Digital Encyclopedia on Island Studies – Digital Encyclopedia on Island Studies

Quarantine lazarettos and leprosariums in the islands

Posted on 25 de Julho, 2023 | By caparicio

Island space and health issues are linked. In a diminutive place, it is all the more possible to confine the populations concerned as it is easier to identify infectious, if not contagious, outbreaks. “Cutting off the relationship between bodies in order to cut off the disease within imposed limits: these two conditions, of cutting off and enclosure, have been fulfilled[1] ” by a geography of fragmentation of the islands to which a double strategy has been roughly matched. Either exclusion banishes the leprosy patient from a space to be purified, or inclusion proceeds by isolating the plague patient within a space to be controlled2 . Leprosy: move away to remove; plague: remove to intern. Such is the insularisation practised from the continent. Contain in a naturally circumscribed environment.

Half of the lazarettos designed to protect against the plague in Europe were islands3 . In 1377, the first historical quarantine took place on the islet Mrkan (Adriatic), before moving to another islet in front of Dubrovnik in 1430 and then to an island called Lokrum. In 1423, Venice already had a settlement on the islet of Santa Maria di Nazareth, to which was added a lazzareto nuovo (1468), then another on the island of Poviglia. Lazarettos under Venetian authority existed in Cephalonia and Corfu (on an islet near the city). In Livorno, a sanitary control was set up on the islet of Fanal in 1582. In the port of Ancona, a pentagon built on the water gave the lazaretto the appearance of an artificial island. Naples has its own on the islet Coppino next to Nisida (an island where only “observation” facilities are located). Still in a position of double insularity, the islet Manoel to the north of Valletta in Malta, or the islet of quarantine in Menorca, before the digging of a canal which had the effect of changing the peninsula of San Felipet (Mahón) into an island where a second lazaretto stands (similarly in Trieste: a canal isolates a lazaretto from the city). Not even the lazaretto of Kostajnica is located on an island (admittedly a river island) on the border between Bosnia and Croatia. Marseille has two quarantines: one on Île Jarre for ships in “gross patente” (infected), the other, ordinary, in Pomègues (Frioul archipelago), where the Grand Saint-Antoine from plague-stricken Syria was about to decimate the city in 1720. The great sanitary turning point in Europe, after the plague pandemics, was the eruption of yellow fever and cholera, for which new island facilities were built: Caroline Hospital on the islands of Frioul (Ratonneau Island), Sanguinaires (Ajaccio), Hyères (Porquerolles and Bagaud), San Antonio (Sicilian port of Trapani), Asinara (Sardinia), Ayios Nikolaos (Cyclades)4 … A sanitary cordon is deployed on the Atlantic coast: at Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue (Tatihou islet), Le Havre (islet du Hoc), Brest (Trébéron

island), Lorient (Saint-Michel island), Rochefort and La Rochelle (Aix island).

In the colonies, where the new tropical epidemiology partly originated, leprosy and plague crossed paths with yellow fever. In Saint-Domingue, in 1712, the authorities hesitated to banish twenty or so families to the island of Tortue on account of leprosy, before changing their minds. In Guadeloupe, lepers were sequestered on Désirade between 1728 and 1958. The first documents relating to Guianese lepers date back to 1818. Forty slaves were interned on the Îlet la Mère, then transferred to one of the islands of Salut (Royale), and from there, moved to a tributary of the Mana, the Acarouany. The question of what to do with colonial lepers was coupled with another one, in the wake of the abolition of slavery: just as a distinction was made between free and slave patients (in other words, whites, who were for the most part exempted from sanitary confinement, and blacks, who were in principle interned), regulations now distinguished between two categories of lepers, those from the free population and those from the penal “element” introduced by the convicts of French Guiana and New Caledonia. The latter were in fact under the sole control of the prison administration. In French Guiana, they were sent to the island of Saint-Louis du Maroni. The lepers in New Caledonia were sent to Nou Island, not far from the penitentiary, then to Art Island (Belep archipelago) and to Goat Island, before being sent to the Ducos peninsula near Nouméa. Melanesian lepers from the Loyalty archipelago are interned on Dudun Island (Maré Island). The difference, ethnic (natives/slaves) and legal (convicts in the process of being sentenced or released), also operates socially for the destitute, who are intended to be placed in a “maritime leper colony” (and not “terrestrial”), in Cochinchina, and who are eventually sent to an island in the Mekong, as, in the Ivory Coast, they are sent to Désirée Island, in a lagoon four hours from Abidjan.

Plague (epidemic) is not the same as leprosy (endemic). While the former is slow-moving, incurable and reputedly moderately contagious, the latter is both devastating and less easily prevented than leprosy and its stigma before the first symptoms appear. When the plague arrived in Nouméa, the urban space was the object of a distributive insularisation: within what the health authorities called a “great fence”, the peninsula was divided into isolates for the Europeans; for the “hired” labour force of Asian origin, on the other hand, a quarantine island was set aside in the bay of Nouméa (Sainte-Marie). The same spatialization/specialization can be found at the entrance to the city, in the lazaretto of the Freycinet islet, which was itself divided into two reconditioned parts: for the observation of the disease on the one hand and for its treatment on the other. The same applies to the Îlet à Cabrit in the Saintes archipelago in Guadeloupe, which is occupied by a central prison, and which also serves as a depot for Guadeloupean convicts sentenced to forced labour, whom two convoys a year lead to the penal colony in French Guiana5.

Isolated without being sent away, the quarantine lazarettos have a policy that is the opposite of the leprosy over-insularity scheme. It was not a question of establishing them as far away as possible but, as with the Maskali island on the French Somali Coast, as close as possible to the ports and commercial circuits. This is why, in 1893, the lazaretto of Les Saintes was closed in favour of another one even closer, on the islet Cosson in Pointe-à-Pitre. It would no longer be an entrenched camp likely to reinforce epidemics by concentrating diseases, but a place of transit, a way to speed up the circulation of people and goods. Disinfection of ships will be substituted for the internment of quarantine patients, preferring the inclusion of goods in a free trade flow to the inclusion of diseases in an organisation of isolation in all cases (leprosy or plague) that is incompletely implemented and more or less controlled.

Éric Fougère

[1] Éric Fougère, Les Îles malades, Paris, Classiques Garnier, 2018, p. 8.

2 See M. Foucault, Surveiller et punir, Paris, Gallimard, 1975.

3 See Daniel Panzac, Quarantaines et lazarets, Aix-en-Provence, Édisud, 1986.

4 See John Chircop and Francisco Javier Martinez (ed.), Mediterranean Quarantines, 1750-1914, Manchester University Press, 2018.

5See Éric Fougère, La Prison coloniale en Guadeloupe, Matoury (Guyane), Ibis Rouge, 2010.

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The island of utopia

Posted on 25 de Julho, 2023 | By caparicio

Few places depend as much on their vision as islands, where everything happens as if thing and representation were one, by an operation that would immediately make the reality correspond to its image. We see the island being in the world at the same time as being born to its intellection via a whole imaginary. We can see it at the same time as we discern it. One of the reasons for its myth is its centrality. If the island is, from antiquity, presented as a navel (omphalos), it is not only because it represents, in a small way, the Ecumene surrounded by water, but also because it indicates an origin. Now, this cradle of the island, where mythology gives birth to Zeus (on Crete), Apollo (on Delos) and Aphrodite (on Kythera), is also the tomb painted by Böcklin in his Island of the Dead. An idea of origin thus leads to the notion of a cycle. And to speak of the umbilicus also leads to the cordon that is the island, once considered not in its singularity but in its globality as an archipelago, where centrality gives way to decentring. So much so that we never finish going around the island, which is both total and finite, fragmentary and discontinuous. Therein lies an explanation for the success of the island archetype: its ambivalence, or rather its reversibility.

