive for the Hebrews whether they were the conquering or the conquered (Josephus passim).
The Anitta Text By contrast, the Anitta Text (CTH i 1; Neu 1974; Hoffner 1997), considered the oldest extant 'Hittite' text (that is, written in the Indo-European language we now call Hittite), provides a counterexample of what I will argue is active agency by an individual uniquely poised to rework the political, social, and religious structures of his world. This somewhat cryptic, and partially broken, first person official account of Anitta's reign portrays what we would now recognize as an active agency in balancing several layers of social structure with the exigencies of his unique position. As the oldest extant Indo-European text, the Anitta Text provides an exceptional source for questions about the origins of states and the role of conquest therein, construction of identity between IndoEuropeans and 'native' populations, and a complex of structural parameters which condition agency on the part of Anitta. It also allows us to look at a state-building situation in which the structure, or society, is a moving target, necessarily so in the process of political conflict which also crosses ethnic divisions: Indo-European versus older Hattian Anatolian traditions and politics. I approach this text under the premise that Anitta was of Indo-European ethnic background. This is based on several things. Language is the second most fundamental component of identity, which people who have a choice almost never change or give up. The text is in the Indo-European language now called Hittite. Although it could have been translated when it was copied at tIattusa, the Hittite capital (established in the mid-17th century BCE), there is nothing in the text to suggest that it was not originally in Hittite, presumably Anitta's native language. In addition, Anitta's capital is revealed in the text to be NeSa (=KaneS, modern Ki.i1tepe). The Hittites themselves in the texts from their archives at tIattusa referred to their language as URuniSili or nasili, 'in Nesite', i.e. the language of Nda (CHD L-N:459). This cannot have been what they called their language before Anitta made Nesa his capital; this early Indo-European Anatolian state therefore left its imprint on Hittite political origins. Anitta is therefore likely to have been an Indo-European, and his kingdom centered at Nesa must be connected in a way not completely understood to the later Old Hittite dynasty (ca. 1650-1450 BCE) which established its capital at tIattusa. Anitta as the first 'literate' Indo-European gives us a unique look at how this group, newly established in Anatolia, interacted with 'native' Anatolian culture, which we call Hattian. The structure surrounding Anitta includes all of the above-mentioned components: expectations of and by the divine, ancestors' actions that attempted to affect his decisions directly, attacks from other states outside his political boundaries, 'revolts' within his supposed boundaries, as well as a society whose structural norms were in flux as Indo-European and Hattian culture, in unknown proportions, were forced into some kind of relationship. Given the complex of structure surrounding Anitta, how did he act as an agent within these structural strictures? Does he convince us that agency may include conscious adoption of another society's or ethnic group's strategies? And how does deep interaction among groups affect the agent-structure dynamic?
1. The abbreviations used in this chapter follow the standard list utilized by the Chicago Hittite Dictionary.
,~
184 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST .The ~itta. T ex.t w~s clearly a text considered important by later Hittite kings or perhaps their sCribes, smce It eXists m at least three different copies, ranging in date from the Old Hittite (ca. 1650-1450 BCE) to the New Hittite (ca. 1380-1200 BCE) period. However although it describes Anitta:s destruc~ion o~ the later Hittite capital at tIattusa (Hattian tIattus), his sowing of cress on the rums, and hiS cu~smg of an~one who might rebuild the city, ironically even the oldest copy of the text was found m the archives of tIattusa. Beyond the scope of this chapter is the issue of ljattusili I's apparent decision to rebuild ljattusa despite Anitta's cursing of the site. Anitta's attempt to create structural constraints on his successors, and tIattusili's resistance, apparently illustrate an agency based on considerations of resources and strategic importance which outweighed for tIattu~ili ~ the expectations of Anitta's tradition and the potential danger of divine anger triggered by Anttta s curse. The text is written in first person by Anitta, who initially identifies himself as the son of Pithana king of Kussar. Anitta's actions almost certainly created the nucleus of the Hittite state, and se;'erai questions having to do with his agency in doing so bear examination: 1) How much of Anitta's military conflict with other central Anatolian states was (purportedly) defensive, and how much of it was appar.ently initiated by him? That is, did he consciously set out to enlarge his territory, or was ?e defendl~g a state whose e~rlier expansion was accomplished by his father? Closely related to this IS t~e qu~stton of how conscIOusly he understood the process of building a unified polity out of the various city-states he eventually controlled in Late Bronze Age Anatolia. 2) What deities did Anitta recognize as his primary religious focus, and did he acknowledge both local Anatolian deities or primarily 'Hittite' (Indo-European) gods? 3) To what extent did Anitta inherit a nascent synthesis of Indo-European and Middle Bronze Age Anatolian culture, based on a common agricultural economy, urbanization, organized politics, and long distance trade with Assyria?
Anitta and the Origins of the Hittite State §1 (Thus speaks) ~nitta, son of Pitgana, king of Ku~~ar. Say: (Pitgana) was dear to the Stormgod of the Sky. When (Pltgana) was dear to the Stormgod of the Sky, the king of Nda was ... to the king of Ku~~ar (= Pitgana). §2 "!,he king .of Ku~~ar ca[me] down out of the city (of Ku~~ar) with large numbers and to [ok] Nda durll1g the l1Ight by storm. He captured the king of Nda but did no harm to any of the citizens of Nda. He treated [them] (all) as mothers and fathers (Hoffner 1997: 182).
. In ~he Anit~a .Text, Anit~a's father and predecessor Pitgana is described as residing at Kussar, a city With an orlgmally Hattlc name best known from this text. His city's chief deity is the Stormgod of the.Sky. AlthOl.lgh he occurs in the narrative only in the first two paragraphs of the text, we learn that Pltgana cOI~.sldered the Stormgod a patron deity. The king ofNda, known in the Old Assyrian texts as Kand (Ozgii~ 1999), apparently initiated hostilities against Pitgana, who in return attacked ~esa and captured the. king, but left the citizens of Nesa unharmed. We may presume that the city Itself was also left relatively unharmed, as it becomes clear in the remainder of the two-column text that Anitta had moved his base of operations there. Pitgana in these first two paragraphs emerges as a.local autocrat of a single city-state who acts in self-defense against a (presumably) neighboring c~ty-stat~, and w~ose son adopts the recently defeated neighbor as his base of operations. Did Pltgana m~tall ~l1Itta at Ne.sa as a way of controlling and more directly acquiring the newly defeated state, or.dld Anttta exert hiS ?wn agency in adopting a new site, probably superior to Kussar (based on the richness of the matenal excavated at Kiiltepe)? The text does not make this clear. Pithana also worships as his primary deity a god who was probably the chief deity of a previously nom"adic Ind.o-Europ.ean group, given the relative unimportance of a weather god in what we know of the native HattJan pantheon, and the ubiquity of weather gods in Indo-European pantheons.
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We now turn to the question of Anitta's conscious use of violence and his desire to expand his territory and create a unified polity. Although some of the descriptions are in broken portions of the tablet, and some of the toponyms lost, we can count twelve military actions of one kind or another described by Anitta in his account. These break down into five which are defensive, either in defending what appears already to be an empire by putting down revolts, in the case of tIattus(a)2 twice, or reclaiming stolen state property, the cult statue of 'our god(dess)' taken earlier by the king of Zalpuwa on the Black Sea. Of these five the only instance where Anitta's new capital at Nesa seems to be directly threatened is the second attack by Piyusti of tIattus(a). The two attacks from tIattus(a), and the fact that the second probably threatened Nesa itself, may explain Anitta's decision to attack it later, on his own initiative, when it was in a weakened state. This is the site over which he mentions sowing weeds. It therefore becomes clear in this section that Anitta's father Pitgana was not simply a local autocrat, but had created structural constraints for his son Anitta by acquiring some level of control over neighboring states which had to be reacquired by Anitta when he became king. The incident of the recovery of the statue of 'our god(dess)', which Hoffner argues is tIalmassuit (Hoffner 1997: 183), demonstrates Anitta's involvement in a nexus of states competing for territory and hegemony, or at least security, and involving the gods in the conflict. Del Monte and Tischler (1978) identify this Zalpuwa as the city of the Black Sea attested in many texts; clearly this nexus of competing principalities was quite widespread, if it included both Nesa (Kiiltepe) and a city on the Black Sea. In addition to defending his state, albeit in most cases by putting down revolts, Anitta describes his confrontation with several states on the seven occasions out of twelve in which he is by his own account the aggressor. There are three cities which he not only describes attacking either openly (by day) or stealthily (by night), but which he must have destroyed, since he talks about devoting them (literally 'selling', bappariya-) or 'allotting' them to the Stormgod of Nda, and invokes a curse on any of his successors who might rebuild one of these cities. As noted above, he not only curses tIattus(a) when he finally takes it after two previous indecisive confrontations, but he also sows weeds on the site. In the curse against tIattus(a) it is the Stormgod of the Sky who is appealed to as the guarantor of the curse. This is expected for a god who became the chief god of the Hittite pantheon as evidenced at Yazlhkaya, and who was always one of the leading deities among the gods who guaranteed the oaths and associated curses which secured later Hittite treaties. Thus in all four of the seven offensive campaigns in which he claims to have taken the rival city, he destroyed and cursed the location. In his other three offensive campaigns, two of which were waged against the same city-state, the results were inconclusive, so we do not know if he would have pursued a similar policy of destruction. Anitta seems to have inherited a probably very small empire from his father, part of which he secured by moving his capital to the recently defeated Nda, and other parts of which he had to convince by force of his resolve to maintain control over them. As Klengel points out in his discussion of how the Hittite state arose, it 'developed as the result not of integration but of subordination of neighboring countries' (Klengel2002: 103). Anitta destroyed city-states which he seems to have singled out for offensive action, while apparently attempting to control, but not destroy, other states. These latter were probably already under the control of his father Pitgana, whose defensive action against Nda is noteworthy for its solution to the threat posed by the city in simply removing 2. The Hattian city tIattus predates the Hittite appropriation of it as a capital. After the Hittites took it over, they changed the name slightly to tIattusa-, adding a Hittite stem vowel to facilitate declining it as a Hittite noun. The form tIattus(a) is meant to indicate that when Anitta conquered the city, it was called tIattus, but because his text is in Hittite, it appears there in its Hittite form tIattusa- (RIA 4: 162).
