¹

Shanghai has been a cosmopolitan city for a very long period. After the First Opium War, the British forces exerted influence over the city’s operations,² and the signning of the Treaty of Nanking elevated Shanghai to a significant treaty port in China.³ Throughout the Republican era, Shanghai boasted numerous international settlements, attracting a sizable foreign population engaged in trade, migration, or seeking refuge.⁴ This dynamic transformed Shanghai into a city where diverse cultures, powers, and foreign identities intermingled. Among the various forces and identities present, the police forces emerged as particularly complex institutions, highlighting the intricacies of Shanghai’s societal landscape. In this week’s assigned reading, Frederic Wakeman Jr. posits that this complexity underscores Shanghai’s ties to the imperial network,⁵ as all four police agencies operating in the city during that time were linked to imperialism or colonialism:

• The International Settlement’s Shanghai Municipal Police
• Frenchtown’s Concession Police
• The Nationalist Garrison Command’s Military Police
• The Chinese Special Municipality’s Public Safety Bureau

Nevertheless, this blog, in another way intends to discuss the diverse police forces in Shanghai in 1945, based on the texts from one of the volumes of Jingcha Yuekan 警察月刊 published in 1945 in Shanghai, to contend that Shanghai, at least in the aspect of police forces, represented a little globe. Specifically, it was a city showcasing the international coexistence of various countries, rather than solely being a treaty port city within the imperial network.

In one of the volumes of Jingcha Yuekan 警察月刊 published in 1945, a text titled Waiji Baojia 外籍保甲 provides a concise overview of the foreign police forces in Shanghai during that year. According to the text, in 1945, there were 26,715 foreign households in Shanghai, including nationalities such as Poland, Spain, Germany, Greece, and White Russia, among others.⁶ This detailed enumeration highlights the Chinese police’s awareness of the growing presence of foreigners, necessitating specific record-keeping. Furthermore, the text includes information on marriages and departures of foreigners. In February 1945, for instance, one German and one Spanish individual left Shanghai, while ten others became residents due to marriage.⁶ Additionally, two individuals underwent divorce proceedings.⁷ These reports indicate that the Chinese Shanghai police force was not only focused on local criminal matters but also actively monitored the living situations of foreigners. Managing the experiences of foreign residents was evidently within the purview of the Chinese Shanghai police forces, reflecting an international exchange of information. At this juncture, the foreign residents were not a manifestation of imperialism but rather constituents of Shanghai as a miniature globe.

However, despite the Chinese police force noticing and recording the presence of foreign groups in Shanghai, it does not imply a managing-and-being-managed relationship between these foreigners and the Chinese police force. Instead, I argue that the primary text reveals Shanghai’s dynamic situation, which rendered it a little globe. While the Chinese police force documented the details of foreign residents, they were not involved in their management. According to the text, foreigners had their own established Baojia Dui 保甲队, responsible for securing of specific groups and conducting defence drills within their settlements. For instance, the text highlights that Jewish people had 45 Baojia 保甲, collectively serving as a police force for 16,713 hours in February.⁷ Moreover, in the same month, the Jewish police force conducted six air defence drills involving 511 individuals.⁷ Similarly, White Russians had three Baojia 保甲, serving for 1,032 hours in February.⁷ Evidently, foreign groups operated under their own orders and regulations regarding policing. At this juncture, the Chinese police force merely acted as record-keepers rather than active participants or managers. Although foreigners were residents of Shanghai under the supervision of the Chinese police force, these foreign groups operated independently of the Chinese police force system. Within Shanghai’s city space, these groups functioned as autonomous institutions. This arrangement contributed to the creation of a little globe in Shanghai that lacked a centralised management.

Frederic Wakeman Jr. argues that Shanghai’s complicated police systems during the time highlighted its role in the imperial network. However, my contention in this blog is that Chinese and foreigners in Shanghai occupied independent statuses individually. Spatially, Shanghai resembled a collection of many small states and nations, with the Chinese lacking dominant status. This situation resulted in Shanghai being characterised as a miniature globe during this era.

1. “Waiji Baojiao” 外籍保甲, Jingcha Yuekan 警察月刊 1.2 (1945): 20. [↩]
2. Robert S. Rait, The Life and Campaigns of Hugh First Viscount Gough, Field-Marshal (London, 1903), p. 268. [↩]
3. ‘The Opium War (or How Hong Kong Began)’, South China Morning Post, 24 July, 2011, <https://www.scmp.com/article/974360/opium-war-or-how-hong-kong-began> [accessed 11 March 2024] [↩]
4. Frederic Wakeman, ‘Policing Modern Shanghai’, The China Quarterly 115 (September 1988): p. 427, <https://doi.org/10.1017/s0305741000027508> [accessed 11 March 2024] [↩]
5. Wakeman, ‘Policing Modern Shanghai’, p. 412.] [↩]
6. “Waiji Baojiao” 外籍保甲, p. 20. [↩] [↩]
7. Ibid. [↩] [↩] [↩] [↩]

People played out their lives in the lanes… but it was the first hour after dawn that disturbed us… the residents… placed their honey pots in a neat row outside their house… soon… the unbelievably strange, guttural, grunting-groaning sound [of] … the two-wheel pushcart [came] for the collection of human faeces… As soon as he departed… women charged on the scene… soon came the rhythmic noise from swishing the bundle of sticks around inside the family toilet.¹

This passage, from Ursula Bacon’s memoir From Hitler’s Hate to War-Torn China, describes a daily ritual that unfolded in the labyrinthine lanes of Shanghai. Residents meticulously arranged ‘honey pots’ (or otherwise known as wooden night stools, or family toilets) in rows outside their houses, heralding the arrival of the ‘two-wheel pushcart’ (or alternatively known as night stool cart) which was accompanied by strange guttural sounds – a peculiar yet particular urban orchestra responsible for collecting human waste.

