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The Sound of Resistance: How Music and Acoustemology Can Amplify the Impact of Student Protests

By R.L. Benjamins · S. Gahramanlı · M.M. Ho · K. Perjési · S.G. Pol

Following the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr, James Brown’s Say It Outloud (I’m Black and I’m Proud) became a hit. Peter Gabriel’s Biko brought the story of Steve Biko (an anti-apartheid activist from South Africa) to millions in the West. Shervin Hajipour’s Baraye became the song of Iranian women’s struggle against the Iranian regime. These are three examples of instances in which music brought communities together and delivered unnoticed stories to millions. As Rosenthal explains in his work, Playing for Change: Music and Musicians in the Service of Social Movements, “songs are democratic” since almost anyone can create a melody and songs are uniquely portable. He explains that we carry a database of songs associated with memories and emotions. It is hard to say the same thing for other art forms. While not everyone is a fervent reader, and not everyone might like paintings, everybody engages with music in one way or another.

Listening to music is arguably the most accessible form of engaging with art, more accessible than reading. Thus, it is no wonder that social movements end up adopting songs. Music defies language barriers and resonates with diverse audiences, allowing people on one side of the world to sympathise with the struggles of those in other parts of the world. With the help of music, emotions behind the motives of a social movement become apparent, and the message is delivered in a more accessible format. Moreover, the integration of music into social movements serves branding purposes. Once a song becomes associated with a purpose, people will reminisce about this movement once this song plays. For instance, in the Netherlands, student protests usually involve loud music and chanting to disrupt the peace in public spaces and express their message in this way. However, with acoustemology and a planned form of the use of music, the goals of student protests may be more effectively realised. By employing the language of music as a tool, these protests can achieve a more significant following and appeal to more people. In light of the recent protests against budget cuts in higher education, we want to explain why.

A way to look at this is through acoustemology, a term created by anthropologist Steven Feld, which combines “acoustics” (the study of sound) with “epistemology” (the study of knowledge). This concept suggests that sound is more than just something we hear; it’s a powerful way to “know” and experience the world. Feld’s work, particularly with the Kaluli people of Papua New Guinea, showed that sounds held deep meanings for them. Bird calls, for example, were thought of as the voices of ancestors, weaving family, memory, and identity directly into the environment. In this way, sounds became a way to feel connected to both place and community, making sound a way of understanding the world.

In the context of protests, acoustemology offers a unique lens to understand how sounds—such as chants, music, and even the rhythm of footsteps—shape the atmosphere, participation, and overall purpose of an event. In protests, sound is a powerful tool to forge unity, assert identity, and build a sense of presence and solidarity. For instance, when groups chant, sing, or clap in rhythm, they express themselves individually and create a collective voice. This shared sonic environment amplifies the protest’s impact, making it feel more substantial, unified, and bold than if participants were to stand in silence.

The three critical components of acoustemology that we can actively examine for its insights and effectiveness are the space, the participants, where the protest activities occur, and the sounds generated during them. The usage of spaces can depend on a specific meaning held by that place concerning the protest, allow sounds to amplify better, or allow participants to interact with it.

A recent study by Hei Ting Wong on the acoustemology of Hong Kong in protest highlights how specific sounds can evoke shared histories and cultural understanding within the same cultural system. In Wong’s analysis, she suggests that understanding protestors’ demographics and cultural backgrounds can help identify which sounds will resonate most effectively. The sounds within a protest’s acoustemology carry significance, regardless of individual preferences, because they are accessible, circulated, and—most importantly—widely understood within that context. According to Wong, sound can reveal an “unseen space” of human experience, offering an alternative way to experience and interpret spaces. Acoustemology thus helps us explore how sound can alter or even challenge spatial order. It allows us to see how spaces are reclaimed through music and sound and how these elements establish meaningful connections between people and the space around them.

By focusing on the interaction between sound, space, and participants, acoustemology enables us to analyse protests through their soundscapes—the collection of sounds in places. This approach reveals how different sounds—chants, drums, or intentional silences—transform a location into a symbolic space of resistance. For example, in Hong Kong’s Anti-Extradition Law protests, the song “Glory to Hong Kong” was sung in public places, turning everyday spaces like shopping malls into sites of solidarity and defiance. As this song filled public squares, transportation hubs, and streets, these spaces became part of the movement, resonating with participants’ shared purpose and identity.

Using acoustemology to study student protests, we gain insight into how sound creates a sense of belonging and presence. For example, a protest where students chant in unison strengthens the participants’ understanding of unity and communicates a message to anyone listening. This effect can draw in bystanders, attract media attention, and make the message of the protest resonate more deeply with people who might not otherwise engage. In this way, sounds create a ripple effect, where those who hear it feel connected to the movement, even if they aren’t physically present. By carefully selecting sounds representing their goals or emotions, protesters can create a more memorable and impactful event. This makes acoustemology a valuable framework for understanding and enhancing the effectiveness of protests.