I :j
,,\
186 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST the king while leaving the city intact. Quite possibly Pitbana replaced the king of Nesa with his son Anitta, who in this way made this well-established and prosperous city his capital. Anitta followed his father's pattern of capturing the king of a trouble spot when he brought ijuzziya, king of Zalpuwa, back to Nesa. Did he also attempt to install one of his own on the vacated Zalpuwa throne? He does not say so, and Zalpuwa was probably too far away for him to expect to maintain any control over it anyway. One possible explanation for Anitta's differing treatment of neighboring cities might be shared ethnicity. It is difficult or impossible to know the ethnic makeup of the cities in conflict with Anitta. Certainly tJattus(a) goes back to a Hattian origin, and also had a contingent of Old Assyrian traders located there (RIA 4: 164-65). Nesa (Kand) is famous for its extensive karum controlled by the Old Assyrian traders; it was definitely a Hattian city, but with a significant proportion at the end of the Old Assyrian Colony period (18th century BCE) of Indo-European speakers. Nesa at least might exemplify a hypothetical privileging of certain conquered cities on the basis of Indo-European ethni~ity. Of the three other cities destroyed and cursed, described as enemies (restored) of Nda, tJarklUna only occurs here, Ullamma is attested in the later period, including tJattusili I's (re)conquest and sacking of it, and Tenenda is not listed in del Monte and Tischler (1978), the standard reference on Hittite toponyms.
The Gods of Anitta §14 I built various city (fortifications) in Nda. Behind I built the temple of the Stormgod of the Sky and the temple of our goddess (tIaalma~~uit). §15 I built the temple of tIalma~~uit, the temple of the Stormgod my lord, [and the temple of ... ]. And those goods which I had bought back from my campaign(s) I dedicated(?) to that place. §16 1 made a vow. And [I went on] a hun[t]. On the first day (I captured): two lions, seventy boars, one boar of the cane-brake, and 120 (other) wild animals, whether leopards, lions, mountain sheep, wild sheep, or [... ], and 1 brought this to my city Ne~a (Hoffner 1997:183-84).
We now examine our second question: what deities do Pitbana and Anitta recognize, or seek the approval of? Depending on how we count, there are really only two deities mentioned in the text. The Stormgod of the Sky, described as being favorable to Pitbana in Ku~~ar, I will suggest, may be equated to the Stormgod ofNda, who only occurs (thrice) in §6. In the first occurrence, the Stormgod of Ne~a in the earliest copy, written in the Old Hittite period, alternates with the 'Stormgod of the Sky' in a later copy. The other two examples of the Stormgod of Ne~a are both partially restored, although these restorations are probably correct. Given Anitta's claim in §§ 14-15 to have rebuilt a temple to the Stormgod of the Sky (§14), or to the 'Stormgod my lord' (§15), it is clear that Anitta has brought his predecessor's patron deity with him to Ne~a, perhaps in a conscious decision to promote the chief god of his Indo-European pantheon, to fit into the Anatolian pantheon next to the other major deity discussed in the text: tJalma~suit, the deified throne. This goddess is the other deity for whom Anitta claims to have built a temple in Ne~a after stabilizing his small empire. It is likely that Hoffner is correct in identifying 'our god(dess)' in § 11 with Halma~ ~uit, indicating her centrality in the Nesa cult, since her cult image had been looted from Nesa and was regained with great effort by Anitta (Hoffner 1997: 183). We can imagine that the reacquisition of the cult image of tJalmassuit was the impetus for his building of her temple. However, we must then wonder where her cult image resided in Nesa previous to its looting by Zalpuwa. Was an older temple destroyed when the image was carried away? As argued above, part of the structure which acted upon agents in the ancient Near East is the expectations of the divine. This can be seen in Anitta's §6 selling and allotting to the patron deity of
AGENCY, IDENTITY, AND THE HITIITE STATE
187
his adoptive capital the three cities which he preemptively destroyed. The !ollowing pa~a~rap? of the text makes it clear that the selling and allotting refers to a total destruction of these citIeS, Slllce he then curses any future king who might attempt to rebuild them. He certainly expects the Stormgod to accept such a gift of dead, cursed cities, as indeed Assur is expected to desir: the gi~t.of conquered lands in the Neo-Assyrian annals, or perhaps as Yahweh expects the destructIOn of cities such as Jericho in the Conquest (Joshua 6). . , . There is some uncertainty as to the identity of the god or goddess to whom AnItta s t~lrd temple, listed in §15, is dedicated (Hoffner 1997: 183 n. 25). The New Hittite, d~plicate descn?~s the third temple as dedicated to 'our god(dess)', which would make no ~ense If our go?(dess~ I~ the rest of the text was indeed tJalmassuit, so I acknowledge perpleXIty over the thIrd del~y s identity. Other than that passage, broken away in the Old Hittite copy, the two gods whom Anltta acknowledges in his text are the deities discussed above. What did this first literat: Indo-Europ~an expect of his deities, or believe they expected of him? The Stormgod of the Sky IS ~h,own holdmg Pitbana in special regard. This fits well with the strong tradition in Hattian and HIttIte cU,lture of patron, or tutelary, deities (McMahon 1991). Transferred to Nesa, the Stormgod r:ceIVes t?e thrown down cities from Anitta and is asked to guarantee not only the curse on theIr potential rebuilder (d. Joshua 6:26), but also the curse on any defacer of the tablet on which the account is written, and on anyone who rebuilds tJattus(a). Called 'my lord' by Anitta, he also has a temple built for him. Halmassuit by contrast does not stand behind any of the curses by which Anitta seeks to control his ;uccessors and descendants. If Hoffner is correct in identifying her as 'our god(dess)' then she becomes a casus belli for conflict between Nesa and Zalpuwa, and she receives a new-built temple for her restored cult image. Interestingly, she is also (line 47) called 'their god(dess)' in reference to Hattus(a). The word balmassuitt- is written with both the GIS (wood) and DINGIR (divine name) determinative and is also written with the logogram GlsDAG (throne) in cui tic texts. The name/term derives from ~he Hattic word haltwasuit 'throne, stool' (Friedrich HW:48, 316). This evidence makes it clear that Anitta's seca"nd major deity is a Hattian goddess of the throne. That she is both 'our' (Anitta's/of Nda) and 'their' (pertaining to tJattus(a)) suggests the Hattian origins of both these cities. A deified throne is somewhat unusual, certainly not to be expected of a non-sedentary society; her importance to Anitta may be ind,i:ative of a re!atively ,r~cent ac~uisition b~ IndoEuropeans of the institutions of organIzed pohtlcs. That she IS a tradItIonal deIty of Nda IS clear from the fact that in some unspecified previous time her image was carried off to Zalpuwa. Anitta therefore seems to have developed a pantheon headed by deities which exhibit both gender and cultural complementarity. His.building of.te~ple~ to these ~o ~eities in ~he .Iate,r part of his reign, after stabilizing his small empIre and fortlfymg hIS new caplt~l, IS a c.l~ar mdlc.a~lOn of his synthesis of cultural traditions, a blending of Indo-European and Hattlan tradItIonal deI~Ies and cults. Although each receives a new temple, it is the Stormgod who is expected to take an active role in Anitta's development of structural constraints on his successors through his watchfulness over the several curses described in the text. The one paragraph (§ 16) devoted to Anitta's hunting exploits is,introd~ce? by his state'T,lent that he made a vow. To whom he made this vow is not clear, but hIS deSCrIptIOn of the anImals he captured(?) ends with his statement that he brought them to, his cit.y Nesa. This iS,the first Anatolian description of a king going on a hunt, and looks very much hke Anlr,ra,was follow~ng some expected structural pattern. It could stem from traditional Indo-Europea.n HIttIte culture; If the homeland ,of the Indo-Europeans, presumably between India and Europe, IS the area of the steppes of RUSSIa, hunting must have been a component of their economy and culture. It could equally proba~ly be ~n expectation of Hattian culture; if the wild game li~ted, mostly danger?us game, was aVaIlable 111 central Anatolia in Anitta's day it must have been m the Early and MIddle Bronze Ages as well,
AGENCY, IDENTITY, AND THE HITIITE STATE
188 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST when Hattian culture developed. The famous bronze standards from Early Bronze Age A1aca Hoyiik are primarily or exclusively of wild animals, admittedly herbivorous, and indicate an expected close connection between Hattian culture and animals, and possibly a connection with hunting. There is no animal sacrifice mentioned in the Anitta Text, although its ubiquity in the later official Hittite cult suggests that he must have practiced such sacrifice.