As a Jewish refugee fleeing Nazi Germany, Bacon’s memoir helps to overcome the paucity of knowledge of the Jewish experience in Shanghai during the years 1939 to 1947. Throughout, Bacons depicts that upon disembarking from their ships, the refugees were met, not by the idyllic portrayal of China found in storybooks but rather with the stark reality of unfamiliar smells, sounds, crowds, heat and humidity. Bacon was overwhelmed by the nature of her new environment and at multiple points throughout her memoir she voices expression of disturbance at the city’s informal structures of practices – often dismissed as underdeveloped or messy. Indeed, Bacon’s memoir becomes a distinct articulation of the lives of the Chinese population living in Shanghai, which she saw as a ‘messy’ urban fabric.²

Jeffrey Hou and Manish Chalana in their chapter ‘Untangling the “Messy” Asian City,’ introduce the concept of ‘messy urbanism.’ This term encapsulates conditions and processes that diverge from institutionalised or culturally prescribed notions of order.³ Their chapter highlights the importance of looking at the often hidden, disguised, under appreciated, or dismissed compositions (such as disposal of waste) to help uncover the nuances of urban life. The author suggest that the layers of actors and actions revealed by the concept of ‘messy urbanism’ allow us to view urban life from a diverse, rather than hierarchical perspective. In this context, the seeming disorder of messiness conceals multiple layers of order and meaning that are readily decipherable to the communities that create and use them.⁴

In navigating her dual roles as both a foreigner and a refugee, Ursula Bacon also embraces the identity of a newcomer to Shanghai. This multifaceted positioning adds layers of complexity to her perspective, allowing her to engage with the urban landscape as someone simultaneously discovering and adapting to new surroundings. This nuanced perspective becomes a constant negotiation in her text, as she strives to portray the urban conditions without imposing the gaze of a foreigner who might misunderstand the complexity of the city. Bacon’s unique positioning contributes significant value to the representation of ‘messy urbanism,’ capturing the intricate dynamics of her experience in the lanes of Shanghai. Her words link the city’s ‘messiness’ to issues of poverty and a departed from the old hierarchical vision of Shanghai in the 1930s. Shanghai had established itself as the Paris of the East, yet Bacon’s initial impression reflects a nuanced perspective: ‘well, this is Shanghai, after all. It’s not Paris, London, Rome or Home.’⁵ Her use of a nostalgic tone serves to illuminate the everyday practices she encounters while traversing Shanghai to shed light on the broader patterns of urban order, characterising the messy urban fabric of Shanghai in the 1930s.

The work of Hanchao Lu’s Beyond the Neon Lights: Everyday Shanghai in the Early Twentieth Century, helps to neatly outline this sentiment. Lu’s work is one of the most original contributions to our understanding of Shanghai and is a valued source. Lu does well to detail to the indispensable role of the ‘nightsoil’ collectors who ‘repeat these actions hundreds of times every morning.’⁶ Lu’s articulation, in conversation with Bacon’s memoir, reminds the readership that within the perceived disorder there lies hidden layers or order and meaning. Whilst to a foreigner it may be seen as a disturbing routine, it was a ‘daily necessity.’⁷

Contemplating on John de Monacahuc’s assertion that ‘cities are messy places, and on the whole, they word well because of the messiness’ encourages a nuanced perspective when engaging with these sources. ⁸ To truly appreciate the underlying order, one must delve into the divers patterns, recognising that, although they may seem intricate, they are the very elements that contribute to the effective functioning of the city.

In essence, this exploration of messy urbanism in Shanghai highlights an unconventional order, resilience and the vibrant pulse of everyday life. Beneath the ‘messy,’ there exists a clear order – a dynamic interplay of practices and structures that shape the city’s identity. The seemingly disorder elements contribute to a rich urban fabric that reflect the adaptive ingenuity of Shanghai’s diverse communities

1.  Ursula Bacon, Shanghai Diary: A Young Girl’s Journey from Hitler’s Hate to War-Torn China, (2004) [↩]
2. Bacon, Shanghai Diary.  [↩]
3. Jeffrey Hou and Manish Chalana, ‘Untangling the “Messy” Asian City,’ in Manish Chalana (ed.) Messy Urbanism: Understanding the “Other” Cities of Asia, (2016), p. 4. [↩]
4. Hou and Chalana, ‘Untangling the “Messy” Asian City,’ p. 4.  [↩]
5. Bacon, Shanghai Diary.   [↩]
6. Hanchao Lu’s Beyond the Neon Lights: Everyday Shanghai in the Early Twentieth Century, (2023), p. 189. [↩]
7.   Lu’s Beyond the Neon Lights, p. 190 [↩]
8. Hou and Chalana, ‘Untangling the “Messy” Asian City,’ p. 5 [↩]

The anthropologist Dean MacCannell argues that the tourist embodies the search for authenticity away from our daily lives.¹ While modern mass tourism certainly grew more feasible as a result of greater mobility, safety, and disposable income, the demand for it increased due to the alienation inherent in the modern age.² The Officiele Vereeniging voor Touristenverkeer, translated as the Official Tourist Bureau or OTB, was founded in 1908 to promote international tourism in the Dutch East Indies and did so by tapping into the modern need for perceived authenticity. By analysing visual tourist material produced by the OTB, as well as material produced by colonial transport companies such as KLM and KPM, we can analyse the different discourses which they utilised to capture the tourist’s desire for the authentic.

Figure 1: Trips in the Isle of Java, OTB 1909

Figure 2: Java: The Ideal Tourist Resort, OTB 1914

Figure 3: See Java, OTB 1937

Most prominent in the tourist material produced by the OTB for Java is the theme of unspoilt nature. From the earliest publications to the material produced just before World War 2, brochures depicted the same scene of tropical flora set before an imposing volcano in the background.  Even early proposed itineraries were preoccupied with the natural, mandating visits to the Botanical Gardens at Buitenzorg (Bogor), as well as recommending stays at the garden’s mountain branch at Cibodas, or a summit of Mount Gede.³ Nature was authenticity in its purest form. MacCannell describes it as the “original other”, once a uniting fear but in the modern world a source of awe and refreshed perspective.⁴ Even where evidence of human settlement is seen, as in Figure 3’s lonesome smoke plume, it is sparse and only serves to heighten this sense of awe through comparison between the grand scale of nature and the humble existence of humans. Of course, association between the tropics and vibrant nature was by this point an established trope, built upon the works of Humboldt and other early travel writers who formed the tropics in the western imagination.⁵ However, in Java, Robert Cribb argues that the theme of unspoilt nature is so prominent because early tourism followed the line of least resistance. It promoted areas where transport and accommodation were most readily available. On Java, these spaces were the colonial hill stations.⁶ As a result, the authenticity promoted for Java is the nature which would have surrounded the early Dutch colonisers on their retreats to the cool foothills.