It is by inversion that the term “archipelago” (Aigaion pelagos, etymologically the Aegean Sea) today designates not the container “sea” but the content “islands”, or that conversely the word “Mediterranean” did not designate the sea of the same name but, literally, what lies in the middle of the land. And it is in the same way that utopia, a genre impossible to dissociate from the island with which it was born, cannot be envisaged without simultaneously postulating its spatial reality and its fiction of a place situated nowhere. Ou-topos, in other words “non-place”. But to pose the negation is – such is its paradox – to deny it. It is not that utopia is not in any place, it is that it is the place of its non-place. It is that its very nature is to be other, and its nowhere an elsewhere, or even a nowhere-where – a fictional reality conditioned by a void where the best of all possible worlds (eu-topos) will be constituted, on a play on words[1] .

We know that the pages of the manuscript that are supposed to inform us about the coordinates of Thomas More’s island of Utopia (1516) have disappeared, that Raphael Hythloday, the traveller and Utopian narrator of the book, is unconscious during his arrival on an unknown land, and that, as if this were not enough, the coughing fit of a servant prevents us from hearing his position for the first time in Book I through words that are only whispered. The place of Utopia will remain without location. The narrative alone, after the narrator has left the island, will attest to its truth, through fiction. It is what restores it that institutes it. Utopia makes discourse a condition of space, and it is the eponymous book here that qualifies not only the island but also, soon, the entire utopian genre.

A first utopian act is to cut the isthmus attaching the future island to the continent. This movement of geographical foundation (a cut immediately followed by a fence) is completed by the naming of the place of the sort established after the name of its founder, Utopus, with which it merges as a place founded on what names it, a place whose configuration is presented in the form of an amphitheatre and constitutes the island in scene. A strait succeeds the isthmus, inverting the ancient terrestrial continuity into a solution of liquid continuity. A rock, “visible from far away”, then achieves a reduplication by diminutive nesting. (This “abyssal” device is redoubled by the mention of an “immense” gulf in the form of a “great lake” inside). In the centre of the island (in its “navel”): a city acting as a capital. Finally, a string of lighthouses spread out over the entire island territory gives the island complete visibility. “(…) Thomas More’s island offers itself (…) entirely as a map“[2] .

Foundation effect: the island is a new world. Condensation effect: the island is a small world. Reduction effect: the island is a mirror world. Naming effect: the island is a monogram[3] . Appropriation effect: the island is made suitable for the achievement of power and knowledge. Modelling effect: the island is a pictorial world that must be seen, at all points, as a map, a scene, a painting. But this other world of the island is our own, a Mundus alter et idem, as defined by the title of a utopia by Joseph Hall written in 1605: “The decisive criterion of insularity is the obligation to think of the island in its secondarity rather than in its singularity. Inseparable from the reference to what it is not, the theme of the island would necessarily stem from the dialectical link that it maintains with the continental space.[4]

This explains why the bipolarity, not only of utopia (no utopia without dystopia…), but of the signified of the island in general (edenic/apocalyptic, erotic/eremitic, historical/ideological, etc.) has no equivalent but its reversibility. This is why, instead of the notion of difference or gap, we will substitute the notion of neutral or interval. Or heterotopias: “kinds of counter-locations, kinds of effectively realised utopias in which the real locations, all the other real locations that can be found within culture, are at once represented, contested and inverted, kinds of places that are outside of all places, though they are indeed locatable.[5]

Éric Fougère

[1] See Louis Marin, Utopiques: jeux d’espaces, Paris, Éditons de Minuit, 1973.

[2] Jean-Michel Racault, Robinson & Company, aspects de l’insularité politique de Thomas More à Michel Tournier, Paris, Éditions Pétra, 2010, p. 28 (emphasis added).

[3] Monogram is the term used by Frank Lestringant to indicate the singularity of the island paradigm. See Le Livre des îles, atlas et récits insulaires de la Genèse à Jules Verne, Geneva, Droz, 2002, pp. 333-334.

[4] J.-M. Racault, Ibid, p. 16. Underlined in the text.

[5] Michel Foucault, “Des espaces autres”, lecture at the Cercle d’études architecturales (14 March 1967), in Architecture, Mouvement, Continuité, no. 5 (October 1984), pp. 46-49. Reprinted in Dits et écrits II, Paris, Quarto Gallimard 2001, p. 1574-1575.

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Island and Robinsonade

Posted on 25 de Julho, 2023 | By caparicio

Robinsonade is the name given to stories about deserted islands where castaways are thrown to live alone. A name (without a first name) that comes from the eponymous character from whom we have subtracted his second surname: Crusoe – an anglicised form of Kreutznaer, as Robinson’s German father was called when he came to settle in England. In this “Crusoe” we have three of the most reported directions of Daniel Defoe’s novel (1719)[1] . At the narratological level, a series of journeys before and after the one that leads Robinson to the island (where the itinerant structure is repeated) inscribes the narrative in a dimension of adventure and rupture (Crusoe/cruise). Another approach has seen the Robinsonade as a fable (admittedly realistic) inspired by an economic context in which Robinson can be seen as the puritanical representative of a booming individualism and capitalism[2] (kreuzer and cruzade are currencies whose names can be read implicitly in Crusoe’s name – especially the latter: it makes Robinson’s fortune on his plantations in Brazil) At the level of what Defoe himself calls an “allegorical” reading[3] , finally, some critics have made Robinson Crusoe, on the model of the “spiritual autobiographies” encouraged by Protestantism, a novel of repentance and conversion[4] (Crusoe/cross – the cross of a reconquest crusader, the trials thus undergone in order to merit salvation)

When Defoe makes Robinson say that all his reflections “are the exact history of a state of forced confinement which, in [his] real history, [he] represents by a confined retreat to an island”[5] , it is no longer clear what is biographical and what is allegorical. Beyond the interpretations aimed at considering Defoe’s novel as a cryptic autobiography, we would rather be faced with the invention of a myth at the source of innumerable rewritings among which stands out John M. Coetzee’s novel, Foe (1986), which makes the author of Robinson Crusoe, son of his works and father of the Robinsonade, a character at work in his own literary posterity[6] . There are two main reasons for this myth: an identification of the island space with existential experience (desert island = solitude) and of the starting situation with the notion of beginning (shipwreck = origin). However, just as there is a plurality of critical accesses to the

desert island narrative, there is also a great deal of ambiguity in this narrative, which remains enigmatic.

Equivocal, to begin with, is this island, which is supposed to be deserted: “it is […] by ceasing to be so that it becomes representable, the presence in its midst of a shipwrecked person being the only thing that can authorise its description”.[7] This trompe-l’œil origin of an arrival on the island, which is presented to us as a baptism and whose wreckage has all the makings of a technical Noah’s Ark authorising the identical reproduction of the old world, is biased. A double discrepancy prevents the beginning from being an absolute origin, as Robinson claims when he makes each year begin with the anniversary of his shipwreck. A gap between the internal chronological narrative and the Diary (written in the past tense, by the way!) that Robinson begins to keep when looking back on his arrival on the island. Another discrepancy, between the time on the island and “real” time, is the reason for the gap of one year when all the dates are counted, even though they are meticulously mentioned in the novel, and Robinson’s illness, which left him unconscious for several days, deprives him of the necessary credit for the name Robinson gives to Friday to indicate the day of his rescue.