Anitta's Apparent Debt to Hattian Culture Although almost certainly the first identifiable Indo-Europeans, Pit~ana and his successor Anitta demonstrate the potential for cultural synthesis and an ability to adapt local cultural traditions and strategies. Whenever it was that this Indo-European group moved into a position of power, it was long before they acquired the resources to produce this text. In the time it took to acquire those resources, the Indo-Europeans had clearly adapted to sedentary life in Anatolia and show an impressive set of skills, most of which they must have learned from their Hattian (and Assyrian) neighbors and predecessors. An example of borrowed or adapted technology must be the tablet itself. Anitta in §9 mentions a tablet or tablets in or on his gate at Nda, from which he apparently had copied the text onto a clay tablet. Not only has he acquired the ability to write in cuneiform, but he is utilizing written texts as architectural elements. Such use is not even known at the later Hittite state centered at tJ:attusa until the New Hittite period. The form of the cuneiform signs utilized by the Hittite scribes, including on the preserved copies of the Anitta Text, most closely resembles the sign forms and usages of the Old Babylonian scribal system; very probably tJ:attusili I, the first Hittite king we know to claim to have expanded into northern Syria, captured the scribes who created the scribal system of tJ:attusa. Since the Anitta Text clearly predates this, it seems likely that Anitta originally had the tablets he discusses in §9 written in the 'local' cuneiform system, which was that of the Old Assyrian traders. Although the Hattians with whom the Old Assyrian merchants interacted in general do not seem to have borrowed the writing technology used by the Old Assyrians, there are a number of tablets and envelope fragments from the palace at Nesa (6zgi.i~ 1999; Balkan 1957). The famous letter from Anum-Ijirbi of Mama to king Warsama of Kanes, found in a palace at KaneS, is written in Old Assyrian dialect and script, demonstrating the Hattian use of Old Assyrian writing technology, and probably scribes. The very fact that Anitta's account is in Hittite suggests the significance of the cultural change that took place when he took over Nesa as his capital. However, although he utilized what I am convinced was his own language for his text, he very probably borrowed the writing technology from his Hattian predecessors. The tablet(s) on the gate, and Anitta's copied text, were probably written in the Old Assyrian script of the time, and only copied later, at tJ:attusa, in the adoptive Old Babylonian script brought by tJ:attusili I from Syria. Anitta must have adapted writing from locally available patterns, but he seems to have moved beyond his Hattian models of statecraft, seeing the potential for this technology in crafting this unique res gestae narrative, which is not evidenced before him. The text, as discussed above, also makes clear Anitta's incorporation of a probably IndoEuropean weather god into the cult of his new capital, as well as his acceptance of a traditional Hattian deity, including a commitment to return her image to NeSa despite the danger and expense of a campaign to Zalpuwa. What is more remarkable is Anitta's decision to build new temples for the two deities who playa role in his narrative. This does not of course mean that he, or the IndoEuropeans, had necessarily acquired the ability to build monumental structures, but they had at least come to understand the centrality of public building as an expression of power and of both devotion and debt to the divine. The Hattians had already developed a tradition of monumental architecture, as evidenced by the remains of the structures on the city mound at Kanes (6zgii~ 1999).
189
Anitta's appropriation of Nesa, moving the state's capital there, whether b~fore or after his succession upon Pitbana's death, also reminds us that he saw the n~:d for a City as a center of operations, that he understood the usefulness of taking over. a ~radlt1onal cente~ of we~lth and power. He was able either to incorporate his father's patron deity lIlto the cult of hiS new City, or to syncretize that deity with an existing weather deity of Nda. f h fi Anitta also demonstrates an awareness of statecraft in his narrative. Given the events 0 t erst section of the narrative, it is clear that his father had already placed this st~te, then centered at Kussar in competition with neighboring principalities. Possibly this proVided the pattern for Anitta'~ use of hierarchy even among the kings of the region. Certainly he had already lea~ned ~~~ to create a vassal king, as attested in the final paragraph, ~19, by H~ffne.r's coun~ Year) Five o. :s reign. Not only does the 'man' (ruler) of Purusbanda provide expensive gifts (of tnb~te.) to Anl~t , but he accompanies him to Nesa, and sits before Anitta in the .inner ch~~ber. Is Anltta develo plll the strategy of binding vassal kings to him, manifested later 111 the HIttite development of vassa treaties which were such an essential element of their imperial administ~ati~n? Anitta exhibits a sophisticated approach to kingship and statecraft which ~s ~erhaps unexpected in someone whom we consider the first identifiable Hittite king. He works Wlthlll several struct~ral systems, including the expectations of his father (and possibly earlier generations), the expectatIOns of the divine, 'native' Hattian political and social models, and an I~?o-Eu~opean ba~kground. Within these structures he makes decisions and appropriates opportumtles which allow ~Im at least to claim credit as the first Indo-European to leave a written record and thereby to claim to have begun the process of forging the first unified polity in Anatolia.
1
References Balkan, Kel11al (1957) Letter of Killg Allum-Hirbi to King Warshama of Kanish. Ankara: Tiirk T~r~h Kurul11u. del Monte, Giuseppe F. and Tischler, Johann (1978) Die Orts- und Gewiissern.ame~ der hethltlsche Texte. Repertoire Geographique des Textes Cuneiforl11es 7. Wiesbaden: Dr. Lud;Vlg Relche~t Verlag. . Dobres, Marcia-Anne and Robb, John E. (2000) Agency in archaeology: paradigm or platitude? In Agency In Archaeology, edited by M.-A. Dobres and J. E. Robb. London: .Rou~ledge, ?p. 3-17. Ebeling, Erich and Meissner, Bruno (1928-) Reallexikon der ASSYrlologte. Berlm: Wa~ter de Gruyter .. H o ff nel,. H arr YA., Jr . (·1997) Proclamation of Anitta of Kussar. In The Context of Scrtpture, Vol. I, edited by W. Halla and K. L. Younger, Jr. Leiden: Brill, pp. 182-84. . Josephus (1959) The Jel/Jish War, translated by G. A. Williamson. Harmondsworth: Pengull1 Book~. .. Klengel, Horst (2002) Problems in Hittite history, solved and unsolved. I~ Recent Dev~lopments In Hltttte Archaeology and History, edited by K. A. Yener and H. A. Hoffner,Jr. WlI10na Lake: Eisenbrauns, pp. 101-
w.
K!' 9.
j" g (1998) Wer lehrte die Hethiter das Schreiben? Zur Palaographie fri.iher Texte in akkadischer lor Bogazko"y' Skizze einiger Uberlegungen und vorlaufiger Ergebnisse. In III. U1uslararasl placle aus , . . . I d' db SAl dA Hititoloji KOllgresi Bildirileri. Acts of the JIIrd International Congress of HI ttl to ogy, e Ite y. pan . Suel Ankara' MUze Eserleri Turistik YaYll1larI, pp. 365-75. . McMah~n, G're'~ory (199 J) The Hittite State Cult of the Tutelary Deities. Assyriological Studies 25. ChICago:
II1sge~,
The Oriental Institute. . ' Nell Erich (1974) De,. A/lilta-Text. Stlldien Zll den Bogazkoy-Texten 18. Wlesbaden: Harrassowltz .. Ozg;i\;, Tahsin (1999) Killtepe-Ka/lis/Nda Saraylarl. ve Mabetleri. The Palaces and Temples of KaltepeKa/lis/Nda. Ankara: TUrk Tarih Kurlll11l1 Basimevi.