Drawing on Bill Osgerby’s subcultural theory, which suggests that music shapes group identity and reclaims spaces for marginalised voices, music can help protesters, including students and faculty of higher education, turn familiar spaces—streets, squares, and university entrances—into resonant sites of protest. By choosing acoustically favourable areas that carry sound further, students can create high-impact moments where chants and music take on a new, amplified quality. This performative reclaiming of public space isn’t just about volume; it’s about turning these spaces into meaningful places of solidarity.

Acoustemology can also be used to recognise the impact of music and sounds on the people participating. Analysing acoustemology can give us more insight into the practical relationship of sound and music with society. This is what Christian Spencer-Espinosa describes in Music and Social Change: Reflections on the Relationship between Sound and Society. He believes that because of music, a shared value and participative ethos can be communicated, and every individual’s contribution is part of the performance’s success. Therefore, understanding the participatory aspect of acoustemology is crucial for a protest or political movement to succeed. Acoustemology sees sounds as obtaining knowledge. It conveys a form of knowledge that leans toward a particular way of living, its embodied nature offering a powerful tool for increasing protest impact by shaping participants’ collective identity.

Music as a performance can invigorate a protest, making it feel dynamic and alive, capturing the attention of participants and onlookers alike. Coordinated chants, live music, and rhythmic elements like clapping and drumming transform the protest into an immersive experience that feels like a collective act of resistance. As Spencer-Espinosa explains, music naturally fosters inclusivity, allowing each individual to contribute equally, which is essential for building a unified front. Students can use synchronised chants and rhythms at the education funds protest in Utrecht to create a cohesive, powerful sound that embodies their shared stance against funding cuts. This collective sonic identity does more than amplify the protest’s message – it visually and audibly conveys solidarity, creating a powerful display that engages bystanders and draws them into the movement. When a crowd unites in rhythm, their message of solidarity becomes nearly impossible to ignore, sending a clear, resounding call for change.

In addition to this collective experience, the creative process of crafting music for the protest brings a DIY spirit that enhances a sense of ownership and individual expression within the movement. By encouraging students to contribute to chants, rhythms, or even anthems, the protest takes on a collaborative, grassroots quality where every participant’s input shapes the unique soundscape. Using accessible instruments like drums, tambourines, or even everyday objects, participants can join in without needing formal musical training. This DIY approach empowers students to contribute to the protest’s auditory identity actively, turning their voices and sounds into a communal force that is distinct, organic, and memorable. Together, these elements—the shared experience of rhythm and the personalised DIY contributions—create an inclusive, resonant protest environment, reinforcing the students’ unified call for accessible, well-funded education.

Rosenthal explains that songs are unique in how they attach to our memories and emotions, becoming almost like mental shortcuts that instantly bring back specific feelings or experiences when we hear them. Taking this, we can argue that a big speech might not be the most effective method in reminiscing a cause when attending a protest, but a chant or protest song will be more easily remembered. Creating an original anthem, specifically for the protest, is an approach that builds unity while tapping into Rosenthal’s concept of music as a “database of linked emotions.” This concept suggests that music connects us to memories and emotions, making it a lasting symbol of a cause. By crafting a song that reflects the frustration or aspirations of students facing funding cuts, the protest can create an emotional anchor for participants. A custom anthem with meaningful lyrics becomes something students carry with them emotionally, resonating long after the protest ends. Sharing the song beforehand so students can learn it reinforces a sense of shared purpose and solidarity when sung together at the protest.

To conclude, acoustemology can be essential in organising and contributing to protests. The sonic experience can be powerful to the participants and people outside the movement and create a sense of belonging. Chanting in an open or closed space could make a significant difference in the effects of the protest. In addition, it can act as an inclusive and accessible tool, maximising participation opportunities, which is crucial within social movements and the achievement of change.

The proposed bill that protested by students and faculty affects the quality of education and has long-term consequences for every individual in the Netherlands. Innovation and creativity, which the same government wants to encourage, may be in danger. We urge you, students, colleagues and readers, to stand up for what you think is right and go against what you believe is unjust. To realise every voice matters and can bring change. To instrumentalise your voice and body to make sounds, create melodies and sing out loud to achieve positive social change. 

Music is an art form that reflects reality and affects the listener. But in music and acoustemology also resides power, and this power is in our hands, in our voice, and in our body. As more people muster their courage, more hands and bodies come together to stand together. The louder our presence, the more space we can reclaim.  So, the individual chooses to participate and contribute to the greater movement. The individual’s power is to unify and engage with others to guarantee success. Above all, every individual has the right to express and protect their voice; through music, we make that voice resonate.                                   

The budget cut protest discussed in this blogpost, which was to take place on November 14, 2024, was cancelled due to security concerns. An alternate protest was organised in The Hague on November 25th. Additionally, unions are currently discussing the possibility of a strike.

Sources:

Osgerby, Bill. “Subcultures, Popular Music and Social Change: Theories, Issues, and Debates.” In Subcultures, Popular Music and Social Change, edited by The Subcultures Network, 1-48.Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014.