Figure 4: OTB

Figure 5: KLM

Figure 6: KPM 1928

The dominating image for Bali, on the other hand, is the bare-chested woman. The roots of this stereotype derive from western image makers residing in Bali in the early 20th century. Men like Walter Spies and Dr Julius Jacobs, while also giving focus to the island’s culture, built upon pre-existing notions of tropical sensuality to produce an image of a sexually liberal Bali.⁷ This hybrid depiction of Balinese people, inclined towards sexual overindulgence but culturally richer than other “primitive” tropical races, made the people of Bali an alluring attraction.⁸ For Europeans and Americans who lived through the rigours of the First World War and the Great Depression respectively, this type of freedom offered an escape from their repressive societies.⁹ Bali had only been fully annexed by the Dutch in 1908 and so still retained much of its wild and mysterious image. The encouragement of this image by official arms of the Dutch colonial regime points to an attempt to profit off of another form of commercialised authenticity. Rather than awe-inspiring nature taking centre stage, it was interaction with Bali’s people, charming and untouched by modern convention as they were, which proffered the chance to experience the authenticity that was missing from modern western life.

Thus, we can see how the OTB and other arms of the Dutch colonial regime appealed to different aspects of “authenticity” in two parts of their empire: Java and Bali. While Java may have been the tamest, most heavily agriculturally exploited part of the Dutch East Indies, it nevertheless was branded as a paradisiacal, natural garden. This drew in tourists hoping to be refreshed by exposure to nature. In the case of Bali, its people were leveraged to present a promise of simplistic living and moral freedom. The Balinese could be thought to be living in a close to natural state, thus acting as an alluring proxy to access authenticity. Touristic materials can thus help us engage with the international discourses surrounding native landscapes and peoples, as well as telling us about the needs and desires of targeted western audiences.

1. Dean MacCannell, The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class (London, 1976). [↩]
2. Shelley Baranowski et al., ‘Tourism and Empire’, Journal of Tourism History 7:1 (2015), p. 113. [↩]
3. Robert Cribb, ‘International Tourism in Java, 1900-1930’, South East Asia Research 3:2 (1995), p. 198. [↩]
4. Dean MacCannell, The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class (London, 1976), p. 81. [↩]
5. David Arnold, The Tropics and the Traveling Gaze: India, Landscape, and Science, 1800-1856 (Washington, 2006), p. 113. [↩]
6. Robert Cribb, ‘International Tourism in Java, 1900-1930’, South East Asia Research 3:2 (1995), p. 202. [↩]
7. Adrian Vickers, Bali: A Paradise Created (Berkeley, 1989). [↩]
8. Ibid, p. 127. [↩]
9. Ibid, p. 142. [↩]

In his book Cities in Motion: Urban Life and Cosmopolitanism in Southeast Asia, Su Lin Lewis articulates the role of soundscapes and cinema in globalising Asian cities. One interesting aspect explored is the impact of the gramophone in injecting new life into leisure entertainment.¹ Lewis articulates that around the ‘gramophone and wireless created a new, mass experience of listening to music and stories, divorced from live experience and occurring in the comfort of one’s home, or in the home of one’s neighbour, or in a crowd on a street.’² Essentially, the gramophone, emerging as a cultural conduit in ones home, severed the tether to live experiences, granting a global audience unprecedented access to diverse cultural expressions.

This discussion seeks to explore the role of the gramophone as a social space in globalising Asian cities.

Lewis notes that this phenomenon was not a simple diffusion from West to East but a complex interplay involving local and regional influences. Lewis places significant emphasis on the gramophone market in Burma. Narrated through a story in Ranghoon’s University College Annual, Lewis traces the clash of musical preferences between an ‘old-fashioned Burman’ and the younger generation, symbolising the generational divided.³ The influx of Burmese renditions of English songs, accompanied by instruments like Hawaiian guitars and Hilly Billy Banjos, created a sensory transformation. While concerns were raised about the potential influence of swing and hot-cha music, the adaption of jazz tunes by Burmese musicians interestingly led to the preservation of diverse musical traditions in Burma and exposed local audiences to both Western and Asian music. Lewis highlights the pivotal role played by the gramophone – divorcing music from live performances and bringing a mass experience of global sounds to Burmese homes, streets and communities.

Lewis proposes that the cultural adaption observed in Burma was not an isolated occurrence but rather part of a worldwide phenomenon.⁴ Therefore, this discussion will expand this exploration to Singapore during the early 20th century, with a particular focus on the role played by His Master’s Voice (HMV) Gramophone Company. As a global player, HMV, initially founded in London, established a noteworthy presence in Singapore, contributing to the cultural exchange facilitated by the technological advancements of the gramophone.

The gramophone’s ability to mechanically reproduce music facilitated a cultural exchange, exposing a multi-cultural city to various musical styles.

Similar, to the situation in Burma, HMV’s recordings in Singapore exposed local audiences to various forms of music, fostering a sense of cosmopolitanism and modernity. The adaptability of simple jazz tunes and the incorporation of diverse musical traditions became part of the sensory transformation of Singapore into a modern Asian city. The recordings not only preserved existing musical traditions but also played a role in the creation of new and modern popular genres.⁵

Figure 1, an advertisement of an HMV gramophone found in the Straits Chronicle 1915, provides valuable insights into the cultural impact of the gramophone. The title ‘your home is incomplete if your home does not possess a “His Master’s Voice Gramophone,”‘ conveys that the gramophone is more than a mere functional device; it is a status symbol and a valuable addition to one’s identity. Indeed, the gramophone came to be one of the prime symbols of class formation, modernity and social change. It was especially favoured by a small, yet distinct community known as the Peranakan Chinese in Singapore, for its capacity to acquire ‘culture’ and bring both global and local music to the home.⁶ It goes on the articulate that ‘you must realise its superiority over all other instruments, if you think for one moment just how many musical instruments are contained in one.’ This propagandist assertion underscores the gramophone’s technological advancements, showcasing an ability to reproduce diverse sounds, distinguishing between various local cultural and foreign instruments and styles with clarity. Indeed, gramophone recordings by the HMV in Singapore were a fusion of stylistic borrowing and localisation. Musicians adapted to changes in British colonial society, actively merging elements of commercial Anglo-American popular music wit Malay lyrics about the problems and hopes of ordinary people to generate new meanings.⁷

 

Figure 1. ‘Advertisements Column 3,’ Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 4^th March 1915.⁸

Furthermore, the invitation to ‘hear Caruso, Tetrazzini, Titta Ruffo, Melba, McCormack, Journet, Paderewski, Kubelik, Kreisler, the New Symphony Orchestra, Coldstream Guards Band, and a great host of hosts of others in YOUR house,’ emphasises how the gramophone acted as cultural bridge, bringing so many voices to the homes of ordinary people. This further highlights a new consumer culture in Singapore where variety was clearly appreciated.