IV. BEYOND AGENCY
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13
Beyond Agency Identity and Individuals in ArchaeologyA. Bernard Knapp
Introduction Over the past decade, archaeologists from several cultural areas have wrestled with concepts of 'agency' and 'identity', and often have assumed-consciously or not-the existence of individuals (e.g. Johnson 1989; Dobres and Robb 2000; Barrett 2001; Meske1l2001; Hodder 2003; Gardner 2003; Kristiansen 2004:83-85). Moore (2000:260) pointed out in a volume dedicated to unravelling the concept of 'agency' that archaeologists tend to conflate agents with 'actors' and so assume that the material evidence of agency is tantamount to evidence for individuals, subjects, or selves. As to 'individuals' in archaeology, Thomas (e.g. 1996:63-64; 2004:147-48) has long challenged assumptions about their existence prior to about 500 years ago. In a recent article, however, Thomas's own assumptions about individuals have been challenged: Knapp and van Dommelen (2008) argue that because experiencing oneself as a living individual is part of human nature, archaeologists can and should explore the existence of individual, embodied lives in prehistoric as well as historical contexts. In the introduction to this volume, the editors present detailed discussions (with references) of several issues germane to agency and identity, much less so on individuals. In what follows, I refrain from reduplicating their efforts, and I do not dwell at any length on the volume's papers as, once again, the editors have done a thorough job. The application of what is termed in this volume 'agency theory' to the field of ancient Near Eastern studies-archaeological or otherwise-is largely unprecedented (note comments in general, by Porter, and on 'object agency' in particular, by Feldman-both this volume). Some case studies inevitably have been more successful than others in grappling with the concepts of agency and identity. My own intention in this regard is to cite relevant examples from the various chapters as I focus my discussion more specifically on how archaeologists might move beyond the concept of agency, and explore the role of (social) identity and individuals in re-presenting the past. Although research in Neolithic Europe and Britain has now shifted the focus of debate from individuals to persons, or personhood (e.g. Fowler 2004; Jones 2005; Kirk 2006), my intention here is to discuss various dimensions of 'individuals' (including personhood), and to ponder how archaeologists have used this concept as an extension of their understanding of agency and social identity.
* I wish to thank the editors, Sharon Steadman and Jennifer Ross, for the invitation to contribute to this volume, and to be involved in this pioneering attempt to bring the somewhat slippery concepts of agency and identity to the attention of a broader swathe of Near Eastern and eastern Mediterranean archaeologists.
194 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
BEYOND AGENCY
Identity in Archaeology Social identity has been defined as the knowledge, value, and significance attached by a person to her/his membership in a social group (Hall 1997:30). Identity thus may be seen as one way that individuals internalize a group's shared norms and values. Although some scholars use the terms identity and ethnicity interchangeably, identity is a more encompassing category that embraces elements such as age, sexuality, class, and gender, as well as ethnicity. It is crucial to distinguish carefully be,tween ,identity and ethnicity, not least because the latter concept remains quite intangible and fhud, whilst the former can be put into specific practice, as the perceptive chapter by Matney on Late Assyrian, Aramaean, and other, local identities demonstrates so well. Whereas 'social identity' has long been a key concept in psychology, only since the 1980s has it become ~art of a wider academic discourse (Rouse 1995; Hall 1996). First seen as a fixed, stable, and creative element of individuals in 'traditional' societies, identity came to be seen by modernists as more mutablc~, per~onal, and self-reflexive (Kellner 1992: 141). Postmodernist positions that deny the concept of IdentIty altogether would present real challenges to archaeological interpretation (Rowlands 1994:141), if they are given any credibility at all (Knapp 1996), Perhaps the most relevant observation for archaeologists is that contemporary social scientists see identity as the product of difference and exclusion, not as an essential sign of unity. Social identity I"?ay usefully be regarded as a construction, always lodged in contingency, process, and change. DIscourses on identity involve not just individuals but collectivities and broader soc,ial grou~ings (antagonistic or cooperative). Although some identities thus may be seen as institutIonally (I,e. structurally) derived, 'personal identity' is a key concept in everyday interactions between individuals. There is no need here, however, to emphasize the distinction between social a,n~ persOl~al iden~ity, as many aspects of one's social identity are taken up into their personal iden~ltIeS, an? mter~ctI~ns b~tween individuals and the society in which they live are repeatedly altered m c,hangmg socIal SItuatIOns (Rowlands 1994: 132). Because most people today belong to multiple natIOnal, class, religious, linguistic, occupational, or other groups, their identities are in fact multiple, invoked for diverse reasons under different circumstances throughout a person's lifetime. DuriI~g ,the~r lif~'~ exp~rience, many people today must negotiate not only divergent but even confllctll1g IdentItIes (FIsher and DiPaolo Loren 2003 :226). Archaeological interest in the concept of identity has grown along with the increasing awareness of the ways that etl~nic, national, and minority groups react when their sense of identity is threatened. ,Archaeolog~ IS ,seen ?S one means to deal with such concerns, because it has-ostensibly-the capacIty to establIsh IdentIty as an enduring and consistent feature of social life (Rowlands 1994: 132). Social lives, as well as social identities, are often closely linked to a particular place, be it at the scale of the community, the neighborhood, or even an individual household. The chapter by Russell and Bogaard (this volume) paints a very clear picture of this intimate association, this 'sense of place' that is so deep and enduring for most people, so engrained in memories and imaginations (Feld and Basso 1996; Mills 2004: 11). Yet identity is not simply a by-product of belonging to a household, neighborhood, or community, nor do people or individuals 'possess' identity. Instead, it must be seen as a transitory, even unstable relation of difference. In terms of materiality, if identity is situational and negotiated as most social scientists now hold then' .. :eac,h pa~h that .crosses another has the potential to produce different ways of materia express,mg IdentIty' (Mills 2004:6). When dealing with identity in archaeology, the challenge is to de~ermll1e when people might adopt different identities, and what kinds of materials might be used to,111vok~ one's social identity. Given the complexities of the multiple and often disjointed data sets WIth whIch we work, archaeologists typically look at identity one-dimensionally, that is, as ethnic
II;
195
identity, class identity, or gender identity (e.g. BrumfieI1992; Marcus 1993; Dietler 1994). Archaeologists gen~rally avoid looking at individual identities or subjective, personal histories; instead they focus on socIal or corporate groups like potters, weavers, priests, or other specialists, and ascribe to the,m objective.' pu?lic practices (Fisher and DiPaolo Loren 2003:226). McMahon (this volume), tramed as an hIstOrIan and philologist, does just the opposite by looking at how Anitta of Nda the earliest known Hittite king, made individual choices within the politico-ideological constraints'that structured his world. Nonetheless, archaeology plays a central role in understanding how materiality is involved in the construction of social identities. The clothes people wear, for example, or the way they adorn their bodies, may be intimately associated with individual identities (on ancient Iran, see Marcus 1993; on colonial Louisiana, see DiPaolo Loren 2001). Certain objects or symbols may be linked to specific (ethnic) identities: e.g, cross = 'Christian'; crescent = 'Muslim'). Mills (2004:5) suggests that unconscious habitual choices may be more useful than intentional choice in distinguishing practices associated with social identities, although Porter (this volume) seems to contest the relevance of Bourdieu and practice theory for studying agency and individuals (see further below, under Agents, Individuals, and Practice). If we agree, however, that identity is established at least in part through difference, then it must be discursive and it must involve the marking of symbolic boundaries. Differences, after all, are crucial in creating distinctive settings for human action, and distinctive actions are the ones that archaeologists can perceive most readily Goyce and Claassen 1997:7). Focusing on symbolism, difference, boundaries, and representation as distinguishable features of the material record should enable archaeologists to recognize practices shared by social groups as well as individuals, and thus help to unravel that tangled web that people spin around their social identity,