One interest of Michel Tournier’s novel Vendredi ou les limbes du Pacifique (1967) is that it centres the island narrative on the invention of this other named Vendredi: “If Robinson Crusoe is a myth, then it can only be the myth of the origin of the other.[8] Nothing better prefigures this other than the footprint discovered one day on the shore by Robinson. This footprint is that of a single foot. The footprint is a testimony to loneliness to the extent that it prompts the character to make sure that it is not his own foot, and it is the hollowed-out mark of an Other whom he hopes for as a fellow human being and fears as a cannibal or possible enemy. The animals on the island (a billy goat, a parrot, etc.) fulfil an alter ego function in this respect, so that Robinson sometimes believes he sees himself in them, sometimes distances himself from them – in both cases forcing himself to think about his otherness.

One island always hides another. This explains not only the interlocking spaces of the “island within the island” shared by the majority of Robinsonades (antres, enclosures, arenas or pools) but also the simultaneous presence of at least two “codes”, heuristic (island to be cleared), hermeneutic (island to be deciphered), well demonstrated by Roland Barthes in relation to L’Île mystérieuse (1874)[9] and allowing us to distinguish between an island narrative – appropriation of the island on the surface – and an island novel – elucidation of a secret of the island in depth. There is a secret when the always forever lost but always forever already there anteriority of the island narrative is internalised in such a way as to suggest island is deserted it is because it is virgin to any writing and that it is therefore up to each rewriting to invent its other island by founding its own origin on it[10] .

Éric Fougère

[1] See Éric Fougère, Les Voyages et l’ancrage, représentation de l’espace insulaire à l’âge classique, Paris, L’Harmattan, 1995, p. 61.

[2] See Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel, London, Chatto and Windus, 1957; ‘Robinson Crusoe as a Myth’, in Michael Shinagel ed, Robinson Crusoe, New York, London, Norton & Company, 1975.

[3] In his preface to Robinson Crusoe’s Réflexions sérieuses (1720), Paris, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 1972, p. 594.

[4] See George A. Starr, Defoe and Spiritual Autobiography, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1965; John Paul Hunter, The Reluctant Pilgrim, Baltimore, John Hopkins University Press, 1966.

[5] D. Defoe, ibid (emphasis added).

[6] See Jean-Paul Engélibert, La Postérité de Robinson Crusoé, un mythe littéraire de la modernité, Geneva, Droz, 1997.

[7] Jean-Michel Racault, “Le paradoxe de l’île déserte”, in Lise Andries ed, Robinson, Paris, Éditions Autrement, 1996, p. 104.

[8] Jean-Pascal Le Goff, Robinson Crusoe ou l’invention d’autrui, Paris, Klincksieck, 2003, p. 176.

[9] See R. Barthes, “Par où commencer ?”, in Nouveaux Essais critiques, Paris, Points Seuil, 1972, p. 145-155.

[10] See É. Fougère, ‘Un point sur la reprise insulaire’ in Maria de Jesus Cabral and Ana Clara Santos eds, Les Possibilités d’une île, Paris, Petra, 2014, pp. 15-32; ‘Pierre Benoit, récit d’île et roman de l’île’, in Carnets, revue électronique d’études françaises, II^e series, no. 3 (2015).

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The colonial prison, between the Cabrit island of Les Saintes in Guadeloupe and the penitentiary colony in French Guiana

Posted on 25 de Julho, 2023 | By caparicio

The “colonial prison”[1] is not only the place of detention found in the colonies but also an organisation subject to the specificity reserved for their administration. In the same way that there is a colonial penal code (abrogated on 8 January 1877), there is a system of internal penalties in the colonies, which will be distinguished from that concerning convicts sentenced to forced labour in metropolitan France who are sent to serve their sentence in the colonies. “Colonial prison” is therefore an ambivalent term. Depending on whether it refers to the origin (in relation to criminal acts and court judgements affecting the strictly colonial population) or the destination (the colony of French Guiana, where all those sentenced under the Transportation Act of 30 May 1854 were sent – “colonials” and “nationals” together), it has two different meanings. It is a colonial prison in the sense that it is an institution operating from metropolitan France to the colonies via the Ministry of the Navy and the colonies – but whose model is conditioned by the Ministries of Justice and the Interior. It is also a colonial prison in the sense that its ‘Creole’ identity is marked – but with contradictory tensions between local and national interests. This ambiguity is compounded by a doubling of the status of “simple” colonies to “penal” colonies.

In the aftermath of the abolition of slavery, a typical case is that of Guadeloupe, in the midst of a social transformation with the arrival of a workforce of “engagés” of Indian origin accused of arson and vagrancy, alongside freed blacks who were in the news for robbery and violence or rebellion. It is in the continuity of these repeated criminal cases (which do not necessarily have the reality that the press and public opinion want to give them) that the prison service of the colony is restructured by decree of 26 December 1868[2] . The correctional nature of the sentences handed down, as well as the difficulties in introducing prison work, seem to follow the same evolution as in France. There is not a single statistic that does not show a clear analogy with the judicial and penitentiary situation in metropolitan France. It is in the type of population targeted, the reaction it provokes, and the penal and prison system envisaged that the difference should be sought.

Judging only by the difference between “Creole” and “European” rations, the balance is unequal[3] – or would be if there were “European” rationers. For there were no whites in Guadeloupean prisons, as

shown by a statistical report from the prison in Les Saintes in 1884, where all the prisoners were Creoles (58) or of Indian origin (62)[4] . This penitentiary, constituted as a “house of force and correction” from its creation in 1852 until its closure in 1905, was built on the islet of Cabrit to concentrate three categories of convicts: those sentenced to more than one year’s imprisonment, those sentenced to forced labour and those sentenced to imprisonment. The rejection of its penal population partly explains the choice of removal to an islet, but also that of allowing the colony (when it gave up on perpetuating its ephemeral “jail” set up on a pontoon) to “transport” its “African and Asian” prisoners to the jail in French Guiana, instead of letting them serve their sentences at the place where they were sentenced by the courts, as is the case in France: aggravation of the sentence having the effect of introducing into French Guiana, alongside the category of ‘convicts’, the exclusively racial and colonial category of ‘prisoner’.

The iniquity of Guianese imprisonment[5] can be gauged by examining the fate of Guadeloupean (but also Martiniquean and Reunionese) convicts who are sent away on average once a year from the penitentiary-depot of the Îlet à Cabrit. Despite the legally recognised need, at first, to establish a legal distinction between the transported first-class convicts and the second-class colonial prisoners, the penitentiary administration came, in fact, to confuse them, in terms of clearing work (reputed to be “the most painful of colonisation”) as well as in terms of food rations and punishments. Although the straw hat worn by the convicts was replaced by a grey felt hat on the heads of the prisoners, and the initials RC (Réclusionnaires Coloniaux – Colonial Prisoners) were sewn onto the left sleeve of the latter’s jacket, the two categories were nonetheless grouped together, according to criteria that were clearly ethnic and not penal, in the most deadly camps, in particular Sainte-Marie, “for the digging of certain ditches that it would have been dangerous to have whites carry out”[6] .

Éric Fougère

[1] See Éric Fougère, La Prison coloniale en Guadeloupe (îlet à Cabrit, 1852-1905), Matoury (Guyane), Ibis Rouge Éditions, 2010.

[2] It succeeds that of 1852, on the organisation of colonial prisons, and of 1858, on the internal regime of prisons.