Clearly, western technology and the colonial market system provided a hybrid, cosmopolitan and inclusive modernity that aimed to create a more modern society. This underscores and helps advance Lewis’s argument that the gramophone helped to globalise Asian cities.

1. Su Lin Lewis, Cities in Motion: Urban Life and Cosmopolitanism in Southeast Asia, 1920-1940, (2016), p. 238 [↩]
2. Lewis, Cities in Motion, p. 228 [↩]
3. Ibid., p. 231. [↩]
4. Ibid., p. 232 [↩]
5. Tan Sooi Beng, ‘Negotiating “His master’s Voice”: Gramophone Music and Cosmopolitan Modernity in British Malaya in the 1930s and Early 1940s, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 169:4 (2013), p. 461 [↩]
6. Peter Lee and Jennifer Chen, Rumah Baba: Life in a Peranakan House, (Singapore, 1998), p.93 [↩]
7. Beng, ‘Negotiating “His master’s Voice,”’ p. 459 [↩]
8. Figure 1. ‘Advertisements Column 3,’ Pinang Gazette and Straits Chronicle, 4^th March 1915, p. 2 [↩]

Confessions of a Mask, originally published in 1949, was responsible for launching its author, Yukio Mishima to national fame. The novel follows its narrator, Ko-chan, as he struggles to fit into Imperial Japanese society. However, it is the final scene, set in a Tokyo dancehall during the American occupation, which is of particular spatial interest. As shown by Mackie and Field, novels were an important medium of representation of social spaces in Japan and China respectively.¹ By analysing literary representations of the dancehall, we can learn about how they were imagined, not only by the author who described them, but by the wider society for which the novel was written. Though the dancehall presented in Confessions of a Mask is probably not a wholly accurate portrayal of any real establishment, it gives us insight into the connotations such spaces would have had for sections of the Japanese public, and their place within cultural discourse.

What is most apparent in Mishima’s description of the dancehall is its popularity. The intensity of the crowd within is emphasised as “cheek pressed against sweaty cheek” (pg. 198), and people extend their lunchbreaks to dance their fill. Indeed, during the post-war period, Japanese dancehalls were one of the rare sites of prosperity. Articles published in the Nippon Times testified to, and explained, the popularity of social dance spaces, arguing that they allowed ‘‘liberation from rigid wartime restrictions’’ and were representative of the growth of a new ‘‘democratic life”.² This popularity meant profit. According to the Japan Times in 1948, the average dance hall musician received about 20,000 yen per month, compared to the basic wage of 3,000 yen for most office workers.³ Dancehalls were especially important sites of labour for veterans who had received musical training in the armed forces. Famous musicians such as the singer Oida Toshio, clarinettist Miyama Toshiyuki, and saxophonist Oda Satoru were among those who were able to successfully transition to civilian life.⁴ As such, Mishima’s bustling dancehall reflects the prominent place dancehalls held in the post-war Japanese zeitgeist, not only in its very use in the final scene of the novel, but in its textual description.

The novel also indicates the demographics and roles one expected to find within a dancehall. The first description of the hall’s interior notes that the crowd mainly consisted of office workers (pg. 198). The emergent figure of the “salaryman”, to which this is most probably referring to, represented the growing group of male white-collar workers who arose in Japan’s urban landscape in the early twentieth century. Their patronage of the dancehall indicates that such spaces were perceived as domains for male consumption. The few women in the scene, such as Ko-chan’s companion Sonoko to whom the dancehall is an unfamiliar space, are either brought there by men or are working hostesses. Mackie’s assertion of dancehalls as contradictory, gendered sites, supplying commodified leisure for men and labour for women, is thus corroborated.⁵

Lastly, the overt Americanisation of the dancehall reveals the cultural connotations these spaces would have held for Mishima and many others in Japan at the time. Mishima’s dancehall is almost overfilled with western music, Coca-Cola, and Hawai’ian shirts, all hallmarks of American culture. As Mackie argues, the dancehall was a venue where new structures of Euro-American hegemony could be enacted and reproduced.⁶ In fact, dance halls had been banned during the war but were reopened during the occupation to cater for Allied soldier.⁷ However, the image presented by Mishima clashes with the Mackie’s claim that while the dancehalls of the 1920s and 30s had been associated with modernity and Western dress, those of the Occupation catered to Allied expectations of exoticism.⁸ It is at this point we must consider the constructed, fictional nature of the novel as a source. Rather than naturalistically reflecting reality, Mishima’s writing was inevitably swayed by his fears over the loss of Japanese identity, and thus overemphasises the visibility of American culture.⁹ Such rhetoric is nevertheless useful, as while Occupation Japanese dancehalls may not have been so overtly Americanised as portrayed in Confessions of a Mask, they were certainly associated heavily with the Allied troops to which they owed their reestablishment. This inherent historical association between dancehalls and the Occupation makes it a convincing scene for Mishima to display his cultural concerns.

Mishima’s dancehall is thus a flawed, yet useful, reflection of reality. It seems to accurately capture the clientele and popularity of dancehalls in the post-war period and alludes to their gendered nature. However, his overly Americanised portrayal is more historically problematic. Rather, this segment of the novel can tell us about how social dancing spaces were positioned in the mind of the Japanese public. Post-war dancehalls were inextricably linked with western influence, and represented a new Japan, reborn from the desolation of war but irrevocably changed. Using a novel as a historical source thus lets us analyse how spaces were imagined by the public, providing a subjective perspective into how contemporary people constructed certain spaces in their own minds.