Rosenthal, Rob and Richard Flacks. “An Introduction to the Music-Movement Link.” Playing for Change: Music and Musicians in the Service of Social Movements, 1-36. London: Routledge, 2011.

Rice, Tom. “Acoustemology.” In The International Encyclopedia of Anthropology 1, no. 1, 2018: 1-7. https://doi.org/10.1002/9781118924396.wbiea2000. 

Spencer-Espinosa, Christian. “Music and Social Change. Reflections on the Relationship between Sound and Society.” International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music 53, no. 1, 2022: 57–76. https://www.jstor.org/stable/48689101.

Wong, Hei Ting. “The Acoustemology of Hong Kong in Protest: A Sonic Understanding of the Anti-Extradition Law Amendment Bill Movement.” Continuum, September, 2024: 1–18. doi:10.1080/10304312.2024.2401832.

Protests:

Student protest against high study costs in 2018: https://www.aob.nl/actueel/artikelen/driehonderd-demonstranten-tegen-hoge-studiekosten/

2024 protest against budget cuts in higher education: https://www.aob.nl/actueel/campagne/kabinetsloopthogeronderwijs/

How Can Popular Music Change the World?

In this post, Prof. Dr. Melanie Schiller introduces Culture Weekly’s special section on Popular Music and Social Change

Music is more than just entertainment—it’s a powerful way to reflect and shape society. From civil rights anthems to protest songs against wars, music has carried the struggles, dreams, and demands of generations. It can amplify the voices of marginalized communities and bring people together to fight for causes like gender equality and environmental justice.

Over the years, songs like “We Shall Overcome” became symbols of the Civil Rights Movement, while punk rock pushed back against authority in the 1970s. Today, hip-hop tackles issues like systemic racism, and artists use their platforms to address urgent challenges like climate change. Music connects people through shared emotions and inspires them to act, leaving a lasting impact on culture and society.

Understanding this connection means looking at not just the songs but also their historical and cultural backgrounds. By exploring the role of music in social movements, we see how melodies and lyrics become tools for resistance, unity, and hope—proof that the right song at the right time can drive real change.

As part of the course Popular Music and Social Change in the master’s program Creative Industries, students took this idea further by creating real-world projects linking popular music to the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). Each group chose an SDG—like reducing inequality or promoting education—and designed a musical intervention for their local community. Projects included social media campaigns about the environmental impact of fast fashion inspired by Taylor Swift fandom, interactive playlists to discourage smoking, and educational leaflets highlighting gender inequality in the music industry.

Through these creative efforts, the students explored a big question: How can music save the world? Their projects showed how music can inspire progress, spark conversation, and bring us closer to solving global challenges.

Vrouw Slaat Hond

Door Saskia Kroonenberg

Woensdagochtend. Treinreis richting Nijmegen. Bij Utrecht stappen ze op. Een vrouw van middelbare leeftijd, een jongen, een hond. “Geen aandacht geven!” maant ze de jongen. “Anders denkt hij dat hij belangrijk is.” Dat is hij blijkbaar niet. “Hou op! Niet zo vervelend zijn,” roept ze naar het arme dier dat er allemaal ook niks aan kan doen. Ongemakkelijk zit de hond tussen haar benen. Hij mag niet naar links kijken, niet naar rechts kijken, als hij opkijkt krijgt hij een mep, als hij omlaag kijkt een ruk aan zijn halsband. En maar schelden. Hij is ook maar een hond.

Het doet me denken aan een plaatje dat ik tijdens mijn studie psychologie tegenkwam, van een man die wordt uitgescholden door zijn werkgever. Thuisgekomen scheldt hij daarop zijn vrouw uit, die tegen het kind uitvalt, die tegen de kat begint te krijsen. Zo reageren we agressie op de volgende (onderliggende) trede in de sociale hiërarchie af. Wie onderaan staat krijgt de meeste klappen, in dit geval een (kat of) hond. En waar moet die het laten? Zou die vals geworden zijn en ook enkel weten hoe van zich af te bijten? Of zou die maar depressief in zijn mandje gaan liggen tot het ophoudt? En hoeveel agressie heeft die vrouw te verduren gehad? Van wie? Waar begint het en waar houdt het op?

Ik kijk naar buiten. Een drinkwaterbedrijf prijst sterke dijken en schoon water aan. O ja, ons drinkwater. Daar blijkt steeds meer PFAS en andere rommel in te zitten, lees ik in het nieuws. We drinken continu forever chemicals en andere troep, de hele dag, een creditcard per week, zeggen ze. Het is overal, in ons voedsel, in de lucht die we inademen, in onze ongeboren baby’s. We kunnen niet ontkomen. Dit ís niet houdbaar, dit kán niet goed gaan, het gaat niet zo. Ik sluit mijn ogen. De wereld voelt de laatste tijd zwaar, gebukt onder ontelbare vormen van geweld. Plastic, genocide, een vrouw, een hond. Ik voel me machteloos en huil naar het landschap. Ik weet niet waar het ophoudt.