[3] Under the terms of the 1868 decree, rations were broken down as follows : bread 660 g, or cassava flour 60 cl, cod 125 g, vegetables 100 g (Creole prisoners); bread 625 g, fresh meat seasoned with 12 grams of fat 250 g or salted meat 200 g, vegetables seasoned with 12 grams of butter 120 g (for prisoners of European origin or with “European habits”).

[4] An average for the years 1886 to 1891 indicates a so-called “ethnographic” distribution of 62.2% Creole convicts (blacks or mulattoes), 30.5% of Asian origin (Indians), 0.6% of African origin (indentured servicemen), 0.4% of European or metropolitan origin, and 3.3% of various origins (in particular from the English colonies). See Armand Corre, Le Crime en pays créoles, esquisse d’ethnographie criminelle, Paris, Stock, 1889 and, by the same author, L’Ethnographie criminelle d’après les observations et les statistiques recueillies dans les colonies françaises, Paris, C. Reinwald & Cie, 1984.

[5] This is to be distinguished from the seclusion applied to convicts as a disciplinary measure on Île Saint-Joseph, one of the Salvation Islands (Guiana).

[6] Letter from Bonard, Governor of Guiana, to the Minister of the Colonies (18 November 1854). Archives nationales d’Outre-Mer, Colonies series H 45.

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The “bad subjects” of Désirade (1763-1767)

Posted on 25 de Julho, 2023 | By caparicio

Désirade is an island of about twenty square kilometres located not far from Grande-Terre in Guadeloupe, to which it is administratively attached. What is known about it from official sources begins with the relegation of lepers who were abducted there from 1728[1] . A Creole micro-society[2] (“cotton farmers”, “petits-blancs” (white trash), mulattoes, slaves) had been living there for three decades when another event crossed its history on the fringes of the major trade flows (it then had about fifty families[3]): under the terms of an ordinance of July 1763, Louis XV and his minister Choiseul intended to deal with “young people of bad conduct”. One aim was to clear the houses of strength where these “dangerous subjects” of the family were normally kept.

There is a whole tradition. Under the Regency, “engagés” (forcibly enlisted) were sent to colonise the West Indies and Louisiana (Île Dauphine), allowing some of them to escape from the galleys. This experiment was initiated, further back in time, by letters patent authorising the use of criminals released from prison to go and populate Canada (1540-41) and then the Golden Islands (Bagaud, Port-Cros, Levant) decreed to be lands of asylum (1550). We also recall the plans to found a French colony in Brazil, on what is now Villegagnon Island, in Guanabara Bay (1555-60) by recruiting some of the candidates from the criminal element (and in particular vagrants and false convicts), and then on Sable Island (off the coast of Nova Scotia) with some sixty convicts, of whom only a dozen survived (1598-1603)…

If the 1763 text states that “the king allows” young people […] whose irregular conduct would have obliged their parents to request their export to the colonies to be sent to the island of Désirade, it is because, unlike the practice up to that point, these young people were not tried but targeted by “lettres de cachet » (sealed letters) on the simple accusation of a private individual who wanted to obtain an order of arrest, which remained at the discretion of the authorities after an investigation. They are not prisoners of justice but prisoners of the police. In La Désirade, therefore, the aim was not to colonise but to correct. Hence the disciplinary orientation: the “bad subjects” would be distinguished by class as they were “recognised as being more or less reformed” on the basis of “life certificates”. The last difference, this time explaining the military organisation, was that they were “contained” by a company of infantry responsible for surveillance under the orders of a commander who, if necessary, would have them “put in solitary confinement in irons on hands and feet”.

The design of the establishment, a prison within a prison, gives it the appearance of a camp, not only by its construction (a masonry prison, six huts where the “bad subjects” are locked up each night in a district of the island called Les Galets, planted perimeter walls and sentry posts) but also by its functioning: three sergeant-inspectors took roll calls every night, as did three majors, “at unspecified times” – which did not prevent the escape of four presumed drowned prisoners or that of five others, two of whom were “brought back”. But Villejoin, appointed governor and commander of the camp on the spot, was the first to denounce the conditions of what he called “filthy idleness”: “The ration is not enough for the majority. […] many are barefoot and shirtless three quarters of the time; very few receive news from their families and even fewer receive help. Obliged to “make their submission” (pay the captivity pension), some families forget to pay it. But the theoretical equality of treatment was far from being followed. The best-rated, often gentlemen, benefited from favours: they ate at the table of the governor or the officers of the garrison, and had money lent to them…

On board corvettes or liners, the “bad subjects” were embarked by the dozen from Rochefort, bound for Martinique and Basse-Terre in Guadeloupe. At each stage (we must also count those who brought them from all corners of the kingdom and from the prisons of Saint-Lazare or Bicêtre in Paris), the passengers were kept prisoners (an average of six months in the Rochefort prison, and up to three years for some). They were provincials (only two were Parisians, two others were from the colonies), denounced mainly for “violence” and debts (especially gambling). The average age is around 25 (the youngest is 16, the oldest around 40). Some of them were from the lower or middle nobility of the robe or of the sword, others belonged to families of craftsmen and small traders, and others belonged to the bourgeoisie. When the establishment closed in 1767, there were about forty of them, awaiting departure from Rochefort, who had not been deported (dead, escaped, repentant, “revoked” at the request of their families, or because the shipments had stopped) out of a total of 139 files that were closed without follow-up or refused[4] .

As early as 1765, when it had not been in existence for a month, there was no longer any belief in the establishment. The correspondence between the colonial authorities and the metropolis, between the provincial intendants and the Ministry of the Interior and the port of Rochefort and the Colonial Office, emphasised at least three points: excessive expenditure (in consideration of such a limited number of “boarders”); the absurdity of a system of “correction” which made Villejoin, who became his detractor, say that the good bad subjects “are confused with some who are apostilled [noted] as people without hope, who have too many vices of heart […]. It is not with such people that one will draw feelings and, overwhelmed by misery, one will find very few resources at home to return to”; the unworthiness of

of their offspring resurfaces, and their guilt rubs off”[5] “because of the lack of interest shown by them in the fate of their progeny. Of the 53 who returned to Rochefort in the middle of winter (and one of whom died during the crossing), 12 were again prisoners until their parents took them away. Four of them were only released in the spring, without any response from their families to the letter asking them to claim them.

Éric Fougère

[1] See Éric Fougère, Les Îles malades, Paris, Classiques Garnier, 2018.

[2] The only difference is that the monoculture is cotton, which is much less profitable than sugar cane.

[3] Difficult to estimate accurately before the first censuses.

[4] See Bernadette and Philippe Rossignol, ‘Les “mauvais sujets” de la Désirade’, Bulletin de la société d’histoire de la Guadeloupe n° 153 (May-August 2009), p. 92-97.

[5] Éric Fougère, Des indésirables à la Désirade, Matoury, Ibis Rouge, 2008, p. 104.

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The origins of modern relegation and deportation: island exile in Roman antiquity

Posted on 25 de Julho, 2023 | By caparicio

The historical contribution of islands to prisons goes back to antiquity. The Romans distinguished between relegatio ad insulam and deportatio in insulam[1] . Beyond the strictly legal content (deportatio, which caused the convicted person to lose his civil rights and the property of his estate, was in theory a perpetual punishment and was pronounced by the emperor, unlike relegatio, which was pronounced by a governor and did not have the same rigour), we can see the articulation of two notions that the legislations will take up when it comes to criminal law and islands: mobility in remoteness (relegatio ad), immobility in confinement (deportatio in). In this respect, a gradation of punishments is observed: temporary or perpetual relegation (outside a city or province), relegation to an island, deportation to an island, death penalty[2] . There are also three kinds of exile: banning from specific places (in particular Rome), exclusion from any place other than a specially designated place, confinement to an island (not specifying which one before sentencing).