1. Vera Mackie, ‘Sweat, Perfume, and Tabacco’ in Modern Girls on the Go, eds. Alissa Freedman, Laura Miller, and Christine Yano (2018) and Andrew Field, Shanghai’s Dancing World: Cabaret Culture and Modernity in Old Shanghai, 1919-1954 (2010). [↩]
2. E. Taylor Atkins, Blue Nippon: Authenticating Jazz in Japan (2001), pg. 187. [↩]
3. Ibid, pg. 176 [↩]
4. Ibid. [↩]
5. Vera Mackie, ‘Sweat, Perfume, and Tabacco’ in Modern Girls on the Go, eds. Alissa Freedman, Laura Miller, and Christine Yano (2018), pg. 74. [↩]
6. Ibid, pg. 82. [↩]
7. Ibid, pg. 79. [↩]
8. Ibid. [↩]
9. Damian Flanagan, Yukio Mishima (2014), pg. 8. [↩]

Newspaper Article: Novel Features of Fair to Astonish and Delight ((‘Novel Features of Fair to Astonish and Delight’, Los Angeles Times, January 1915.))

The Panama-Pacific International Exposition (PPIE) of 1915 held in San Francisco showcased diverse national exhibitions, attracting participation from numerous countries, including China and Japan. A 1915 newspaper article, titled Novel Features of Fair to Astonish and Delight published in the Los Angeles Times, highlighted the magnitude of the Chinese representation, describing ‘The Chinese Village’ spread across several acres with an investment exceeding $250,000.¹ Also, the article provided insights into the Japanese exhibition, positioning China and Japan within the same narrative. Yet, despite being neighbouring nations in East Asia, the coverage indicates a differential emphasis, implying that Japan’s cultural and traditional elements garnered more attention and exploration compared to China. This observation underscores a Western inclination towards Japanese culture, reflecting broader global dynamics and preferences during the exposition.

When contrasting the introductions to the exhibition halls of China and Japan, the author’s focus on distinct details underscores a clear Western preference. In discussing the Chinese exhibition, emphasis was placed on the logistical aspects and physical layout rather than the thematic content. For instance, the author highlighted practicalities such as the requirement for Chinese visitors and workers to obtain permission and be accompanied by a guard when leaving the enclosure, as well as the presence of a four-foot wall surrounding the grounds and brightly adorned pagodas.² A comprehensive overview of the exhibition’s contents was absent, with attention directed towards peripheral details. In contrast, the discussion of the Japanese exhibition was characterized by clarity and richness. The author delineated various ‘villages’ within the Japanese display, such as The Australasian Village and the Tehauntepec Village² , before delving into intricate descriptions of its elements. Captivating features like a colossal Buddha at the entrance, the majestic backdrop of Fujiyama, a sand diviner, dromedaries, and even dancing girls adorning the exhibition streets²  were mentioned. The author concluded by asserting that the Japanese exhibition faithfully reproduced ‘the appearance of life in these interesting parts of the world.’² Evidently, the introduction of the Japanese exhibition surpassed its Chinese counterpart in detail, cultural richness, and specificity of layout, underscoring a notable discrepancy in Western portrayal.

However, was the Chinese exhibition perceived as dull at this exposition? Did it fail to adequately showcase elements of its own culture? In fact, William Peterson’s chapter on this subject reveals a different narrative. Peterson illustrates that the planners made concerted efforts to showcase Chinese cultural elements, exemplified by the meticulous replication of the ‘Forbidden City’ (Figure 1.). The replicated imperial architecture could demystify the enigmatic realm and signal China’s openness to global engagement.³ Besides, the Chinese exhibition contained a small section titled ‘Underground Chinatown’ featured mannequins engaging in activities such as gambling and opium consumption,⁴ which caused an immediate response in the local Chinese-language press.⁵ Despite the detailed efforts to infuse cultural elements at the PPIE, these nuances were absent in the newspaper. While the author mentioned features like replicated city walls built by Chinese workers, the author failed to explore the deeper cultural significance behind these structures, underscoring a broader media ignorance regarding Chinese cultural representation at the exposition.

Figure 1. The replica of Beijing’s ‘Forbidden City’.⁶

Additionally, while introducing the Chinese exhibition, the author interjected Japanese elements into the Chinese section. Following the mention of Chinese walls, the author swiftly transitioned to describe the nearby Japanese site as a beautiful Japanese garden. In stark contrast to the supposed plain ground of the Chinese exhibition (which was inaccurately depicted), the Japanese site boasted numerous ancient temples, including a replicated Japanese temple of Kinkakuji at Kioto, along with Japanese rocks, trees, shrubs, and sod.¹ These details, however, were presented within the context of the ‘Mystic Chinatown’ section.

As the author noted, there was a rivalry for early attention between the Chinese and Japanese exhibitions.² However, judging by the level of detail provided, it is apparent that the Japanese exhibition garnered more attention within the exposition. In this rivalry, it seemed the Japanese exhibition emerged as the clear winner.

 

Bibliography

Primary Source

“Novel Features of Fair to Astonish and Delight.” Los Angeles Times. January 1915.

Secondary Source

Peterson, William. Asian self-representation at world’s fairs. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2020.

1. ‘Novel Features of Fair to Astonish and Delight’. [↩] [↩]
2. Ibid. [↩] [↩] [↩] [↩] [↩]
3. William Peterson, Asian Self-Representation at World’s Fairs (Amsterdam, 2020), p. 94. [↩]
4. Peterson, Asian Self-Representation at World’s Fairs, p. 108. [↩]
5. Ibid., p. 109. [↩]
6. Ibid., p. 96. [↩]

In his book Aesthetic Construction of Korean Nationalism: Spectacle, Politics and History,  Hong Kal examines sites of exhibitions as a locus for the formation of national identity in twentieth century Koreas. KaI’s exploration of the relationship between space, vision and power, in the formation of Korean nationalism prompts an intriguing parallel with Singapore’s approach to the construction of a narrative of national identity.¹. In both cases, exhibitions have served as crucial sites for shaping collective memory and fostering a sense of belonging within diverse and multifaceted communities.