Individuals in Archaeology No less difficult a task awaits the archaeologist or ancient historian who seeks to access individuals in material culture, whether the builder of a Late Chalcolithic Anatolian house (Steadman, this volume) or the scribe who wrote a cuneiform text (Ross, this volume). We cannot 'prove' that prehistoric or early historic peoples viewed themselves as individuals, and in any case the entire concept of the individual is a complex, loaded, historically situated term (Shanks and Tilley 1987:62; Hodder and Hutson 2003:121-24), The contributors to this volume, however, seem to agree that individual people are represented in materials as diverse as architecture, statuary or figurines, and painted pottery, or reflected in everything from plant and animal remains to diet to landscape and place. In each case, the authors seek better resolution of specific individuals or representations of persons, households, neighborhoods, and communities, of people who sought to maintain or transform their daily practices as well as their social structures. Discussions concerning 'individuals' in archaeology, particularly in prehistory, are more often implicit than explicit. Like most social scientists, archaeologists typically frame their interpretations by proceeding from society in general to the specific person. Similarly, they tend to ignore, or overlook, or regard as inaccessible the relationship of an individual to society, or the relations of individuals within society, Individuals, or persons, therefore tend to be treated as the disempowered parts of a structural system that has its own dynamics and follows its own rules, Only recently have archaeologists sought to engage with individuals, their identities, their individual bodies, and actual bodily experience in terms of monumentality, representations (figurines, frescoes), jewelry, and ornamentation (e.g. Meske1l1999; Gillespie 2001; Joyce 2003). Elsewhere we have discussed the terms archaeologists typically use when discussing 'individuals' (person, individual, identity, selflselfhood), as well as the five dimensions of 'individuals' (Knapp
196 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST and van Dommelen 2008: 18; also Meskell1999:34-36). Amongst the latter, those that are of most concern to this volume's contributors are:
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Although the last two categories of individuals may seem more accessible and readily verifiable, the papers by Russell and Bogaard in particular but also those of Castro Gessner, Jones, and Magness demonstrate that we can approach the study of agency, identity, and individuals exclusively through archaeological data. Defining and discussing individuals in prehistory has always been regarded as the greater challenge, yet there are studies that treat multiple material dimensions of individuals, persons, and identities throughout time and across space, from the European Upper Palaeolithic (McDermott 1996) through Neolithic Greece (Talalay 1993; 2000:4-5) and Italy (Robb 2002: 16265) to Bronze Age Cambridgeshire (Last 1998) and the Bronze Age Aegean (Renfrew 1994: 167-70; 2001: 135). Knapp and Meskell (1997) discuss Chalcolithic and Bronze Age Cypriot figures in terms of agency and embodied individuals, whilst Frankel (1991:247-49) contemplates the actions of individual artists on prehistoric Cyprus, as Cherry (1992) does for the Bronze Age Aegean. Meskell (1999:8-36), finally, treats the concept of the individual within the material context of Bronze Age Egypt. She also provides a very useful discussion of the historical trajectories that lay behind the emergence of individuals, social actors, and social identities in both material and documentary records (Meske1l2001: 188-95); her study could provide insight for Near Eastern archaeologists interested in all these concepts (cited in this volume, however, only by the editors in their introduction).
Dieder and Herbich (1998), for example, in their case study of the Luo-speaking people of western Kenya, integrated the notion of 'style' with the concepts of chaInes operatoires and habitus in order to analyse the nature and function of social boundaries in constructing identity. They maintained that a dynamic theory of material culture should enable us to understand how human actors are conditioned or constrained by social structure, and in turn how human practice reshapes social structure in the process of reproducing it. For them, Bourdieu's concept of habitus offers the appropriate framework to transcend both structure and agency, and to integrate production techniques with the individuals who make material objects. This dynamic relational perspective makes it possible to see how identity is formed and transformed alongside material culture and in the course of practice. Habitus thus enables us to consider how certain practices reproduce and transform structures as they adjust to various social demands. Continuously repeated and reconfirmed by human action, habitus subconsciously helps to shape what people are and how they view themselves, that is, their identity (Hegmon 1998:273). Habitus thus forms a link between the subjective, internal experience of identity, and the objective, external social context. An archaeological reading of habitus, however, is necessarily somewhat different. If archaeologists want to identify conscious and unconscious practices that reflect on the realm of habitus, what Bourdieu (1977:91) himself called 'the mind born of the world of objects', they need to consider difference as well as similarities on a smaller scale than the level of culture, and to examine identity in relation to both social groups and their individual members. These 'material conditions of existence'-which enable agents to shape and reproduce their habitus-are defined less in terms of individual practice than of basic structures. Unlike agency, habitus is only loosely associated with intentionality but is closely linked to the wider circumstances-or structures-in which people decide on their actions and, indeed, live their lives (Silliman 2001: 192-96). Above all, it is concerned with the relations between individuals and their wider social context.
Agents, Individuals, and Practice
Conclusion
As noted at the outset of this chapter, the connection that many archaeologists make between agency and individuals-namely conflating agency with 'actors' and thus with individuals-is falsely conceived. Contra Porter's views (this volume), at least some archaeologists feel that part of the problem rests with the way Giddens (1984: 1-28), a sociologist whose main concern is with modernity, embodies his actors with an ethnocentric if not androcentric individualism (e.g. MacGregor 1994:80-85; Gero 2000:37-38), and the way he emphasizes the intentionality of agents and of agency in general (Gardner 2003 :6). In order to make the notion of agency meaningful to archaeologists and ancient historians, we should recognize instead that agency is not only variable but socially constructed (Ortner 2006: 136-37), just as individuals are a product of their social and cultural context. Whereas we cannot usefully conceive of agency without individuals, agency exists primarily in the relationships between individuals (Shennan 2003), or between individuals and objects (Feldman, this volume). And archaeologists have a somewhat unique capacity to examine and evaluate the social aspects of material practices: Castro Gessner's paper on decorated Halaf pottery in northern Mesopotamia stands out as a remarkable achievement in this regard. Like Castro Gessner, we have argued elsewhere that archaeologists can best confront the notion of agency by paying more attention to Bourdieu's practice theory (Knapp and van Dommelen 2008 :22-23). Key to practice theory is the concept of habitus, schemes that produce regular, goaldirected (not necessarily conscious), habitual acts and representations (Bourdieu 1977: 72; 1990: 52-65). The concept of habitus is attractive to archaeologists because it offers the potential to conceive of a materially constructed world that both generates and constrains people's everyday social experiences.
As the various chapters in this volume have shown, at times people act in unique and not so unique roles within their households, neighborhoods, communities, and landscapes, even in their attempts to conform to divine strictures, and structures. Crucially, however, they always do so as members of social 'collectivities' (Meskell 1999:22). Thus there are two levels at work: (1) the social level on which identities are framed and defined by formal relations or rules of conduct, and (2) the personal level, on which an individual's multiple identities are experienced within a single subjectivity (Meske1l2001: 189, 193). Archaeologists confront both of these entangled levels as they struggle to come to terms with individuals, agency, and practice. Thus Barrett (2001: 149) comments: 'Certainly individuals act as agents and certainly agency operates through the bodies of individuals, but [the concept of] agency must also include the operation of collectivities extending beyond the individual's body and their own lifespan'. Almost twenty years ago, Moore (1990: 111) emphasized that' ... the social world is made up of individuals who speak and act in meaningful ways; these individuals create the social world which gives them their identity and being'. The view that identity results from a discourse between the individual and society indicates that the self is not some inner, essentialist core, but rather is constantly altered by changes in social situations. However much we may question the meaning or relevance of individuals in the past, archaeologists need to move beyond agency in their attempts to analyze social practices, and above all keep in mind the 'sensual and experiential person' (David 2005:194). People may hold very specific notions about their individuality in any given time and place, as well as certain beliefs about their own individual capacities. Moreover, individual difference and variation will be compounded by experiences resulting from factors such as one's age,
1. 2. 3.
individuals as distinguished through their actions as architects, artists, or craftspeople, or through their use of technological styles (Steadman, Castro Gessner); representations of individuals in iconography, architecture or documentary evidence (Ross, Feldman); historically known individuals such as Hittite or Akkadian kings (McMahon, Porter).
198 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST status, sex, class, life cycle, and so forth. But experiencing oneself as a living individual, it must be reiterated, is part of human nature (Knapp and van Dommelen 2008:24), and we will never co~e to terms with concepts such as 'agency' and 'identity' unless we can conceive of individuals as active participants in society.