It was possible to relegate, if not deport, anywhere as long as it was far away, as shown by the example of Ovid in the Pont-Euxin (Black Sea). The island punishment was no less practiced, also marked by distance, with the deportation to the Kerkennah archipelago (Tunisia) of Sempronius Gracchus, lover of Julia, daughter of Augustus, who was also relegated by her father to Pandataria (Ventotene), in the Pontine archipelago (where her mother joined her), before dying in Reggio di Calabria five years later in 14 AD. Tiberius exiled Julia’s daughter there, as well as other women of the imperial family: Octavia, wife of Nero, Flavia Domitilla, wife of a rival of Domitian, Orestilla, wife of Caligula, Julia Livilla, Agrippina the Younger (daughters of Germanicus), exiled to the island of Ponza, Julia Vipsania, in the archipelago of Tremiti. All of them (except Flavia Domitilla) for matters of morals (adultery, abortion, debauchery, impiousness) but probably also for the same reasons, political, explaining the sending to Capri of Lucilla, sister of Commodus, and Crispinia, his wife, accused of conspiracy against the emperor, or of Seneca in Corsica on the grounds of his adultery with Julia Livillia, but also victim of intrigues in the entourage of Claudius[3] . In 417, the first Western Roman emperor, Priscus Attalus, was exiled to Lipari (in the Aeolian Islands, where Caracalla’s wife, Plautilla, had been exiled and then murdered), accused of usurpation. The last emperor, Romulus Augustulus, was sent by Odoacre to Nisida, in front of Naples.

From Tacitus (Annals) and Suetonius (Lives of the Twelve Caesars), among others, we know what use Tiberius made of the Sporades (island of Kinaros) and especially the Cyclades as places of exile: Seriphos (where Cassius Severus, a political opponent, and Vistilia, a matron accused of prostitution, were shipped), Kythnos (where Junius Silanus, a proconsul accused of embezzlement, was relegated), Lesbos (for Junius Gallio, because he had proposed a change of etiquette that did not respect precedence), Amorgos (where the proconsul Vibius Serenus was deported), Andros (Flaccus, prefect of Egypt), but also Gyaros and Donoussa, which seem to have been reserved for the most severe banishments[4] and of which historiography has not retained much because of three factors, the first of which is the strategy of oblivion that presides over banishment (when the deportees are not suppressed in one way or another – murder, misery… – at the end of their island exile). Another explanation comes from the fact that this strategy, with some exceptions (notably that of some four thousand freedmen deported to Sardinia in 19 AD because of their “Egyptian and Judaic superstitions”, and who were charged with repressing banditry there), mainly concerned isolated individuals about whom historians only spoke (third explanation) when these individuals had some title to notoriety.

If the fate of each of the Roman convicts taken separately is not, at least for them, anecdotal, we are nevertheless faced with the observation of a disparity of insular experiences that cannot be globalised. What do the lives of John the Evangelist on Patmos and Agrippa Postumus, grandson of Augustus, on the island of Pianosa have in common, for example? What is there in common between islands, mostly very small, where everything was deemed to be lacking (Kinaros, Seriphos, Gyaros…) and others where rich Romans had built holiday homes (in Capri, Pandatera, Nisida…)? One last observation remains, however: the Romans seem to have invented (even if drafts of it could be found in the Hellenic period[5]) the idea of prison-islands whose use, still empirical, is at the same time already systematic.

Éric Fougère

[1] See Vincent Jolivet, “L’exil sur les îles dans l’Antiquité romaine”, in Brigitte Marin dir., Les Petites Îles de Méditerranée occidentale, Marseille, Éditions Gaussen, 2021, p. 172-175.

[2] See Yann Rivière, “L’interdictio aqua et igni et la deportatio sous le Haut-Empire romain”, in Philippe Blaudeau, Exil et relégation, les tribulations du sage et du saint durant l’Antiquité romaine et chrétienne (I -VI^ere siècles après J.- C.), Paris, De Boccard, 2008.C.), Paris, De Boccard, 2008, and, by the same author, “La relégation et le retour des relégués dans l’Empire romain (I -III^ere siècles), in Claudia Moatti, Wolfgang Kaiser, Christophe Pébarthe dir., Le monde de l’itinérance en Méditerranée de l’Antiquité à l’époque moderne, Bordeaux-Pessac, Ausonius Éditions, 2009, p. 535-570.

[3] See Roselyne Immongault Nomewa, ‘Les exilées romaines et l’espace répulsif dans l’empire romain : l’apport des sources littéraires latines’, CHA, 2014, online at https://www.academia.edu

[4] See Étienne Wolf, “Ambivalence of the islands in Roman culture: the example of the life of Tiberius”, Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé, 2008, 1, p. 139-145.

[5] See Patrice Brun, Les Archipels Égéens dans l’Antiquité grecque (V -II^ee siècle avant notre ère), Annales littéraires de l’université de Besançon, Institut des sciences et techniques de l’Antiquité, Centre de recherches d’histoire ancienne, vol. 157 (1996), p. 23.

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The insular political deportation in France

Posted on 25 de Julho, 2023 | By caparicio

When Solzhenitsyn wrote The Gulag Archipelago, we thought that the title was brilliant, before asking ourselves why. The Gulag had its beginnings on the Solovki Archipelago, just as the Tsarist penal colony had made Sakhalin Island a place of choice, but Russian deportation was naturally continental, the antithesis of the British deportation to Australia, Not only was it associated with insularity, but it also took root on Norfolk Island and in Tasmania, in a logic of over-insularisation, the equivalent of which would be the over-remoteness of the “labour reform” camps in Siberia. It is precisely from Siberia, an arch-continental block, and more precisely from Kolyma, that the explanation for the apparent paradox of a representation of Soviet camps in an archipelago comes to us. In his Kolyma Stories, Varlam Shalamov (‘enemy of the people’ who spent seventeen years in the camps) almost never uses the word ‘continent’ to refer to ‘free’ lands:

In Kolyma, the central provinces are still called the “continent” (…). The connection by sea, the Vladivostok-Magadan sea line, the landing on bare rocks, all this was very similar to the pictures of the past, of Sakhalin. This is why Vladivostok is considered a city of the mainland, although Kolyma is never called an island[1] .

The camps would therefore only be an archipelago a priori insofar as their lived, if not fantasised, geography (which we will distinguish from ‘real’ geography) is that of a negative continent in mirror image, or rather by default, designed to designate deprivation (particularly of freedom) by analogy. This way of using space for the purposes of penal or prison representation is what is at stake in the French ultra-marine deportations.

This is mentioned in the 1810 Penal Code, where deportation must take place “outside the continental territory” (Article 17). In the absence of a specific place, deportation remains theoretical, as can already be seen in the precedent of a project to deport recidivist beggars to Madagascar, which was drawn up by the first Penal Code in 1793. As if the word “continental” (which can be explained in part by the fact that Napoleonic France was a European empire at the time[2] ) had created the image of islands to which the deportees were to be sent, subsequent deportation projects were logically directed towards Bourbon Island (Reunion Island, Cirque de Salazie), and then towards Mayotte (the islands of Pamandzi and Dzaoudzi). Without result: deportation continued to be applied on national territory in citadels (Mont-Saint-Michel, Doullens, and later still on Belle-Île).