Wat is mijn rol in dit alles? Wat doe ik?

Ik ben onderweg naar een werkgroep Academische Vaardigheden. Het vormt de basis van het academische werk van de studenten. Het is een belangrijk vak, waarin we nadenken over wat een tekst wetenschappelijk maakt, hoe we weten of een bron betrouwbaar is of niet, en hoe we een academische stijl kunnen toepassen in schrift en woord. Het is belangrijk, ja, maar het voelt tegelijkertijd nogal futiel. Wat maken punten en komma’s eigenlijk uit? Enkele of dubbele aanhalingstekens, schuingedrukt of Hoofdletter, punt, puntkomma, who cares? Ik vermoed dat mijn studenten wel grotere zorgen hebben dan de uitlijning van een word-document. Zoveel problemen in de wereld en wij zetten een punt op een i.  

En toch, het maakt uit. We lijken steeds meer in een cultuur te leven waarin we er maar gewoon op los mogen slaan als ons iets niet zint. Een grote bek en niet zo moeilijk doen, is het motto. Gewoon afreageren op de volgende in de hiërarchie. Lekker beuken op een hond. Misschien is nauwkeurigheid en accuraat werken met taal juist extra belangrijk, als geweldloos tegenwicht.

De vrouw stapt uit, en met haar de jongen en de hond. Ik kom aan in Nijmegen en bereid me voor op mijn les. Wat kan ik mijn studenten meegeven? Hoe beleven zij dit alles?

Wat ik hoop is dat we er op de universiteit in slagen om niet onze eigen frustraties en pijn op anderen uit te leven. Dat wij ze, zoals Freud het noemde, kunnen sublimeren; dus ze om kunnen zetten in kunst(-analyses), in het collectief organiseren van bijvoorbeeld een protest, en in andere vormen die bijdragen in plaats van afbreuk doen. Dat we agressie kunnen gebruiken voor iets anders, in ons eigen kleine kunnen, gewapend met vaardigheid in komma’s, punten, puntkomma’s, en i’s. Onze macht als geesteswetenschappers is beperkt, maar wat we doen, kunnen we goed doen, zo volledig mogelijk en volgens de academische standaarden die we in de loop der jaren hebben ontwikkeld. Omdat het zo hoort, zo hebben we het afgesproken, het is iets. Het geweld houdt niet op, maar wij zetten door.

Afbeelding: “Anger Transference” Richard Sargent 1954

The Lost Generation: a Board Game Based on Hemingway

By Amber van Driel, student in Arts and Culture Studies

As an Arts and Culture Studies student, it is impossible to avoid the city of Paris. One of the ways we encounter it is through the words of Ernest Hemingway in his memoir A Moveable Feast. In one of our courses, we watched Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, which was based on the book. This interplay between the works inspired me to read the memoir, and I fell in love with it. When Frederik van Dam gave us the opportunity to create our own transmedial work in the new course Intertextuality and Intermediality, I had my eyes set on this story from the beginning. The result became the board game The Lost Generation.

Essentially, the board game is an adaptation of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. The board game is an interdisciplinary work that engages with the source-text. To guide me in the process of adaptation, Linda Hutcheon’s theory proved very useful. The main theme, persistent in both the book and the game, is of course the characters – all real-life artists. The game is centred around interactions with these artists: the goal of The Lost Generation is to ‘write’ chapters of Hemingway’s memoir, while collecting the art of his friends. When landing on specific places on the board, players receive cards with artworks on them – either literature or paintings. The players can sell these artworks to Gertrude Stein and Sylvia Beach, to earn enough Francs to buy train tickets. Each train station corresponds with a chapter from A Moveable Feast. These connections are historically and geographically accurate.

Both Gertrude Stein and Sylvia Beach are often mentioned by Hemingway, and are perhaps some of the most influential ‘characters’ in the book. Because of this, and because I needed some feminine power in this male-dominated book, I centred most of the game around them.

Gertrude Stein was an American author and art collector who moved to Paris in the twentieth century. She is known for the famous salon she hosted in the city, which Hemingway frequently visited. This salon functioned as a meeting space, where many of the important modernist artist’s met each other. Players can thus sell all of their paintings to her, which differ in value.

Sylvia Beach, also an American, was a publisher who lived in Paris. Her bookstore Shakespeare and Company is quite famous, and was described by Hemingway in A Moveable Feast. He also wrote about Sylvia Beach’s publication of James Joyce’s Ulysses, which was a significant moment for the modernist literature field. It comes to no surprise, then, that players can sell works of literature to Sylvia Beach in the game.