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joumal of Allthropological Archaeology 20:73-112. Hall, Jonathan M. (1997) Ethnic Identity in Greek Alltiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hall, Stuart (1996) Introduction. Who needs 'identity'? In Questions of Cultumildentity, edited by S. Hall and P. du Gay. London: SAGE, pp. 1-17. Hegmon, Michelle (1998) Technology, style, and social practices: archaeological approaches. In Stark 1998:264-79. Hodder, Ian (ed.) (2001) Archaeological Theory Today. Cambridge: Polity Press. -(2003) Agency and individuals in long-term processes. In Archaeology Beyond Dialogue, edited by I. Hodder. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, pp. 83-92. Hodder, Ian and Hutson, Scott (2003) Reading the Past: Current Approaches to Interpretation ill Archaeology. 3rd edn. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
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Johnson, Matthew H. (1989) Conceptions of agency in archaeological interpretation. journal ofAnthropologi-
cal Archaeology 8:189-211. Jones, Andrew (2005) Lives in fragments? Personhood and the European Neolithic. journal of Social
Archaeology 5:193-224. Joyce, Rosemary A. (2003) Making something of herself: embodiment in life and death at Playa de los Muertos, Honduras. Cambridge Archaeological journal 13 :248-61. Joyce, Rosemary A. and Claassen, Cheryl (1997) Women in the ancient Americas: archaeologists, gender, and the making of prehistory. In Women in Prehistory: North America alld Mesoamerica, edited by C. Claassen and R. Joyce. Regendering the Past 1. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, pp. 1-14. Kellner, Douglas (1992) Popular culture and the construction of postmodern identities. In Modernity and Identity, edited by S. Lash and J. Friedman. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 141-77. Kirk, Trevor (2006) Materiality, personhood and monumentality in Early Neolithic Britain. Cambridge Archaeological journal 16:333-47. Knapp, A. Bernard (1996) Archaeology without gravity? Postmodernis1l1 and the past. journal of
Archaeological Method and Theory 3:127-58. Knapp, A. Bernard and Meskell, Lynn M. (1997) Bodies of evidence on prehistoric Cyprus. Cambridge Archaeological journal 7: 183-204. Knapp, A. Bernard and van Dom1l1e1en, Peter (2008) Past practices: rethinking individuals and agents in archaeology. Cambridge Archaeological joumaI18.1: 15-34. Kristiansen, Kristian (2004) Genes versus agents: a discussion of the widening theoretical gap in archaeology. Archaeological Dialogues 11 :77-132. Last, Jonathan (1998) Books of life: biography and memory in a Bronze Age barrow. Oxford journal of
Archaeology 17:43-53. MacGregor, G. (1994) Post-processual archaeology: the hidden agenda of the secret agent. In Archaeological Theory: Progress or Posture, edited by I. Mackenzie. Aldershot: Avebury, pp. 79-91. Marcus, Michelle I. (1993) Incorporating the body: adornment, gender, and social identity in ancient Iran. Cambridge Archaeological journal 3: 157-78. McDermott, LeRoy (1996) Self-representation in Upper Paleolithic female figurines. Current Anthropology 37:227-75. Meskell, Lynn (1999) Archaeologies of Social Life: Age, Sex, Class et cetera in Ancient Egypt. Blackwell: Oxford. -(2001) Archaeologies of identity. In Hodder 2001:187-213. Mills, Barbara J. (2004) Identity, feasting, and the archaeology of the greater Southwest. In Identity, Feasting, alld the Archaeology of the Greater Southwest, edited by B. J. Mills. Boulder: University Press of Colorado, pp.1-23. Moore, Henrietta (1990) Paul Ricoeur: action, meaning and text. In Reading Material Culture, edited by C. Tilley. Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 85-120. -(2000) Ethics and ontology: why agents and agency matter. In Dobres and Robb 2000:259-63. Ortner, Sherry (2006) Allthropology alld Social Theory: Culture, Poweralld the Actillg Subject. Durham: Duke University Press. Renfrew, Colin (1994) The identity of Europe in prehistoric archaeology. jOllmal of EUI'O/Jeall Archaeology 2:153-73. -(2001) Symbol before concept: material engagement and the early development of society. In Hodder 2001: 122-40. Robb, John (2002) Time and biography: osteobiography of the Italian Neolithic lifespan. In Thinking Through the Body: Archaeologies of Corporeality, edited by Y. Hamilakis, M. Pluciennik, and S. Tarlow. New York: Kluwer/Plenum, pp. 137-71. Rouse, Roger (1995) Questions of identity: personhood and collectivity in transnational migration to the United States. Critique of Anthropology 15 :351-80. Rowlands, Michael J. (1994) The politics of identity in archaeology. In Social Construction of the Past: Represelltatioll as Power, edited by G. C. Bond and A. Gilliam. One World Archaeology 24. Routledge: London,pp.129-43.
200 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Shanks, Michael and Tilley, Christopher (1987) Social Theory and Archaeology. Cambridge: Polity Press. Shennan, Stephen (2003) An evolutionary perspective on agency in archaeology. In Gardner 2003:19-31. Silliman, Stephen (2001) Agency, practical politics and the archaeology of culture contact. Journal of Social Archaeology 1:190-209. Stark, Miriam T. (ed.) (1998) The Archaeology of Social Boundaries. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press. Talalay, Lauren E. (1993) Deities, Dolls, and Devices: Neolithic Figurines from Franchthi Cave, Greece. Excavations at Franchthi Cave 9. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. -(2000) Archaeological ms.conceptions: contemplating gender and the Greek Neolithic. In Representations of Gender from Prehistory to the Present, edited M. Donald and L. Hurcombe. London: Macmillan, pp. 3-16. Thomas, Julian (1996) Time, Culture and Identity. London: Routledge. -(2004) Archaeology and Modernity. London: Routledge.
About the Contributors
Amy Bogaard is a lecturer in the School of Archaeology, University of Oxford. Her current projects include the archaeobotany of Neolithic-Early Chalco lithic <;atalhoyiik, ethnoarchaeological work on plant cultivation/processing/storage in central-northern Turkey and the development of new stable isotope applications in archaeobotany to infer the nature of early farming methods. Her publications include Neolithic Farming in Central Europe (Routledge, 2004). Scott Branting is the Director of the Center for Ancient Middle Eastern Landscapes and a Research Assistant Professor at the University of Chicago. His research interests include GIS/mapping, imaging/visualization and modeling/simulations. He is the co-director of the Kerkenes Dag excavations in Turkey. A. Gabriela Castro Gessner is a research associate at the State University of New York at Binghamton and a Reference Specialist at Cornell University. Her research interests include the social production of knowledge, anthropological perspectives on technology, and social archaeology. She has excavated in Turkey, Azerbaijan and the United States. She has co-authored articles for Istanbuler Mitteilungen and the Chacmool Conference Proceedings and is currently working on a co-edited volume on the site of Flstlkh Hoyiik in southeastern Turkey. Marian H. Feldman is an associate professor in the departments of the History of Art and Near Eastern Studies at the University of California, Berkeley. She specializes in the visual cultures of the ancient Near East and the pre-Classical eastern Mediterranean. She is the author of Diplomacy by Design: Luxury Arts and an 'International Style' in the Ancient Near East, 1400-1200 BCE (University of Chicago Press, 2006) and the co-editor of Ancient Near Eastern Art il1 Context: Studies in Honor of Irene J. Winter by Her Students (Brill, 2007) and Representations of Political Power: Case Histories from Times of Change and Dissolving Order in the Ancient Near East (Eisen brauns, 2007). Jennifer E. Jones is an associate professor of anthropology at the University of Minnesota, Duluth. She has conducted archaeological fieldwork in the United States, Turkey, Jordan and Iraq. Her research interests include complex societies and ceramic production. She is currently conducting research at the Early Bronze Age site of e1-Lejjun in Jordan. A. Bernard Knapp is a Senior Research Fellow at the Cyprus American Archaeological Research Institute and Professor Emeritus of Mediterranean Archaeology in the Department of Archaeology, University of Glasgow. He co-edits the Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology with John F. Cherry and Peter van Dommelen, and is general editor of the series Monographs in Mediterranean Archaeology (both published by Equinox Press, London). His most recent book is: Prehistoric and Protohistoric Cyprus: Identity, Insularity, and Connectivity (Oxford University Press, 2008).
202 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST Jodi Magness is the Kenan Distinguished Professor for Teaching Excellence in Early Judaism in the Department of Religious Studies at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Since 2003 Magness has co-directed excavations in the Late Roman fort at Yotvata, Israel. Her books include The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls (Eerdmans, 2002) and The Archaeology of the Early Islamic Settlement in Palestine (Eisen brauns, 2003).