Singapore, much like Korea, is a melting pot of diverse cultures, ethnicities and identities. The nation’s unique history, marked by colonial influence and waves of immigration has contributed to a rich and multifaceted cultural landscape. The challenge of Singapore lies in unifying these varied identities under a shared national narrative while respecting and celebrating individual uniqueness.²

KaI asks the question what crucial mechanism of representations allows a nation to be imagined. In doing so, he highlights the effectiveness of the 1915 exposition in Korea. This event, more than any other medium at the time, related to the masses the idea of the nation.³.  The Peranakan Museum in Singapore is similar. As a state-run institution the Peranakan Museum has purposefully constructed a ‘heritage’ from its pre-independence past that is relevant for Singapore’s post-colonial present and future. Indeed, the Peranakan museum, and the pragmatic use to which it has been put, services a part of government policy.⁴ It has become a cultural space wherein a particular vision and narrative of the past is represented and performed.  This is a discourse of hybridity.

From personal experience in visiting the Peranakan museum – the objects on display are designed for the visitor to draw lines of connection between the multifaceted culture of the Peranakans and the flavour of national self-identity promoted in Singapore today. This intentional manipulation creates a coherent and inclusive narrative.

Just as KaI explores how exhibitions influence perceptions of modernity and identity in Korea, Singapore’s museums act as agents in shaping how citizens perceive their history and cultural heritage. By presenting a curated view of the past, museums contribute to the formation of a collective memory that avoids conflicting identities and fosters a sense of national unity.

My mother’s experience as a docent at the Peranakan Museum has given me an understanding of the thoughtfully crafted narrative woven into the fabric of the museum’s tours. A visitor embarking on this cultural exploration starts at the ‘Origins Gallery,’ where they are given a speech which prompts them to observe the diverse array of faces in the wall. The first part of my mother’s speech prompts reminds the audience that ‘these are the faces of Peranakans past and present. ‘ And then asks them to notice that the faces are different and diverse. ‘This is not an ethnic race, it is a culture.’ These statements transcend the conventional discourse on ethnicity, and instead direct the focus towards the rich tapestry of Peranakan culture. It is an intentional choice – an invitation for visitors, irrespective of their ancestral ties, to connect with and appreciate the cultural mosaic that defines the Peranakan legacy.

As the tour progresses the narrative strands diverge, delving into the myriad manifestations of Peranakan culture which encompass the influences of many cultures – Malay, Chinese, Tamil and Eurasian/ Other ethnic minorities⁵ At one point in my mother’s tour, there is reference to the recreation of a Tok Panjang (long table). This simple word holds profound significance, unraveling the diverse strands of influence. ‘Tok’ means table in Hokkien, while ‘Panjang; means long in Malay.’ She goes on to explain, ‘gone was the tradition Chinese round table and in came the European style long dining table. These long table feasts were important in hospitality and all the dishes were shared around in true Asian family style. The porcelain on the table is fine style of ‘nonyawear’ from China, this unique to the Peranakan culture … notice the Chinese motifs… Butterflies remembered for eternal love.’ This attention to details showcases the fusion of different cultures and emphasises the dynamic nature of Peranakan heritage. The tour crafts a compelling story that goes beyond cultural boundaries, and each artifact on display adds to the overarching theme of multiculturalism.

Interestingly, the end of her tour concludes with a visit to the ‘Famous Peranakans Gallery,’ which serves as a historical archive and a bridge connecting the colonial roots of Peranakan culture, with their pivotal role in shaping an independent Singaporean nation-state. For example, she places significant emphases on a female lawyer called Kwa Geok Choo and her barrister’s wig, which is ‘an iconic symbol of British justice.’ Visitors are told that ‘she was the first Asian woman to get a first-class honours degree in law from Cambridge. She studied with Lee Kwan Yew and graduated ahead of him, becoming the first female barrister in Singapore helping to draw up the Singapore Constitution.’ Thus, the visitor understands the emphasis on Peranakan culture as one of the ancestors of Singaporean society. Additionally, information such as this reinforces the state’s policies regarding the coexistence of different ethnic and racial groups.

The government’s strategy in using the Peranakan museum as a space to minimise ethnic tensions and the purposeful selection of historical objects that speak to a culturally unified origin of the Singaporean nation is clear. However, Kal has rightly pointed out that, we cannot fully measure how the masses have experience[d] the event… the responses could be multiple and complex.’⁶ While acknowledging this complexity, it remains evident that the Peranakan Museum plays a pivotal role in providing the material conditions necessary for understanding a particular re-imagination of the nation. More specifically, the post-independent narrative of multiculturalism in Singapore.

1. Hong Kal, Aesthetic Construction of Korean Nationalism: Spectacle, Politics and History, (2011), p.10. [↩]
2. Stephan Ortmann, ‘Singapore: the Politics of Inventing National Identity,’ Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, 28:4 (2009), p. 30.  [↩]
3. Kal, Aesthetic Construction of Korean Nationalism, p. 30 [↩]
4. X [↩]
5. Eunice Tan and Tania Lim, ‘Consuming Asia: Culinary Tourism, Soft Power and Mediation of Peranakan TV, Proceedings of the 3rd Global Tourism and Hospitality Conference, (2017), p. 390. [↩]
6. Kal, Aesthetic Construction of Korean Nationalism, p. 40 [↩]

Taiwan, officially known as the Republic of China (ROC) is a semi-recognised sovereign state with an independent government but limited recognition state in East Asia with only 11 UN member states recognising it by the time of writing.¹ Even though the name China appears on the name of Taiwan, the Taiwanese residents today, especially the younger generation see themselves as ‘Taiwanese’ rather than ‘Chinese’ despite the ROC being a remnant of the Chinese Civil War from 1945 to 1949 where the ruling Nationalist party (KMT) lost and established a rival government to the Communists (CCP).² To understand this phenomenon of Taiwanese identity shift, this blog will explore the two sites managed by the National Human Rights Museum established in 2018. This blog argues that the construction of human rights-themed museums builds onto the Taiwanese identity to showcase to the outside world that they are different from authoritarian Mainland China as an indirect form of protest against the ‘Chinese’ identity being forced upon Taiwanese residents. The blog will start by contextualising the argument through a brief account of the recent history of Taiwan. Next, the Green Island Memorial managed by the National Human Rights Museum will be analysed. Finally,  a concise comparison of the museum with the Japan-British exhibition will be used as a discussion of the theme of museums and exhibits.