I developed the process of the gameplay according to Roger Caillois’ game theory. He distinguishes four different types of games: Agôn, Alea, Mimicry, and Ilinx. These four types each describe a quality that a game can have, and naturally I wanted to incorporate as many as possible, to create ‘the ultimate game.’ Caillois describes Agôn as competition. It is important that there is a complete equality of opportunity for everyone, so the players’ talent becomes the deciding factor. In the case of board games, this talent is usually the strategy they choose. Alea is the element of chance. In board games this is often incorporated as dice rolling, with The Lost Generation being no exception. Additionally, the artwork-cards have different values and are drawn blindly, increasing the role of chance in the game. Caillois defines Mimicry as imitation. Essentially, Mimicry is a form of roleplaying: the player becomes a fictional character and behaves like them.  I associate this with a sense of escapism. Woody Allen captured that escapism perfectly in Midnight in Paris: every generation longs for a different time (or even a different place). The entire board game is based around this desire, with some additional creative liberty. Ilinx refers to a feeling of vertigo. Interpreted literally, this is quite impossible to achieve within a board game. Though one could argue that a radically different perspective on a familiar work from history – A Moveable Feast – can cause disorientation as well. Three – possibly four – out of the four checkboxes ticked off should be the recipe to a perfect board game, right?

To me, the most important and most enjoyable part of the process was designing the board. Because of A Moveable Feast’s strong geographical quality, it felt obvious that the board should be some variation of a map. In the course we encountered narrative cartography through Marie-Laure-Ryan, who categorizes different kinds of intertextual maps. In the case of The Lost Generation, the map is an annotation of a real-world map, as an interpretation of the original text by Hemingway. In this part of the process I took some creative liberty – after some frustrating dead-ends – and used a map provided by Google Maps, of which I altered the scale slightly. Throughout the research, it surfaced that the majority of the book takes places in the Montparnasse neighbourhood, while all the train stations are located much farther away. So I altered the scale, and then ‘annotated’ this map with routes and locations.

Eventually, all this research resulted in a hand painted board game: The Lost Generation. The game is far from perfect, but that was not the point of this research. I learned so much about the process of creating a board game, and a lot about transmedial storytelling. It was fun to actively engage with the theory we encountered in the course, and to expand this fictional ‘franchise’ that I have come to love a little further.  

Cultural Studies Protest Slogans

By Erik Hovenga, Holly van Zoggel and Talin de Jeu, with the help of Saskia Kroonenberg and Doro Wiese

On November 25th, amongst the thousands of protesters, a small group of students and teachers in the streets of The Hague. Brought together by the protest against the budget cuts in higher education, they sought ways to combat the impending changes in creative ways. This amalgamation of frustration towards the government and love for their field, resulted in protest slogans inspired by iconic cultural scholars. During the march through The Hague, what started as a simple joke grew to a shared mission — resulting in a spitfire of protest slogans quicker than we could write down. This project did not stop after the protest was over, instead it followed us back to Nijmegen and stayed the topic of our conversations in the days following. Rather than keeping this to ourselves, we would like to present to you the fruits of this labour.

  • These cuts should have stayed in the Mary Wollstone-drafts!
  • Budget cuts? Camust you do this?
  • Stuart Hall-t! These Cuts!
  • Budget cuts are Rolando Vaz-questionable!
  • This is a Kriste-fucking bad idea!
  • Make education Adrienne Rich again!
  • Minder leuzen, meer Deleuze!
  • Ik zeg Donna Hara-nee tegen de bezuinigingen!
  • Wij willen Judith But-leren!
  • Dit gaat de verkeerde Immanuel Kant op!
  • Zo haal je alle Freud-e uit het onderwijs!
  • Onderwijs? Het kabinet heeft er Lac An!
  • Doe het Edward Sa-niet!
  • Ik heb hier een Hegel aan!
  • Zeg maar “au De Beauvoir” tegen kennis!
  • Het hele onderwijs gaat op zijn Plaat-o!
  • Ik wil nog een Gayatri Spi-vak kunnen leren!
  • Bezuinigingen? Derri-dat is een slecht idee!
  • Ik word hier Virginia Woo-dend van!
  • Maak de goede Herbert Mar-keuze!
  • Dit is zo Ferdinand de Sau-zuur!
  • Wij willen geld voor Aristote-les!
  • Bezuinigingen? Roland BAH-rthes!
  • We willen nog Beaudri-jaren educatie genieten!
  • Het onderwijs Bruno Lat-hoort erbij!
  • Leren over Braidotti maakt je een hotty!
  • Ik word hier Grams-ziek van!
  • Er zitten veel bell hooks en ogen aan dit beleid!
  • De bezuinigingen zijn een Derri-drama!
  • Deze bezuinigingen zijn een Theodor A-doorn in het oog!
  • Zeg maar Susan Son-dag tegen de kenniseconomie!
  • Slavoj Zi-zet de studenten voorop!
  • Recht op Frantz Fan-onderwijs!
  • Stop Sara Ah-met bezuinigen!
  • Bezuinigingen? Homi Bha-bagger!
  • Melanie Klein beetje jammer dit!
  • Hélène Ci-zoek het maar uit met je bezuinigingen!
  • Bezuinigingen: Nietz-je beste idee!
  • Deze bezuinigingen zijn niet Gram-sjiek!
  • Wij gaan ge-Edmund Burkt onder de bezuinigingen!
  • Spino-zak er maar in!
  • Ik Hei-denk er anders over!
  • De regering Dipesh Chakra-bakt er niks van!
  • Zonder onderwijs spreken we straks allemaal Homi Brabbeltaal!

