From the Nazi theft of art and the bombing of Coventry Cathedral to the destruction by ISIS of objects from Mosul Museum in Iraq, war devastates lives, kills people and destroys the cultural heritage that they hoped would outlive them. Sometimes destruction is accidental, but often our cherished places, objects and stories are deliberately targeted in conflict.
What Remains, our new exhibition at IWM London, in partnership with Historic England, explores why cultural heritage is attacked during war and the ways we save, protect and restore what is targeted. Over 50 photographs, oral histories, objects and artworks will be on display, from both IWM and Historic England’s collections.
Destroying cultural heritage often strikes at the heart of our communities. What Remains highlights historic and contemporary moments where places, art and artefacts have been attacked by those who wish to exploit or even erase whole civilizations from history. Spanning 100 years, discover stories such as Hitler’s Baedeker Raids in 1942, where German bombers targeted historic towns and cities noted in travel guides of Britain, and the Taliban destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas in 2001.
Just as cultural heritage is attacked, it is also bravely protected, restored, or rebuilt into new forms that let us commemorate and reflect on loss. Learn about individuals and groups who risk their lives to protect culture, including Khaled al-Asaad, who died trying to protect the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Palmyra, Syria, from ISIS in 2015.
An excellent new edition of Middle East Report(290) on The New Landscape of Intervention; full download details here.
The concept of intervention brings to mind foreign military actions that violate a sovereign jurisdiction. This issue of Middle East Report identifies other, increasingly prevalent, ways in which the lives of people in the Middle East are being shaped by forces beyond their borders. In a context of increasing US retrenchment and neoliberal globalization, powerful states and transnational actors intervene across the region in a variety ways—under the guise of humanitarian assistance, democracy promotion or border security—as well as through new methods like urban planning, infrastructure development, crisis research and health deprivation—what might also be called biopolitical interventions. Even as the 2000’s saw the return of traditional forms of imperial intervention—with the US deployment of military forces in Afghanistan and Iraq in pursuit of a quixotic and unwinnable war on terror—there are increasingly new forms of intervention that must be understood, assessed and mapped.
The New Landscape of Intervention – The Editors
The Globalized Unmaking of the Libyan State – Jacob Mundy
Iraqibacter and the Pathologies of Intervention – Omar Dewachi
The Shifting Contours of US Power and Intervention in Palestine – Lisa Bhungalia, Jeannette Greven, Tahani Mustafa
Urban Interventions for the Wars Yet to Come – Hiba Bou Akar
The Palestinian McCity in the Neoliberal Era – Sami Tayeb
Humanitarian Crisis Research as Intervention – Sarah E. Parkinson
The UAE and the Infrastructure of Intervention – Rafeef Ziadah
Israel’s Permanent Siege of Gaza – Ron Smith
Border Regimes and the New Global Apartheid – Catherine Besteman
I’ve been working on my essay on ‘Woundscapes of the Western Front, 1914-1918’. What follows is the section dealing with the act of being wounded, drawn from a series of diaries, letters and memoirs; it’s followed by a section fleshing out the concept of a woundscape which I’ll post in due course [for a preliminary sketch, see here].
Subsequent sections reconstruct the precarious journey of casualties from the point of injury through the aid posts, dressing stations and casualty clearing stations to the base hospitals on the French coast and beyond (for a quick sketch, see here, and for an experimental version inspired by Harry Parker‘s Anatomy of a soldier, see here).
This is very much a working version, so please read it as such – and as always I’d welcome any comments or suggestions. I’ve added some links and images (most of them from my presentations), though those included in the final version are likely to be different.
I should add that this is one part of a much larger project that also considers medical care and casualty evacuation in other war zones: the Western Desert in the Second World War, Vietnam, and Afghanistan and Syria today.
John Keegan once remarked that in military histories the wounded seem to ‘dematerialize as soon as they are struck down’.  This matters for more than historical reasons, however, because the wounded serve as a testament to what Elaine Scarryinsists is ‘the main purpose and outcome of war’, which is to say injuring. This ugly fact, she argues, can be ‘made to disappear from view along many separate paths.’  In order to bring it back, I attempt to have the wounded reappear on – and through – the paths they followed after they were injured. Most of what I have to say is confined to the British Army and its colonial and imperial counterparts from Australia, Canada, India, New Zealand and South Africa on the Western Front.  The details differ in other militaries and other theatres, but the elemental geography of casualty evacuation was a general one. My focus is confined to the effects of physical injury and I do not directly address what was eventually diagnosed as ‘shell shock’, but it will soon become clear that the trauma of being wounded was far from a purely physical affair and that it was suffused with emotional reactions that played a vital role in rescue and recovery. 
Trauma typically ruptures ordinary language – another of Scarry’s astute insights – and it is scarcely surprising that many witnesses to the broken bodies trailing across the battlefields should have turned to metaphor to convey the enormity of the toll. On 1 July 1916, the first day of the battle of the Somme [above], a British officer found his trench ‘blocked with wounded men who were trying to make their way back to the dressing station’, and as Capt Radclyffe Dugmore surveyed the scene he was struck by the mechanical nature of both military violence and military medicine.