Historically, France has a long tradition of deportation to “the islands”: in Désirade, where “bad subjects” denounced by “lettres de cachets » (sealed letters) were the subject of an ordinance of 1763 which kept them prisoners in a palisaded camp until 1767[3] ; in the Seychelles (and later in the Comoros), by virtue of a senatus-consult of 1801 settling the fate of those accused of the Rue Saint-Nicaise attack[4] , in Corsica and on the island of Caprera (priests hostile to Napoleon), on the island of Elba (insurgents from Saint-Domingue and Guadeloupe[5] , in a cross-over between the metropolis and the colonies that is a secret of the history of slavery)…

But there was also a whole range of doctrinal opposition to deportation, in addition to the lack of islands of choice of location. Barbé-Marbois (himself a former Fructidor deportee) and Tocqueville (author of Écrits sur le système pénitentiaire) were opposed to deportation, the former because it was contradictory to the idea that a sentence should be brought closer to the place of the crime[6] , and the latter because he was in favour of a prison reform where the model was solitary confinement and not deportation. The turning point came from a double political event: the June 1848 insurrections and Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte’s coup d’état.

The urgent reaction was not only the number of those to be tried, unprecedented since the Revolution, but also the abolition of the death penalty (article 5 of the 1848 Constitution) for political crimes. After the law of 24 January 1850, which “transported” them to the penitentiary-camp of Lambessa (Algeria), then to French Guiana (Îlet la Mère and Île du Diable), the law of 8 June of the same year chose the Îles Marquises and introduced two degrees of deportation: “simple” (already contained in the Penal Code), and “aggravated” (known as “fortified enclosure”).

The novelty (prefigured by the deportation projects to Bourbon Island and then Mayotte) is the introduction of a detention into the deportation, according to the concept of “fortified enclosure” derived from that of “citadel”. Thus, not content with correlating the place of punishment and the punishment of the place in such a way as to confer all the remoteness possible on exile, the device associates confinement. This made Victor Hugo say, during the legislative debates (April 1850): “We combine climate, exile and prison: climate gives its malignity, exile its burden, prison its despair; instead of one executioner we have three. The death penalty is replaced… (…) say with us: the death penalty is restored.”

Faced with an even greater number of convicts, following the events of the Commune in 1870, it was sufficient, under the terms of the law of 23 March 1872, to substitute the Isle of Pines for Nuku Hiva (simple deportation) and the Ducos peninsula for the Vaitahu valley (fortified deportation) in order to transfer the convicts to the island, to substitute the Isle of Pines for Nuku Hiva (simple deportation) and the Ducos peninsula for the Vaitahu valley (deportation in a fortified enclosure) to transfer the principle of penal insularity (an abstract space characterised by borders) coupled with prison insularity as a concrete place of confinement to New Caledonia[7] .

Éric Fougère

[1] V. Shalamov, Stories from Kolyma, Lagrasse, Éditions Verdier, 2003, p. 900.

[2] But the banishment provided for by the Penal Code (Article 8) is served “outside the territory of the empire” (Article 32).

[3] See Éric Fougère, Des Indésirables à la Désirade, Matoury (Guyane), Ibis Rouge Éditions, 2008, and Bernadette and Philippe Rossignol, ‘Les mauvais sujets de la Désirade’, Bulletin de la société d’histoire de la Guadeloupe n° 153 (May-August 2009).

[4] See Jean Destrem, Les Déportations du Consulat et de l’Empire, Paris, Jeanmaire, 1885.

[5] See Yves Benot, La Démence coloniale sous Napoléon, Paris, La Découverte, 1991.

[6] “(…) to remove to immense distances, is to make one lose sight of the memory of the crime, at the same time as one loses sight of the criminal. François de Barbé-Marbois, Observations sur les votes de quarante et un conseils généraux de départements, concernant la déportation des forçats libérés, Paris, Imprimerie royale, 1828, p. 61.

[7] See Éric Fougère, Île-prison, bagne et déportation, Paris, L’Harmattan, 2002.

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Asinara Island: a concentration of health and prison insularity in Sardinia

Posted on 25 de Julho, 2023 | By caparicio

Before becoming a national park in 2002, the island of about 50 km² , which lies at the north-western end of the Gulf of Asinara (Sardinia), experienced all the forms of confinement that its relative isolation allowed, some 500 metres from the islet of Piana, separated from the peninsula of Stintino by approximately another half kilometre. This began in 1885, with the creation of an agricultural penal colony in Cala d’Oliva, on the heights of the island’s village, and a quarantine lazaretto a little further south, in Cala Reale. The difficulties raised by the bill presented to the Chamber of Deputies by the President of the Council and Minister of the Interior, Agostino Depretis: the fate of the island’s fishermen and shepherds and the lack of water, were solved by building a cistern and expropriating the inhabitants. The workforce was made up of the penal population brought in convoys of 10 to 40 convicts who were harnessed to the construction of the lazaretto until 1897 (it closed in 1939) and a new prison which was soon built in Fornelli in the south of the island, where the territory was divided under the dual jurisdiction of the Ministry of the Navy and the Interior.

Between December 1915 and March 1916, with the disembarkation of 24,000 prisoners of war from the Austrian-Hungarian Empire, the “health station”, organised for a maximum of 1,500 patients, was unable to cope with the cholera that broke out on board the maritime convoys at the same time as in the Albanian transit camp of Valona. The epidemic kills 7 to 8,000 prisoners spread over several points of the island according to the camps that are hastily set up (forcing the penal colony to concentrate in the north of the island): in Fornelli, Stretti, Campu Perdu, Tumbarino. The location of this last camp was used to supply the colony with wood, while in Santa Maria, Campu Perdu and Stretti, farming and breeding (and fishing) were practiced: 230 hectares (of olive trees, vines, cereals and other food crops) were cultivated at the beginning of the XX^e century not only by the colony – a life-size prison inspired by the one set up in the Tuscan archipelago on the island of Pianosa, which was constituted as a penal colony in 1858, and then on the island of Gorgon in 1871 – but also thanks to the arrival of 10,000 other prisoners of war after the cholera epidemic.

In 1937, the eldest daughter of the Negus Haile Selassie, captured by the Italian colonial authorities, was interned on the Asinara, as were several hundred Ethiopian personalities during the second war of occupation of that country. The Mussolini confino politico thus revived the relegatio ad insulam of Roman antiquity by interning opponents, as a police and security measure, on islands with a history of exile, in particular Ponza and Ventotene in the Pontine Islands archipelago off the coast of Lazio, or even Ustica, Favignana, Lampedusa, Lipari, Pantelleria and Tremiti. In the 1970s, the turning point in Asinara was the transfer of some of the most important leaders of the Red Brigades to the Fornelli prison, in the building, reconditioned for the occasion, where the penal agricultural colony had initially been the place of detention for about fifty convicts, whose number increased tenfold: Now (in the mid-1970s), there are more than a hundred in the Fornelli prison, twice that number in the casa di lavoro (“open” regime during the day), the remaining small hundred or so in ten sections (diramazioni), including Casa Bianche, the northernmost one (where sconsegnati benefiting from semi-liberty are housed), which is added to the existing “annexes” (for sexual crimes, among others, in Tumbarino, and for international drug trafficking in Santa Maria).

Following a series of causes – the controversial authority of the new prison director (tried and then convicted for corruption), the right to visit and the very severe conditions of detention, foiled escape plans, rebellions that were more or less put down, pressure from the local population and public opinion, the taking hostage by the Red Brigades, still at large, of a judge in Rome to obtain the closure of the Fornelli district – the activists were transferred again at the end of 1980; This did not prevent the Asinara from continuing to be the “high security” prison of organised crime (Sicilian Mafia and Camorra) until its closure in 1997. At the beginning of the 1980s, Cala d’Oliva, which remained a “central” prison, became the “fortified” prison of Toto Riina.