Documentary: Het Heet Thee

By Talin de Jeu, Miriam Stuefer and Holly van Zoggel

Het Heet Thee originated from a shared interest in tea, gender, and the intersections of the two. With this documentary, we aim to dissect how mythologies surrounding tea and femininity are created and kept alive. By shooting images of the tea habits of ourselves and the people surrounding us, by filming artworks and china, and by collecting additional photographic footage from local archives and movie scenes, we search for intersecting and contradicting aspects of the personal, political and historical.

The documentary roughly follows the making process of tea: starting with ingredients, how they are grown and harvested, moving to the making of tea and the china it is consumed from, followed by the social aspects of drinking tea, and lastly its dregs. The focus on our own hands, shot on handheld phone cameras, emphasises our closeness to the subject but also the situatedness of our narrative. These images are intertwined with different types of archival material. This way, we wanted to underline the vast history and the physical and cultural contexts that all boil down into a single cup of tea. The images in the first chapter show people –  predominantly women – working on tea plantations. Even though tea is strongly connected to femininity, the power still lies with men, as  they are the ones judging the tea’s quality. We visualised this dichotomy between femininity and masculinity in our tea-culture with the two humorously named teas Decollethee and Theetosteron.

Although we do question the myths through our documentary, the style and nature of the film is subtler than if we had used a voiceover to explain our ideas. We chose this approach because we did not want to teach the viewer how gender(roles) and tea are intertwined. Instead, the documentary is a search for the parallels that constitute the myth, formalized in a way similar to the way myths circulate in our society: with subtlety but ever-present in its details.

The documentary Het Heet Thee was created in the BA course Moving Documentaries.

Documentary: Banden met Barrels

By Fenne van Beek, Jildou de Jong, Niko Oussoren, and Puck Gregoor

We, Fenne van Beek, Jildou de Jong, Niko Oussoren, and Puck Gregoor, are excited to present to you our short documentary, Banden met Barrels. It is a documentary created for the second-year course ‘Moving Documentaries’ as part of our bachelor’s program in Art and Cultural Studies at Radboud University. As four Dutch students, we wanted to shed light on bicycles, particularly student bicycles. Because where would the average student actually be without their bike? It may seem like a simple, ordinary object, and it is, but the bicycle is also a significant cultural phenomenon whose importance we often overlook. Bicycles are essential in Dutch student life for their practicality and reliability, despite their worn-out appearance. As will become evident in this documentary, the student bicycle can serve as a starting point for many conversations and two-wheeled journeys. We hope Banden met Barrels sparks nostalgia and prompts audiences to pause and appreciate the humble bicycle as more than just a mode of transportation, but as a symbol of freedom, community, and adventure.

The documentary Banden met Barrels was created in the BA course Moving Documentaries.

Documentary: Knuffels

By Rosa Floris, Lotte Lammers, Marta Ora, Laury van de Ven and Tim Wiesner

In Dutch, the word ‘knuffels’ holds a charming dual meaning, referring to both plush toys and hugs, and thus embodying a sense of comfort and care in a single term. Etymologically rooted in ‘knuffen’, meaning to bump or shove, the term ‘knuffels’ connotes a form of affection that entails both a gentle embrace and a playful nudge, driving home the idea of a push-and-pull, perpetually dynamic bond. This bond is at the center of our documentary, Knuffels, and explored through various interviews with Arts and Culture students of Radboud University. Knuffels pertains to the ambiguity of affection towards plush toys, and attempts to formulate an answer to the question: how do individuals attribute meaning to plushies within the context of ownership, and what psychological, emotional, and symbolic significance do these objects hold for their owners?

Knuffels aims to show truths; the audience is shown small aspects of the documentary’s construction, but not enough to betray the true extent of our involvement or to problematize the notion of truth. Instead, these few elements of construction work to disarm suspicion in the viewer and therefore aid in framing the contents of the documentary as truthful. The presentation of several voices, which at times contradict each other, serves this purpose. Subsequently, we have chosen to make fabric the common denominator in all shots and scenes, which vitalizes a soft aesthetic that fits, frames and harmonizes these oftentimes nostalgic sentiments expressed in the interviews.

As for the documentary in its entirety, the viewer could consider the footage a tapestry that we have carefully woven in collaboration with the interviewees, and from which we later cut and sewed together different pieces to make our final product – the visuals do not fabricate, the fabrics merely visualise. As a result, Knuffels quite literally embraces a storytelling predicated on multiplicity, be it in terms of lived experiences, perspectives, or the very essence of affection itself.

The documentary Knuffels was created in the BA course Moving Documentaries.