Taiwan or Formosa is an island located off the coast of Fujian, China separated by the Taiwan Strait. From 1895 to 1945, as a result of the Qing defeat in the First Sino-Japanese War, Taiwan became a colony of the Japanese Empire, seeing industrialisation and exploitation of Taiwanese resources for the Japanese war effort.³ In 1945 at the onset of the surrender of the Japanese, Taiwan was to become under the administration of the ROC, which at the time controlled Mainland China as well. However, with the onslaught of the Chinese Civil War and the defeat of the KMT under Chaing Kai-shek at the hands of the CCP led by Mao Zedong, the KMT established their government in Taipei, with the goal of eventually reconquering the Mainland.⁴ Under KMT rule until 1989, forms of opposition or suspicion of being communist spies were a target for arrests and execution, and any form of Taiwanese separatism, speaking Taiwanese Hokkien or praising the Japanese were seen as treason and a breach of national security reinforced by Martial Law.⁵ This policy was in line with the KMT policy to instil a sense of Chinese identity in the Taiwanese population to eventually retake the Mainland, and to promote itself as the ‘true China’. Fast forward to 1987, Taiwan lifted Martial Law and free elections were held, causing Taiwan to flourish as a young democracy.⁶ This has allowed for a broader room of discussion for topics that used to be banned such as Taiwanese identity, democracy, human rights, and free speech. This democratising environment eventually culminated in the 2000 presidential election of Chen-Shui-bian of the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP), which promote a Taiwanese identity distinct from the Chinese-centric KMT, hence marking a shift in Taiwan’s history.⁷ Since 2000, Taiwan has become an established democracy with the KMT and DPP constantly vying for power with some notable cases of brawling in the Legislative Yuan (Taiwan’s parliament). 

Under DPP administrations, the government has pushed for the introduction of liberal values that distanced itself from China. The promotion of human rights is a major policy for the Taiwanese government. The DPP administrations under Chen-Shui-bian (2000-2008) and Tsai Ing-wen (2016-2023) have pushed for a Taiwanese-centered identity which aimed to promote a Taiwan-centered society and de-Sinicise the education system.⁸ The establishment of the National Human Rights Museum in 2017 was a milestone in Taiwan’s quest to distance itself from an ever-aggressive China. According to the museum’s official website, it took over 15 years of donations from organisations and countless legislative obstacles to establish the museum managing two former sites used to imprison KMT political opponents to educate the public about the importance of freedom and reflecting on past mistakes. ( (https://www.nhrm.gov.tw/w/nhrm/Introduction )) This demonstrates how the Taiwanese government under the DPP tried to establish former spaces of oppression to promote new Taiwanese values. I believe this was done to counter the growing assertiveness of the Chinese government in claiming Taiwan for itself.

The Green Island Human Rights Park was a former prison used to imprison political opponents during the Martial Law era and is now a museum site under the administration of the National Human Rights Museum. Located in Taitung prefecture on the east coast of the island, this 32 acre site used to be a former prison that housed activists who challenged the government.⁹ By turning the site into a museum that commemorated the victims of the KMT regime, it demonstrates a power shift. Under the DPP administration, the KMT past, especially the era under Martial Law was seen as a period where innocent Taiwanese were imprisoned because of promoting free speech created a new discourse that the KMT and China were foreign invaders of Taiwan and were not native to the land. This shows how the DPP is attempting to construct a discourse of Taiwanese identity that aims to distance itself from China in light of the heightened tensions across the Taiwan Strait. As China is increasing its crackdown on human rights and individual freedoms, Taiwan sees itself as the bastion of freedom against the communist regime across the Straits. By coming to terms with the past human rights abuses and promoting a sense of Taiwanese identity, this museum exhibit aims to educate the public that human rights is an important aspect of post-Martial Law Taiwan. By directly turning a former site of political oppression into a site that educates the public on values of democracy, it demonstrates that the government under the DPP is attempting to create a discourse that the past KMT-centered government is responsible for numerous atrocities and that the Taiwanese identity is central to a new discourse. This showcases how the DPP aims to construct that the new Taiwan was born under the abandonment of the China-centric approach by the KMT, solidifying the political narrative. With museums, it is an effective measure to promote to the public as it uses summarised and condensed narratives on how particular political progress is achieved.

In comparison to the Japan-British Exhibition of 1910, the transformation of the Green Island Museum draws parallels. The Japan-British Exhibition of 1910 aimed to promote Japan’s imperialism and justify having an empire over territories like Taiwan and Korea whereas the Taiwan one aimed to promote human rights as part of national identity construction.¹⁰ Similar to how the Japanese wanted to project their empire to the West, the Taiwanese aimed to use the human rights museums to promote that they are in line with the West in democracy against the authoritarian China much like how the Japanese did 100 years ago. In short, although there is a 100 year gap between my elective reading and the example used in this elective reading, fitting in with Western values often signify a sign of civilisation, in which colonised populations hope to achieve and become a part of it.

 

1. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-67978185 [↩]
2. https://tw.news.yahoo.com/%E6%B0%91%E8%AA%BF-76-7-%E8%87%AA%E8%AA%8D%E6%98%AF%E5%8F%B0%E7%81%A3%E4%BA%BA-%E4%B8%AD%E5%9C%8B%E8%AA%8D%E5%90%8C%E5%B7%B2%E7%B6%93%E5%80%8B%E4%BD%8D%E6%95%B8-044006112.html?guce_referrer=aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuZ29vZ2xlLmNvbS8&guce_referrer_sig=AQAAAMa3tYOVvzOCVYWYQfcdY3JVR-V-tDwjxGpcmLNCusfFh3acFRPJnKI5hcA0YdS4FewkhElwHzleI0hXC2-GpoAqhJot16047_x8OV8yv60InDnCCx9klHRCio-zR7lo2ARrRFLe1ectntl9KfRXnPIDxrR2mlNEwNAhxYR8jAVQ [↩]
3. Dawley, Evan Becoming Taiwanese: Ethnogenesis in a Colonial City 1880s-1950s  [↩]
4. Manthorpe, Jonathan, Taiwan: Forbidden nation  [↩]
5. TIEN, HUNG-MAO, and CHYUAN-JENG SHIAU. “Taiwan’s Democratization: A Summary.” World Affairs, vol. 155, no. 2, 1992, pp. 58–61. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/20672340. Accessed 4 Feb. 2024. [↩]
6. TIEN, H.-M., & SHIAU, C.-J. (1992). Taiwan’s Democratization: A Summary. World Affairs, 155(2), 58–61. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20672340 [↩]
7. CHANG, BI-YU. “From Taiwanisation to De-Sinification: Culture Construction in Taiwan since the 1990s.” China Perspectives, no. 56, 2004, pp. 34–44. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/24051939. Accessed 4 Feb. 2024. [↩]
8. https://www.lemonde.fr/en/international/article/2023/12/29/taiwan-questions-the-role-of-chinese-literature-and-history-in-education_6384023_4.html [↩]
9. https://www.nhrm.gov.tw/w/nhrm/GI_History [↩]
10. Hotta-Lister, A. The Japan-British Exhibition of 1910: Gateway to the Island Empire of the East. 1 edition. Richmond: Routledge, 1999. [↩]