Index
Timothy Matney is an associate professor of archaeology at the University of Akron. He was the codirector of the Titri§, Hoyiik excavations from 1994-1999 and has been the director of the Ziyaret Tepe excavations from 1997 to the present, both in southeastern Turkey. His research focus is urbanism in the Early Bronze through Iron Ages. Gregory McMahon is an associate professor of history at the University of New Hampshire. He has contributed articles to the Anchor Bible Dictionary, Biblical Archaeologist, and Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. His monograph, The Hittite State Cult of the Tutelary Deities, appeared in 1993. He is co-editor with Sharon Steadman of the forthcoming Oxford Handbook of Ancient Anatolia. He is co-director of the <::adlr HoyUk excavations in central Turkey. Anne Porter is an assistant professor at the University of Southern California. She engaged in extensive fieldwork during the 1980s at sites ranging from Neolithic Qasr Burgu, Jordan, and Jerf al Ahmar, Syria, to Late Bronze el Qitar in Syria. As co-director of the Euphrates Archaeology Project at the Tell Banat settlement complex during the 1990s she concentrated on the 3rd millennium, reexamining fundamental theoretical perspectives underpinning topics as diverse as ceramic chronologies, mortuary practices, state formation, and mobile pastoralism. Jennifer C. Ross is an associate professor of art and archaeology at Hood College. She is an Assistant Director of the <::aclir HoyUk excavations in Tlll'key, and has published articles on topics ranging from ideology and representation in Mesopotamia to metalllll'gical technologies in the Near East. Her current research is on the intersection of technology with social transformation at the dawn of urbanism in Mesopotamia. Nerissa Russell is an associate professor of anthropology and archaeology at Cornell University. She is a zooarchaeologist working mainly at Neolithic sites in the Near East and Eastern Europe. She has been a member of the animal bone team at <::atalhoyi.ik since 1995. She is interested in all aspects of human-animal relations, particularly the social and symbolic uses of animals. Sharon R. Steadman is an associate professor of anthropology at the State University of New York College at Cortland. She is the author of studies on ceramics, architecture, and interregional interaction analysis in Anatolia, and recently published a book on The Archaeology ofReligiol1. She is the Field Director of the <::adlr Hoyiik excavations in Tlll'key.
II"
Agency archaeological record and, 3-4 architecture in, 28-29 Chaine operatoire concept (see Chaine operatoire) defined, 1, 100, 103, 112, 149-50, 171, 181 distributed, 150 Early Bronze Age and, 16-17, 23-24 groups and individuals in, 23-24 identity vs., 8-9 individualism in, 29, 47, 196-97 as interpretive tool, 181 issue of scale, 2-3 material culture and, 29, 168-69 Near Eastern archaeology and, 166-67 object as, 5-6, 148-51, 159-61, 173 place of, 23-24 social change and, 14 subalterns and subordinates, 7 technology studies and, 80-81 (see also Technology) textual corpus and, 4-5 as theoretical construct, 181 time-geography and, 6, 48-51 visual perception and, 157 Agency-based research, 28 Agent-based modeling, 54-55 Agents. see also Agency architectural toolkits and, 31-36 in conservative settings, 30-31 social groups as, 28 Agricultural investments at el-Lejjun, Jordan, 20 Ahearn, Laura, 100, 103 AN (DINGIR) sign, 87 Anatolia/Anatolian Plateau Assyrians and, 133-34 <;adir HoyUk, 40-42 casting methods in, 84 <;atalhoyiik,63-64 conservative settings in, 30-31 ethnic identity and, 131 Groovy Pottery, 139 Hacilar,36-38 Hoyiicek,38-39
Iron Age in, 129-30 Kurw,ay HoyUk, 39-40 map of, 130 plant gathering, 65 Animal foods consumption, 72-73 discard, 73-74 processing, 69 production, 66-67 Animal symbolism, 64 Anitta gods of, 186-88 Hattian culture and, 188-89 and Hittite State, 184-86 The Anitta Text, 183-84 Apprenticeship, 102, 109, 113 Archaeological record, 3-4 Archaic Metals List, 86 Archaic Vessels List, 90 Architectural conservatism, 30-31 Architecture in agency, 28-29 analytical tools, 31 architectural conservatism, 30-31 architectural toolkits and, 31-36 at <;adir HoyUk, 40-42 conformity in, 30-31, 35, 69, 74-75 ethnic markers in, 29 feudalism and, 33, 35-36 Groovy Pottery, 138-40 at Hacilar, 36-38 at Hoyiicek, 38-39 human behavior and, 29 at Kuru~ay Hoyiik, 39-40 orientation and placement, 38 power and, 31-34 religion and, 34-36 social identity markers, 32, 131 symbolism and, 34 at Uruk, 82 Arpachiyah, 99 Assyria/Assyrian Empire deportees, 136-37 ethnicity and, 131-32 expansion of, 136
204
INDEX
AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST
geographic/chronological boundaries, 13335 identity and, 134 Iron Age identity, 135-38 major centers of, 135 national identity, 129-30 Banquets. see Feasting Barrett, John, 18-19,23, 197 Berber house, 34 Bogazkoy, 2, 181-82. see also Hattus(a) Bone grease, 71, 72 Bourdieu, Pierre, 34, 102, 103, 169-72, 197 Boztepe, 142 Butchery practices, 69 <;adir Hoyilk, 40-42 Casseroles, 119 <;atalhoyilk background,63-64 conformity at, 74-75 crop husbandry, 65 food consumption at, 72-73 food processing at, 67-69 food production, 64-67 food storage at, 70-71 food waste at, 73-74 subsistence activities at, 74-75 Ceramic production change in, 118-19 Chinese pottery, 123 crosshatch patterns, 109 effects on diet, 120 of Fistikli Hoyilk, 104-106 food preparation and, 119-20 Groovy Pottery, 138-40 in Halaf period, 104-106 Palestinian, 118-19, 123-24 Uruk period, 88-93 Ceramic typologies, 16 Cereal processing, 68 Chaine operatoire in architectural layout, 29 crosshatch study using, 107, 110-11 defined, 6 identity construction, 197 movement using, 48, 56, 57 for plant and animal foods, 64 in pottery manufacture, 56, 106-108 Chinese Neolithic Yangshao period, 32-33, 35 Clay figurines, 89 Clay plaques, 156-57 Community vs. individuals, 75 Conformity in architecture, 30-31, 35, 69, 7475 Conservative settings and agents, 30-31
Cooperative labor, 69 Craft production, 19-20, 81-83, 88-89, 100, 101-102 Crop husbandry, 65 Crop production, 64-65 Crosshatch patterns, 107-11 Cuneiform, 85, 93,131-36,188 Cyrus the Great, 182 Data collection in Early Bronze Age, 17
The Dependent Scholar (Lucian), 122 Diet at <;atalhoyilk, 66, 74-75 Early Islamic period, 120 Roman, 121 Dieder, Michael, 101, 172, 197 Dimorphic structure, 131-32 DINGIR symbol, 173-75 Diorama, 49 Discarded food, 73-74 Discursive consciousness, 102-103, 172 Discursive knowledge, 102, 108, 171-73, 176 Distributed agency, 150 Divine will, 181-83 Double hermeneutic, 150 Doxa,102 DUGxX signs, 92 Early Bronze Age (EBA) agency theory and, 16-17,23-24 data collection in, 17 eI-Lejjun, Jordan, 19-23 menhir line in, 23 movement as framing device in, 17-19 site scale in, 15 social change in, 13-14 in Southern Levant, 15-16 Early Iron Age, 138 Early Islamic period diet, 120 foods in, 117-18, 121-22 glazed pottery in, 118-19 tableware, 123-24 EBA. see Early Bronze Age (EBA) EI-Lejjlln, Jordan age of, 19 ideology at, 21-23 life aspects at, 20-21 map of, 19 menhir line at, 21-23 Embodied knowledge, 85, 100 Ethnicity, 8, 29, 131-32, 186 Europe and the People Without History (Wolf), 14 Existence, 171 Exotic wares, 140 Expediency in skill development, 113