The same moon shines on both of us

Anna P.H. Geurts

On my recent journey to Suriname, I have been thinking something that I have thought many times before, every time I am separated from a loved one. I see the moon and I am comforted by the fact that, however far away the other person, the same moon shines on both of us. And I am not the only one with this thought. As an historian of travel, I come across it again and again.

This is the thought: However many miles are between us, and however many hours of travel, however many obstacles – sometimes even the bend of the globe prevents us from seeing one another – we are nonetheless united by a single glance at the moon in the sky. We only need to look up and we see the same, very real, physical thing, at the same time.

I am not the first to think this. In my work, I come across many historical travellers with similar experiences. In 1877, German lady’s maid Auguste Schlüter travelled with her British employers to Ireland.

It is Sunday night, the moon sends her silvery light across the ocean, and carries me far away, home to my dear ones and to my dear Hawarden home, and to another spot on earth which I need not name, for Thou knowest all my thoughts.1

In Ireland, the moon reminded Schlüter of her loved ones in Germany and Britain, and of a mysterious unnamed person – her lover? So, what I am finding in my work about nineteenth-century Europeans is that, because the moon was visible from very different locations at same time, it made travellers feel connected to their (other) homes and their beloved. The moon took away the distance for a moment. Sometimes, this was followed immediately by a sense of even greater distance because of the contrast between the moon that seemed so close as to be touchable, and the loved one who was both out of sight and out of touch.

Now, as an historian, I am trained to focus on historical and cultural differences. I am asked to describe how people in the nineteenth century were different from ourselves, for example. But sometimes, I cannot help but espy similarities. Between myself and someone in the nineteenth
century. Or someone in a vastly different time and place.

This same moon hangs over Fu-chou.
Alone, she’ll lean out her window to watch it.2

So begins one of the famous melancholy poems by Tu Fu about travel, migration and separation. Tu Fu was a Tang-dynasty poet living thirteen centuries ago in what is now central China. In his poem, he describes two protagonists united by the same moon, but yet watching it alone.

It looks like this magical property of the moon to annihilate distances – and then to emphasise them – has been felt across the globe and across the millennia.

These examples are about the moon. I have found travel writing in which the sun accomplishes the same, particularly at special events such as a solar eclipse. And other travellers who talk about the stars. More down-to-earth phenomena also did the same for many: long rivers, for example, and the ocean.

Rivers and the ocean did this in a slightly different way from the moon. Not by enabling distant ones to see one relatively small point at the same time, but by offering the vastness and connectedness of one body of water to both individuals at the same time. The Atlantic Ocean, the Indian Ocean and the Pacific Ocean connected one coast to a completely different one. And so, in the mid-nineteenth-century, the Russian writer Ivan Goncharov was on the island of Madeira in the Atlantic Ocean and seems to have felt connected to Russia through the Madeiran flowers he threw into the water and that might in theory reach Russia.3

Dare I propose that we are dealing with the same experience in every one of these instances?

And dare I propose also, therefore, that the moon brings together Tu Fu, Auguste Schlüter, and myself?

Immediately we have to admit that the story is not that neat. In Suriname, I sadly missed the opportunity of looking at the moon when it was full and when I knew certain people far away would also be looking at it. The rainy season covered up the moon. A week or so later, I saw a vivid bright waning moon. The same moon as was visible at the other side of the world, yes, but also a different one. While in Europe, my waning moon is balancing on its point. In Suriname, I see a calmly lying moon. In the same way, Tu Fu’s moon, Schlüter’s, and mine will have looked slightly different, because of our different positions on earth. What is more, our moons will have looked different because the moon has aged. The craters and seas on its surface may be a little worse for wear now compared to more than a thousand years ago, and there’s certainly been more human impact in recent years. My point is that the idea that we are looking at the same thing is perhaps a little bit of an illusion. But an influential and comforting illusion nonetheless.

In my recent book Travel and Space in Nineteenth-Century Europe, I discuss travellers’ attachments to home. In a related article, I outline different forms of what it means to feel distance.

More by Anna P.H. Geurts on Historian at large.

  1. Auguste Schlüter, A Lady’s Maid in Downing Street, ed. Mabel Duncan (London: Fisher Unwin, 1922), p. 17. ↩︎
  2. This translation is by Sam Hamill, in Endless River: Li Po and Tu Fu: A Friendship in Poetry (New York and Tokyo: Weatherhill, 1993). p. 37. ↩︎
  3. Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov, The Frigate Pallada, trans. Klaus Goetze (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1987), p. 86. ↩︎

I thought we were all bird-watchers

By Aliisa Råmark

Recently, while attending a PhD writing retreat I connected with my peers about our hobbies outside of academia. I told my colleagues that in my free time I, of course, like to do bird watching. I was faced with curiosity and interest: “Oh really? Did you start it during Covid? It was a big trend back then.” Some friends also commented on it being a retired peoples’ hobby. I was utterly confused – doesn’t everyone casually birdwatch? What does it have to do with being old? Aren’t we all curious about identifying the species around us in the natural world? After receiving three bird books for my birthday, I am now in the acceptance phase of realising that maybe it’s a bit of a nerdy niche to birdwatch in your 20’s. But it’s one that I highly recommend. 