For more than a hundred years (almost forty of which were spent demanding the conversion of the island into a natural park), what makes Asinara special, chosen almost by accident alongside the seven other agricultural colonies in Sardinia, is not only the combination of its sanitary and penitentiary functions but also, paradoxically (given its remoteness), its involuntary immersion in a history (world war and colonisation, fascism, terrorism and banditry…) which exposed him to all the regimes, alternately civil and military, in terms of discipline (workshops and agricultural colony) and surveillance and detention (semi-liberty, reclusion, relegation, quarantine, internment in “concentration” camps for prisoners of war). And this very exposure to history also explains its recent metamorphosis… A complete reversal of paradigm indeed: visiting the Asinara on a “little train” that swirls to the rhythm of the calas, the tourist is asked to keep a good distance from the donkeys, which are left entirely free to cross the roadway which cuts the whole island from south to north. Endemic to the island, the breed of albino donkeys is considered “vulnerable” because of what makes it a “protected species” while at the same time contributing to this vulnerability: inbreeding. So much so that, not content with transforming the donkey from a domestic animal into a new island emblem stamped “nature” (at the cost of a false etymological connection[1] ), we have switched into an axiology of “Animal Reserve” and tourist attraction where the health station has given way to the veterinary station and the prison space to the environmental Eden.

[1] None of the Latin names of the island (Herculis Insula, Sinuaria or even Aenaria) allow the recognition of asinus (i.e. donkey).

Éric Fougère

COSSU A., MONBALLIU X., TORRE A. (1994), L’isola dell’Asinara, Carlo Delfino editore, Sassari.

DODERO G. (1999), Storia della medicina e della sanità pubblica in Sardegna, Aipsa edizioni, Cagliari.

GUTIERREZ M., MATTONE A., VAISECCHI F. (1998), L’isola dell’Asinara: l’ambiente, la storia, il parco, Poliedro, Nuoro.

GORGOLINI L. (2011), I dannati dell’Asinara, l’odissea dei prigioneri austro-ungarici nella Prima guerra mondiale, Utet editore, Milano.

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Water Planning

Posted on 1 de Abril, 2023 | By caparicio

“The world is full of islands” (Baldacchino, 2006, p.4). It is not surprising that, over the last decades, there has been an increased interest in island studies, attracting researchers from different disciplinary areas who, together, have been able to promote this “new” line of research, thus developing the so-called “island science”.

Island science, although young, has shown great relevance in international studies, as demonstrated by the editorial title of the journal Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie: “The coming of Age of island studies” (Baldacchino, 2004), thus proclaiming the “maturity” of island studies (King, 2010).

For Young, the island is a place of secrecy and mystery, but its isolation also conditions its historical evolution (Young, 1999, p. 2). In this sense, the insular specificity may be in correlation with the hydraulic issue? This entry intends, therefore, to make known the main trends of Hydraulics at the research level. In this sense, and with regard to island territories, the article by Paulo Espinosa and Fernanda Cravidão, in “Revista Sociedade & Natureza”, entitled “A Ciência das Ilhas e os Estudos Insulares: Breves reflexões sobre o contributo da Geografia / The Science of Islands and the Insular Studies: brief point of view about the importance of geography”, contains a set of themes to be studied and reflected upon.

All emersed lands, of greater or lesser size, are surrounded by oceans, so islands inevitably occupy an extremely important place in world life (Biagini; Hoyle, 1999, p. 1). There are facts that translate, in a synthetic way, the real value of islands worldwide, although they are often ignored by most researchers. According to Baldacchino (2007), nearly 10% of the world population, almost 600 million people, currently live on islands, occupying about 7% of the Earth’s surface. Approximately a quarter of the world’s independent states are islands or archipelagos. Furthermore, islands assume themselves as differentiated identities and spaces in an increasingly homogeneous world, as a result of the globalisation process.

Despite their value, small island spaces are often associated with a set of structural constraints since “as a consequence of their scale, small islands are limited in size, land area, resources, economic and population potential, and political power” (Royle, 2001, p. 42). Thus, it is not surprising that of the total number of sovereign countries that are not entirely insular, only two have their capital on an island, these being Denmark and Equatorial Guinea, reflecting a political and functional preference for continental areas to the detriment of territories exclusively surrounded by water.

Thus, there are many difficulties and potentialities that we can find in the islands. For this reason, these spaces are extremely rich in terms of scientific study. Lockard & Drakakis-Smith (1997) state that the themes of islands that have most attracted the attention of researchers include, apart from tourist activity, emigration and return migration, transport and accessibility, limited resources such as water, and economic development policies.

Therefore, water has always been an essential factor in establishing life, in general, and mankind in particular. The importance of this liquid has led to an evolution in the techniques of transport for human consumption over the millennia (Baptista, 2011).

Despite this evolution, verified throughout the years of existence of the human race, it was in more recent history, mainly in the 20th century, that major advances in water supply systems were verified, due to the need to respond to the population increase verified around the globe and the emergence of new materials, such as, for example, polymers. Also at the design level, a major evolution was noted due to the discovery of new hydraulic laws, which allow optimizing the supply conditions (Baptista, 2011).

In most current cases, buildings are supplied through a public network that carries drinking water. However, there are situations in which the water is supplied from wells. In these cases, it is necessary to proceed in order to guarantee the potability of the water (Baptista, 2011).

In the execution of this type of project, essential factors are taken into account, such as economy, the conditions of application and use, the routing requirements and also the chemical constitution of each material, always bearing in mind the legislation governing this type of system. It is based on the optimization of these factors that water supply networks are built (APA, 2018).

Water planning aims to ground and guide the protection and management of waters and the compatibility of their uses with their availability in order to (APA, 2018):

Guarantee their sustainable use, ensuring that the needs of current generations are met without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs;
Provide criteria for allocation to the various types of intended uses, taking into account the economic value of each one, as well as to ensure the harmonisation of water management with regional development and sectoral policies, individual rights and local interests;
Set environmental quality standards and criteria for water status.

From what has been described, I can say that there is no shortage of reasons to study this issue in an island context. Regardless of the perspective used, research on islands reveals a great thematic amplitude, since they can be analysed from different angles, and the discipline of Hydraulics can contribute to the study of “island sciences”, particularly with regard to hydraulic planning.

Sérgio Lousada

References

APA. (2018). Políticas, Água, Planeamento. Obtido de Agência Portuguesa do Ambiente: https://www.apambiente.pt/index.php?ref=16&subref=7&sub2ref=9#

Baptista, F. P. (2011). Sistemas Prediais de Distribuição de Água Fria. Lisboa: IST. Obtido de https://fenix.tecnico.ulisboa.pt/downloadFile/395142730852/Tese.pdf

Baldacchino, G. (2004). The Coming of Age of Island Studies. Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geographie. V. 95, n. 3, pp. 272-283. DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-9663.2004.00307.x

Baldacchino, G. (2006). Extreme Tourism: Lessons from the world cold water. Oxford: Elsevier, p. 4.

Baldacchino, G. (2007). Introducing a world of islands. In: Baldacchino, G. (Ed.). A World of Islands. Charlottetown: University of Prince Edward Island, Institute of Island Studies, p. 1-29.

Biagini, E. & Hoyle, B. (1999). Insularity and Development on an Oceanic Planet. In: Biagini, E. & Hoyle, B. (Eds.). Insularity and Development: international perspectives on islands. London: Pinter, p. 1.

