Suchergebnisse

Chiang Mai (literally, "new city") suffered badly in the 1997 Asian financial crisis as the Northern Thai real estate bubble collapsed along with the Thai baht, crushing dreams of a renaissance of Northern prosperity. Years later, the ruins of the excesses of the 1990s still stain the skyline. In Ghosts of the New City, Andrew Alan Johnson shows how the trauma of the crash, brought back vividly by the political crisis of 2006, haunts efforts to remake the city. For many Chiang Mai residents, new developments harbor the seeds of the crash, which manifest themselves in anxious stories of ghosts and criminals who conceal themselves behind the city's progressive veneer. Hopes for rebirth and fears of decline have their roots in Thai conceptions of progress, which draw from Buddhist and animist ideas of power and sacrality. Cities, Johnson argues, were centers where the charismatic power of kings and animist spirits were grounded; these entities assured progress by imbuing the space with sacred power that would avert disaster. Johnson traces such magico-religious conceptions of potency and space from historical records through present-day popular religious practice and draws parallels between these and secular attempts at urban revitalization. Through a detailed ethnography of the contested ways in which academics, urban activists, spirit mediums, and architects seek to revitalize the flagging economy and infrastructure of Chiang Mai, Johnson finds that alongside the hope for progress there exists a discourse about urban ghosts, deadly construction sites, and the lurking anxiety of another possible crash, a discourse that calls into question history's upward trajectory. In this way, Ghosts of the New City draws new connections between urban history and popular religion that have implications far beyond Southeast Asia

The Xayaburi Hydroelectric Power Project entered operation in October 2019. After this the Mekong started to behave strangely—the water ran blue and clear instead of red and silty, and the great backflow of the river into Cambodia's Tonle Sap Lake arrived off schedule or, at times,
threatened to not arrive at all. Villagers who had remained ambivalent or apathetic about hydropower issues suddenly found themselves facing a radically altered world, where a seemingly distant power was able to dramatically alter the nature of their every day. These shifts introduced an arrhythmia
into the hydroscape: ecological, fishing, and religious cycles adapted to a seasonal river were off sync with power demands. The radical alteration that dams make to the landscape, in the promise of irrigation, electrification, and the sheer feat of changing a river, are a tangible symbol
of the state's power over its land. But with a deep look into hydropower projects—in this case, the dams across the midstream of the Mekong in Laos and China—the story grows more convoluted. Here are conflicting narratives of power: state-focused, international, and royalist; as
well as religious, ecological, and hydrosocial. Here, too, as I found in my eight years of fieldwork in Lao-speaking Thailand, is an alteration in time, where the rhythms of the river change the rhythms of life, and where the cyclical riparian clock clashes with a future-oriented developmentalist
notion of time.

The Xayaburi Hydroelectric Power Project entered operation in October 2019. After this the Mekong started to behave strangely—the water ran blue and clear instead of red and silty, and the great backflow of the river into Cambodia's Tonle Sap Lake arrived off schedule or, at times, threatened to not arrive at all. Villagers who had remained ambivalent or apathetic about hydropower issues suddenly found themselves facing a radically altered world, where a seemingly distant power was able to dramatically alter the nature of their every day. These shifts introduced an arrhythmia into the hydroscape: ecological, fishing, and religious cycles adapted to a seasonal river were off sync with power demands. The radical alteration that dams make to the landscape, in the promise of irrigation, electrification, and the sheer feat of changing a river, are a tangible symbol of the state's power over its land. But with a deep look into hydropower projects—in this case, the dams across the midstream of the Mekong in Laos and China—the story grows more convoluted. Here are conflicting narratives of power: state-focused, international, and royalist; as well as religious, ecological, and hydrosocial. Here, too, as I found in my eight years of fieldwork in Lao-speaking Thailand, is an alteration in time, where the rhythms of the river change the rhythms of life, and where the cyclical riparian clock clashes with a future-oriented developmentalist notion of time. (Pac Aff / GIGA)

Disagreements are good. Differing points of view are healthy for any organization or group. Conflicting ideas provide a broader view of situations and more potential possibilities. You see more sides of the problem and generate more potential solutions. Questioning new ideas or proposals allows them to be fully vetted. This is how programs, policies, schools, institutions, and teacher preparation programs grow and evolve. Embracing a variety of ideas, philosophies, and viewpoints has always been healthy for any organization or institution. Repressing conflicting ideas, allowing only a single viewpoint has always led to extremely unhealthy situations. Sadly, idea repression occurs too often in societies, religious organizations, churches, political groups, schools, and yes, even in schools, colleges, and universities. Imagine that. And nothing good ever comes from this. Uniformity creates a stagnant unhealthy petri dish where bad things can grow and fester.