I did not start bird watching during the pandemic. In fact, I was indoctrinated from a young age by my parents. Growing up in South-Eastern Finland, the forest is your backyard, quite literally. Our father would play us bird sound cassettes and test our knowledge on nature walks. Not only birds, but we were expected to learn how to identify mushrooms, plants, berries, species of trees – everything in the natural world around us. It was part of being one with and respecting nature, and also to learn what was safe to gather for eating. 

However, I was only moderately enthusiastic about birds, until I moved abroad and realised how different the species were in other countries, even within Europe. The storks, grey herons and meerkoets that are so common in the Dutch landscapes were more of a rarity back home. And while most species are the same, they have different cycles. My internal clock was quite baffled hearing some birds singing in February in Nijmegen that mark the beginning of summer in Finland, or seeing the Egyptian geese with little goslings (yes, that’s geese babies) as early as April. Naturally, I reported all these Western European wonders back to my family in the arctic tundra. 

On a more cultural level, this pastime is relatively young in its current form. Interest in birds was much more destructive up until 100 years ago. In the 18th and 19th century it was still common to kill and collect birds, as well as other wildlife, for studying their biology or merely displaying them in curiosity cabinets.1 The development of binoculars as well as advocacy of ornithologists Edmund Selous impacted the hobby. In his diary entry from 1898, Selous had an awakening when he displayed remorse for the past killing of birds and urged people to put down their guns, and observe the birds in their natural habitat instead.2 Several decades later, birdwatching was boosted during the Second World War following the 1940 publication of Watching Birds by James Fishers. Surprisingly, (as much as I tried to steer away from my research topic of Heritage on Nazi Persecution) birdwatching was also practised on German Prisoner of War Camps: for instance British PoWs led by John Buxton started their own ornithological society, tracking and illustrating birds and distributing weekly bulletins on the camp’s ‘nature news’.3 Birdwatching offered a welcome distraction to the prisoners, perhaps releasing stress, and a connection to the outside world during their entrapment. 

Especially now, during the high intensity period of working on my PhD research, I find a lot of comfort in going out to Ooijpolder with my binoculars. It gives an incentive to go on a walk outdoors and quiets down my brain in the process. I enjoy pretending to be a 19th century ornithologist while studying the features of birds, trying to trace some elements of their dinosaur ancestors in their movements and sounds (if you have seen videos of the East-African shoebill, you know what I am talking about). I use Smart BirdID to note down the species I see and it gives me a cool sticker to my collection for each new bird – kind of like catching Pokémon, or creating a digital (and much more ethical) cabinet of curiosities. 

A sticker collection of some of my identified birds on BirdID 

Recently, I received news from my (bird-crazy) family that there is a rather rare osprey couple nesting on an island at our summer house. This was not a coincidence, but an effort of nature conservators who built a man-made nesting platform last autumn. Now our weekly phone calls go: “How are you doing? And how are the ospreys? Have their eggs hatched yet?” Things even took a dramatic turn resulting in a boat chase: as my stepfather saw a boat lingering around the nesting island he jumped onto his boat and chased down the unaware fishermen. I was not there, but I imagine it looked like something out of Baywatch. Once the fishers spotted him, they started drifting away with their boat, but he caught up and ordered them to turn off their motor. The frightened Russian fishers immediately offered their fishing licences. “I don’t care about your licences, but could you please let the ospreys nest in peace?” my stepfather pleaded. They took the hint and left for calmer waters. All was well again in the osprey paradise. 

The famous nesting ospreys at our summer house in Torsansalo, Finland.

Regardless, if sitting still for hours with a pair of binoculars is a bit too hardcore for you, you can also sit still on the comfort of your couch for 51 minutes while watching Dancing with the Birds on Netflix or watch a live-camera stream of a bird’s nest. I simply encourage you to take a moment to appreciate the wonderful range of species and nature around us that we often take for granted. 

A live camera capture of another osprey nesting in Saimaa lake region, Finland. (Source: WWF Suomi. Link: Sääksi – WWF:n Luontolive –https://wwf.fi/luontolive/saaksi/ WWF Suomi)

The header image for this piece is a hunting osprey. (Source: Vicki Jauron, Babylon and Beyond Photography / Getty Images)

Footnotes

  1. Birkhead, T. (2022). How Bird Collecting Evolved Into Bird Watching. Smithsonian Magazine. Available at: www.smithsonianmag.com/history/how-bird-collecting-evolved-into-bird-watching-180980506/-Watching ↩︎
  2. Ibid. ↩︎
  3. Williams, H. (2012). The bird men of Warburg PoW camp. BBC News. Available at: https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-scotland-north-east-orkney-shetland-20142709ews ; The Lady. (n.a.) The Bird Men PoWs. Available at: https://lady.co.uk/bird-men-pows ↩︎