Feasting, 72-73, 120-21, 122 Feminist-inspired research programs 17 ' Feng Shui, 35 Feudalism and architecture, 33, 35-36 Fistikli Hoyilk building tradition at, 108-13 painted pottery at, 104-106 Food abandonment/discard, 73-74 ceramic production and, 119-20 consumption, 72-73 in Early Islamic period, 117-18, 121-22 innovations in, 117-18 processing, 67-69 production, 64-67 risk reduction, 66-67 storage, 70-71 Fruit stands, 42 Gell, Alfred, 5, 149, 150 Geographic space, 17-19. see also Spatial relationships Geometric motifs, 106 Gestures, 99-100, 106, 108, 109 Giddens, Anthony, 1,50, 102, 103, 169-72, 196 Giricano Tepe, 142 GIS-T,53 Governance and law, 159-61, 182 Gre Dimse, 143 Groovy Pottery, 138-40 Habitus, 2,102,170,172,196-97 Hacilar, 36-38 Hakemi Use, 141 Halaf period, 99, 100, 104 Halmassuit, 187 Hammllrabi, 152-54, 158 Hattus(a), 181-85. see also Bogazkoy Herbich, Ingrid, 101, 172, 197 Hirbemerdon Tepe, 143-44 Hittites, 181-82, 184-86 Horns, profile, 153-54, 157 Household community vs., 75 storage capacities, 70, 71 HoyUcek, 38-39 HoyUcek Shrine map, 37 Hunting, 67 Identity agency vs., 8-9 in archaeology, 194-95 defined, 1 Groovy Pottery and, 138-40 individual, 150 personal identity, 194-95 social identity, 194-95 source material and, 129-33
205
Imperial expansion, 182 Imperial identities, 7. see also Rulerships Imperial landscapes, 8 Individual identity. see Identity Individualism in archaeology, 195-96 in material culture, 195-96 Western influence on study of, 172 Individuals vs. community, 75 Intentionality of agents, 103, 145, 166-67, 172, 196 architecture and, 29 free will and, 172 habitus and, 197 identity and, 140 of an individual, 31, 70 knowledge and, 171-72 object agency and, 5, 80-81, 149 spatial relationships and, 8 Investiture Scene, 155-56 Iron Age identity, 135-38 Irrigation methods, 118 Jemdet Nasr period, 81 Kenan Tepe, 142 Kerkenes Dag, 51-53, 56-57 Khafajah plaque, 156 Kingships. see Rulerships Knapp, A. Bernard, 172, 193, 196 Knowledge, 101-102, 108, 172-73 Kramer, Carol, 70, 102 KU3 sign, 87-88 KUrLu;ay Hoyiik, 39-40 Kuvu§an Tepe, 141 Land of Assur, 134 Landscape belonging and, 49 movement across, 17-18 phenomenology of, 35 spatial ideologies and, 7-8 Law and governance, 159-61, 182 Learning and technological knowledge, 101-102 Lexical texts ceramic production, 91-93 metallurgy and, 85 writing technology and, 93-94 Literacy in ancient Near East, 5 Longue duree, 52 Lucian of Samosata, 122 Markers, architectural, 29, 32 Marriage roads, 18 Marxist-inspired research programs, 17 Material culture agency and, 29 identity and, 194-95
206 AGENCY AND IDENTITY IN THE ANCIENT NEAR EAST individualism in, 195-96 movement and, 168 in prehistoric context, 27 Mellaart, James, 36, 70 Menhirs at el-Lejjun, Jordan, 21-23 Mensae primae, 120 Mensae secundac, 120 Meskell, Lynn, 172, 196 Metallurgy, 82, 84-88 Metals list, 85-87 Microstyles, 101 Model-based archaeology, 4 Modeling movement. see Movement Monumental stones, 22 Moortgat, Anton, 154-55, 157 Motifs, painted, 105, 106, 109 Movement agent-based modeling, 54-55 defined, 47 in Early Bronze Age, 17-19 as framing device, 17-19 GIS-T,53 interconnection between activities and, 53 material culture and, 168 modeling ancient, 51-56 modeling results, 55-56 over landscape, 14 paths, 48-49 prisms, 48 SHULGI, 54-55 in southern Levant, 17 textual evidence and, 51 time-geography, 48-50 transportation modeling, 53 Mt'isliimantepe, 143 Nagar, 174-75 Naram-Sin, 171, 172-75 Neolithic age architecture and, 30, 38-39 ceramic production, 104-13 food consumption in, 72-73 food processing in, 67-69 food production in, 64-67 food storage in, 70-71 food waste in, 73-74 Halaf period, 104 plant food storage, 71 New Archaeology, 4
New Rules of Sociological Method (Giddens), 171 Nodal homestead, 32 Nomadic groups, 137, 140 Nondiscursive knowledge, 108 Object agency, 5-6,148-51,159-61,173 Objectification, 149 Obsidian tools, 69
Old Babylonian period, 159-61 Operational chain. see Chaine opera to ire Papua New Guinea, 18 Parpola, Simo, 129-30, 131, 133, 134 Pastoral nomad model, 16 Paths in time-geography movement, 50-51 in time-space movement, 49 Pedestrian GIS-T, 53 Personal identity, 194-95. see also Identity Perspectivism, 154 Petronius, Gaius, 120 PGIS-T, 53, 55 Pilgrimages, 22-23 Pith ana, 184-86, 188 Place, sense of, 17-18,49,194 Plant foods consumption, 72 processing, 67-69 production, 64-66 storage, 70-71 waste, 73 Political ambition, 176 post-processualism, 1 Potters (ceramic), 89-90 Pottery. see ceramic production Power agency and, 103 Akkadian empire and, 171, 176-77 architecture and, 31-34 urbanism and, 83 PPNB,64 Practical consciousness, 102, 172 Practical knowledge, 102 Practice theory, 80, 100, 102-104, 169-72, 19697 Pred, A., 49, 50 Pre-Pottery Neolithic B, 64 Prisms in time-geography maps, 48-49 Processing, food, 67-69 Profile horns, 153-54, 157 Projects in time-geography movement, 49 Pulse crops, 65 Qanats,118 Religion and architecture, 34-36 Residential stability, 18 Risk reduction and food, 66-67 Robb,John, 103, 181 Roman customs cooking vessels, 123-24 feasting, 120-21 Rulerships, 8-9,167,171,184-86 Salat Tepe, 143 Sargon, 170-73, 175, 182
INDEX Satyricon (Petronius), 120 Scale, issues of, 2-3 Scribes the Anitta Text and, 184, 188 ceramic production and, 91-93 identity and, 132 metallurgy and, 86-88 in Uruk period, 3 writing technology and, 93-94 Semi-nomadic groups, 137, 140 SEN sign, 87 Sense of place, 17-18,49, 194 Shamash, 152-54, 158 Shrines, 38 SHULGI,54-55 Smiths (metal), 84-85 Social groups as agents, 28 Social identity, 194-95. see also Identity Social reproduction, 112 Social status and architecture, 31-34 Social stratification, 32 Socialization, 101, 102. see also Apprenticeship Source material and identity, 129-33 Southern Levant agency theory and, 16-17 Early Bronze Age in, 15-16 movement and landscape, 17-19 Space. see Geographic space Spatial ideologies, 7-8 Spatial immediacy, 157 Spatial relationships at Kuru<;ay Hoyt'ik, 39-40 visual perception of, 151-59 Spatial representation, 5 Stele of Hammurabi astral symbols, 153-54 description of, 151-52 inscription on, 158 photograph of, 152 spatial relationships in, 153 viewing modes for, 158 Stele of Ur-Namma altars and astral symbols, 153-54 description of, 151 photograph of, 153 spatial relationships in, 153 viewing modes for, 158 Storage, food, 70-71 Stormgod of Ne~a, 186 Stormgod of the Sky, 184, 186 Structural lines, 107, 109, 112 Structuration theory, 1, 169-72 Structure, constraints of, 2 Subaltern identity and agency, 7 Surface indications, 99 Symbolism, 34, 64, 195 Table etiquette, 122
207
Tableware, 123-24 Talava~ Tepe, 142-43 Technology. see also Chaine operatoire agency and, 80-81 ceramic production, 88-93 learning and, 101-102 metallurgy and, 84-88 scholarly concept of, 101 writing technology, 93-94 Temple prebends, 160 Textual corpus, 4-5 Thomas, Julian, 17, 169, 172, 193 Time-geography concept, 6, 48-51 Time-space maps, 50 Tradition, concept of, 103-104 Transportation geographic information systems (GIS-T),53 Transportation modeling, 53 Travels in Paradox (Minca and Oakes), 17 Ubaid clay figurines, 89 Ubaid period, 83, 84, 88-89 Urbanism in Early Bronze Age, 15 in late Iron Age, 51-53 in Uruk period, 81-83 Uruk period ceramic production during, 88-93 figurines, 89 metallurgy in, 84-88 urbanization in, 81-83 writing technology during, 93-94 Van der Toorn, Karel, 149-50, 174 Variants, Chaine operatoire, 106 Vessels list, 90-93 Village architecture, 30-31 Visuality, 151, 157, 159, 161 Waste, food, 73-74
Wisdom Sits in Places (Basso), 18 Work defined, 20 at el-Lejjull, Jordan, 20-21 Writing systems. see also Cuneiform in Mesopotamia, 93-94 metallurgy and, 85 Yoke of Assur, 134 Ziyaret Tepe, 139, 141