Hong Kong has been known to many as the financial hub and gateway to the East with its vibrant culture and food scene earning the nickname ‘Pearl of the Orient’. Under this guise, however, few in the West are unaware of the complex history of this place which Western values come into play with traditional Chinese family values and how 156 years of British rule created a sense of identity that comes into conflict with that of its behemoth sovereign China.¹ Instead of focusing on the political aspect of Hong Kong which newspapers and scholars do a much better job at, I will take a look at Victoria Park, the second largest public park and green space in Hong Kong by land area and how its existence captures the conflicting values of Hong Kong discretely. I argue that the statue and this large space is representative of how Hong Kong’s complex interactions with China and the West created and destroyed certain values like free speech and it also acts as a ground of cultural representation for its secondary function. The park will be compared to the Sanam Luang (Royal Field) in Bangkok at the end.

The park was built on reclaimed land from the Causeway Bay typhoon shelter and was so named Victoria Park because of a statue of Queen Victoria. The bronze statue of Queen Victoria was originally built to commemorate her Diamond Jubilee in 1897 and was located in Statue Square in Central, a 7-minute metro ride away. During the Second World War, the statue was stolen by the Japanese to make way for arms production. It was not until the 50s that the statue was recovered and coincidentally, the area around the old Causeway Bay typhoon shelter has been reclaimed and it was decided that a park was to be built on the reclaimed land measuring 19 acres. The park was to be named Victoria Park because of the statue.²

 

Figure 1: Aerial overview of Victoria Park

The statue of Queen Victoria, symbolising British control over Hong Kong was smeared with red paint and the nose was broken one year prior to Hong Kong’s handover in 1996 by an artist who criticised Hong Kong’s colonial art culture.³ The colour red is significant because in colonial Hong Kong discourse, the colour red is associated with communism or the mainland’s government in general, with it being especially sensitive in the aftermath of the 1989 Tiananmen Square Massacre. Coincidentally, since 1989 until the enactment of the National Security Law in 2020, every year on June 4th, hundreds of thousands of individuals will gather to commemorate the victims slaughtered by the Chinese government through candlelight vigils as in China it is a banned topic.⁴ The gathering of the masses in a park with the name of the British monarch showcases an act of resistance by local Hong Kong activists to demonstrate that they cherish the values of democracy and freedom which does not sit well with the Chinese government.

With the Chinese government wanting to increase its grip on Hong Kong, it chose to assault what Hong Kongers cherished the most, open expression of a sense of identity. The park signified resistance in the form of an annual tradition, being featured on international outlets like the BBC and CNN. By using the pandemic as a pretext, the six football pitches where individuals used to gather have been cordoned off by the police in 2021 and 2022 showcasing how the Chinese authorities have been increasingly clamping down on Hong Kong in recent years.⁵ In June 2023, a patriotic fair that sold Chinese goods and promoted Chinese peace and values was set up in the place of the vigil according to a report from Radio Free Asia.⁶ This clearly shows a power shift and an overarching power of the Chinese authorities over the former established institutions as the Queen’s statue has faded into the background. In other words, the value of spaces changes over time and is synonymous with power dynamics and in the case of Victoria Park, it signifies the value of authoritarianism crushing civil liberties. It further aligns with the Chinese government’s vision of making Hong Kong ‘Chinese’.

For its secondary function, the park is a place for recreation and symbolises the livelihood of Hong Kong, an escape from the hustle and bustle of the city. Having six football pitches, six basketball courts, an Olympic-standard indoor swimming pool, a tennis stadium, a jogging track and a picnic ground, it has abundant space for individuals to stay healthy and enjoy socialising.² I remember going to swimming classes with my secondary school during the summer term for Physical Education (PE) classes and the park seems so tranquil whenever I go there, a great escape from the city.

Sanam Luang in Bangkok plays a symbolic role like Victoria Park. As Sanam Luang is a large open field located near the Royal Palace and a major Buddhist temple, the use of the space by groups like monarchists and protesters signifies the vibrant nature of different voices in Thailand.⁷ By hosting royal funerals and being near the palace, it demonstrates a power line that the monarch remains the most important figure within Thai society and the lese majeste laws that forbid slandering the monarch compliments the ‘peace’ of Sanam Luang. This draws parallels to how the Security Law creates a sense of ‘peace’ as opposed to the protests towards the Chinese government prior to the law.

In conclusion, the use of parks and open spaces alongside legislation showcases how certain authorities try to use space as an expression of power or enforce new values upon the population.

1. https://www.nationalgeographic.com/culture/article/hong-kong-history-explain-relationship-china [↩]
2. https://www.discoverhongkong.com/tc/explore/great-outdoor/urban-retreat-at-city-parks.html [↩] [↩]
3. https://web.archive.org/web/20150924101554/http://www.scmp.com/article/180291/queen-victoria-has-successful-nose-job [↩]
4. https://www.bbc.com/zhongwen/trad/chinese-news-48511746 [↩]
5. https://edition.cnn.com/2022/06/03/asia/hong-kong-june-4-tiananmen-nsl-intl-mic-hnk/index.htmlOutside of its political functions, the park captures the livelihood of Hong Kong. [↩]
6. https://www.rfa.org/cantonese/news/htm/hk-fair-06042023104236.html [↩]
7. Chalana, Manish, ed. Messy Urbanism: Understanding the “Other” Cities of Asia. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2017. Ch 5 The Royal Field (Sanam Luang): Bangkok’s Polysemic Urban Palimpsest [↩]