King, R. (2010). A geografia, as ilhas e as migrações numa era de mobilidade global. In: Fosnseca, M. L. (Ed). Actas da Conferência Internacional – Aproximando Mundos Emigração e Imigração em Espaços Insulares. Lisboa: Fundação Luso-Americana para o Desenvolvimento, p. 27-62.

Lockhart, D. & Drakakis-Smith, D. (1997). Island Tourism: Trends and Perspectives. London: Mansell, 320 p.

Royle, S. (2001). A Geography of Islands: Small Island Insularity. London: Routledge, p. 42.

Young, L. B. (1999). Islands: Portraits of Miniature Worlds. New York: W. H. Freeman and Company, p. 2.

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José Agostinho Baptista

Posted on 1 de Abril, 2023 | By caparicio

“For you I arrived and leave./My home is where you are” (Baptista, 1992: 9). In José Agostinho Baptista the dimension of the island-place opens up to the reader’s world, through personal conundrums. With an insular vocation – physical and spiritual – the subject presents itself as a wandering geography, measured by the mountains, the sea or the silence of primordial Madeira. The island moves like a home through other geographical mosaics.

With a pronounced mnemonic mark, the departure and arrival of this poetry will always be that idyllic place, between the romantic “locus amoenus” and “locus horribilis”, cohabited by the sea, by the father, by love and, above all, by the island-subject, in the sense of a non-place, becoming the place “where you are”. The writing process of José Agostinho Baptista, with a tendency to recover a romantic model, “is not only the process of the feeling or of the memory, it is the writing process itself that becomes a book ” (Magalhães, 1989: 256).

Born in Funchal (August 15th, 1948), José Agostinho Baptista is recognised as one of the most important Portuguese poets of his generation. For a long period of his life, he lived in Lisbon, having been a translator of essential authors, such as W. B. Yeats or Walt Whitman, and a journalist, in various newspapers of the Portuguese capital, A República and Diário de Lisboa. Previously he collaborated with Comércio do Funchal. Some time ago he returned to Madeira.

To approach José Agostinho Baptista, we must speak of his telluric relationship with Madeira, rarely harmonious, but simultaneously, of a clear dependence. We believe that the island is the path of a poetics marked by the search/epiphany of the subject’s identity, full of its insular mark, the telluric drive. There is a clear identification of the poetic subject/island with an initiatory journey through the nostalgia of a primordial, pure and suffering love.

For Ana Margarida Falcão Seixas, José Agostinho Baptista reveals a strong presence of nostalgia in his writing that “tells, in various episodes and in different narrative dimensions, the exile of a subject in himself, body and mind unfolded in multiple variants that sacralize the dream, the reverie and the traces of the past, providing the enunciation of representations essentially derived from absence” (Seixas, 2003: 398), which combined with the telluric dimension reveals the islander feeling. The telluric drive, verbalized in the sentimental entwining between subject and island, “He was an island, the endless basalt” (Baptista, 1992: 19), scales the perspective of insularity in themes dear to Portuguese literature, such as exile, unrequited love, madness/reverie, nostalgia and memory.

The father figure, linked to the memory of the primordial island, is also another leitmotif, as is the case in Agora e na hora da nossa morte, “Nobody shuts up the stormy rivers deep/in my eyes,/when I think of the worms, the viscosities/which seek you through the satin” (Baptista, 1998: 102), a long (non-)prayer until the final “Amen”, or in poems like “Memória”, in Deste lado onde.

Other places take over the face of this primordial island, the most significant being Mexico: “Mexico, which is characterised by its most perennial essence, its gods, its parallel tattoos, which, in the symbolic and metaphorical universe of the “I”, configure this new land of the fathers, a vast homeland, where the “I” spreads its imaginary, in the romantic perspective of vastness and of recreating the originality of the first island”1 .

José Tolentino Mendonça speaks of the poetry of José Agostinho Baptista as fundamental to the understanding of Madeira, “the roughness of its time, the unbridled rapture of the landscape, the tireless streams, the mystery of the fruits, the helpless truth of its silence”2, because “The island is all the land. And, in the dark secret of its name, it holds the most significant ambivalence”3.

Of José Agostinho Baptista’s books, we highlight: Deste lado onde (1976), O último romântico (1981), Morrer no sul (1983), Autoretrato (1986), O centro do universo (1989), Paixão e cinzas (1992), Canções da terra distante (1994), Debaixo do azul sobre o vulcão (1995), Agora e na hora da nossa morte (1998), Biografia (2000), Afectos (2002), Anjos caídos (2003), Esta voz é quase vento (2004), Quatro luas (2006), Filho pródigo (2008), O pai, a mãe e o silêncio dos irmãos (2009) and Caminharei pelo vale da sombra (2011).

The public recognition of his work includes distinctions such as: the Grand Officer of the Order of Infante D. Henrique (2001 – Presidency of the Republic) and the Medal of Distinction awarded on the day of the Autonomous Region of Madeira (2015 – Regional Government of Madeira). Other prizes worth mentioning are the Pen Club – Poetry (2003), for Anjos Caídos, and the Grand Prize for Poetry CTT – Correios de Portugal (2004), for Esta Voz é Quase o Vento.

Paulo César Vieira Figueira

[1] Paulo Figueira (2020). José Agostinho Baptista, “le sentiment de soi”. In TRANSLOCAL. Culturas Contemporâneas Locais e Urbanas, nº 5.

Digital access: https://translocal.cm-funchal.pt/wp-content/uploads/2019/05/JoseAgostinhoBaptista-le-sentiment-de-soit5.pdf. Vd. José Agostinho Baptista, Debaixo do azul sobre o vulcão.

2 José Tolentino Mendonça, “Um sopro, uma leve pancada no coração”, in A Phala nº 81. Digital access: https://joseagostinhobaptista.com/a-phala.html.

3 José Tolentino Mendonça, “Um sopro, uma leve pancada no coração”, in A Phala nº 81. Digital access: https://joseagostinhobaptista.com/a-phala.html.

Bibliography

Falcão, Ana Margarida (2011). O Funchal na poesia insular do séc. XV ao séc. XX. In Funchal (d)escrito: ensaios sobre representações literárias da cidade. Vila Nova de Gaia: 7 Dias 6 Noites, 77-113.

Figueira, Paulo (2020). José Agostinho Baptista, “le sentiment de soi”. In TRANSLOCAL. Culturas Contemporâneas Locais e Urbanas, nº 5. Funchal: UMa-CIERL/CMF/IA. Digital access:

https://translocal.cm-funchal.pt/wp-content/uploads/2019/05/JoseAgostinhoBaptista-le-sentiment-de-soit5.pdf.

Consulted on 21-Dec-2021.

Figueira, Paulo (2008). Percursos da subjetividade pós-modernista: um contributo para a análise das poéticas de José Agostinho Baptista e Eduardo White [masters dissertation]. Funchal: Universidade da Madeira.

Magalhães, Joaquim Manuel (1989). Um pouco da morte. Lisboa: Presença.

Mendonça, José Tolentino (2000). Um sopro, uma leve pancada no coração. In A Phala – José Agostinho Baptista, nº 81. Digital access: https://joseagostinhobaptista.com/a-phala.html. Consulted on 21-Dec-2021.

Seixas, Ana Margarida Falcão (2003). Os Novos Shâmanes. Um Contributo para o Estudo da Narratividade na Poesia Portuguesa mais recente [dissertation]. Funchal: Universidade da Madeira.

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