‘Here was this line of men, who little more than an hour ago were normal men in the finest of health and strength, and now maimed, and with every degree of injury, they painfully made their way back to the human repair department. The well men were rapidly moving eastward in countless numbers, going forward to the assistance of their comrades, while the injured so laboriously dragged their way back, two human streams, the sound and the unsound. Before us, all energies were devoted to destruction; behind us, all human power and skill tried to repair the damage.’ 
.The language of ‘wrecks’ was commonplace. To Sister Kate Luard ‘the wards [were] like battlefields, with battered wrecks in every bed.’ The task of casualty evacuation, explained one medical orderly, was ‘to move these helpless pieces of wreckage, as rapidly and comfortably as may be, to the place where they will in due course be repaired.’  The language of ‘repair’ was a common one too, and I will return to its significance shortly.
Three weeks after Dugmore’s observation, and not far from his position, a wounded Australian soldier making his way from aid post to dressing station described the same awful scene but in a different, animate register:
‘Ahead of us and behind us as far as the eye could see, a long column of walking wounded slowly made their way through the valley and across the ridges. From a distance the khaki column resembled a huge brown snake crawling across the country.’ 
Hartnett’s pained allusion was evidently not to a serpent entwined around a staff, the classical symbol for medicine; the intended effect was altogether more venomous.  Still more sinister was the common imagery of the shambles and the slaughterhouse. Wilfred Owen described the infantry training camp on the French coast at Étaples as ‘neither France nor England, but a kind of paddock where the beasts are kept a few days before the shambles.’ In the sixteenth century a shambles was an open-air slaughterhouse, and the term was readily extended to the modern battlefield. Watching the stretcher-bearers file past after the Battle of Festubert with their burden of bloodied bodies one Guards officer recoiled in horror: ‘fine upstanding fellows only a few hours before’, they had become ‘nauseatingly repulsive’, ‘hideously injured carcases.’ Doctors sometimes had the same reaction and resorted to the same imagery. ‘Although but a middleman,’ confessed Capt Lawrence Gameson at a dressing station on the Somme, ‘one gets sick of blood’s smell and of the endless everlasting procession of red raw human meat passing through our hands.’If the injured survived they were consigned to a Casualty Clearing Station, what one senior medical officer – one of many, as it turns out – called his ‘Butcher’s Shop’, wherein Philip Gibbwas nauseated by the ‘great carving of human flesh’. One chaplain remembered a surgeon who had been working 24 hours without a break: ‘In the middle of it all he turned away from one table and looked up as another one was being carried in, and he shook his head. He was covered in blood – we all were – and he said, “This isn’t a hospital, it’s a butchery.”’ 
Those two imaginaries, the mechanical and the animate, collided most explosively and intimately in the act of being wounded. Those who wrote about it often expressed their surprise, even disbelief that it had happened to them – pain came later – or registered the immediate sensation of a tremendous blow. On the first day of the Somme it never occurred to Lt Edward Liveing that he had been wounded:
‘Suddenly I cursed. I had been scalded in the left hip. A shell, I thought, had blown up in a water-logged crump-hole and sprayed me with boiling water. Letting go of my rifle, I dropped forward full length on the ground. My hip began to smart unpleasantly, and I felt a curious warmth stealing down my left leg. I thought it was the boiling water that had scalded me. Certainly my breeches looked as if they were saturated with water. I did not know that they were saturated with blood.’ 
But when Sgt R.H. Tawney was hit later the same day he had no doubt he had been hurt:
‘I felt … that I had been hit by a tremendous iron hammer, swung by a giant of inconceivable strength, and then twisted with a sickening sort of wrench so that my head and back banged on the ground, and my feet struggled as though they didn’t belong to me. For a second or two my breath wouldn’t come. I thought – if that’s the right word – “This is death”, and hoped it wouldn’t take long. By-and-by, as nothing happened, it seemed I couldn’t be dying. When I felt the ground beside me, my fingers closed on the nose-cap of a shell. It was still hot, and I thought absurdly, in a muddled way, “this is what has got me”. I tried to turn on my side, but the pain, when I moved, was like a knife, and stopped me dead. There was nothing to do but lie on my back.’ 
Three weeks later, still on the Somme, Lt Robert Graveshad a similar sensation when he was seriously wounded. ‘An eight-inch shell burst three paces behind me,’ he recalled.
‘I heard the explosion, and felt as though I had been punched rather hard between the shoulder blades, but without any pain. I took the punch merely for the shock of the explosion; but blood trickled into my eye and, turning faint, I called to Moodie [his company commander]: “I’ve been hit.” Then I fell…’ 
His friend Lt Siegfried Sassoon’s reaction to being wounded during the Battle of Arras the following year)was much the same. He too knew at once that he had been hurt, even if he was not sure how. ‘No sooner had I popped my silly head out of the sap,’ he wrote much later, ‘than I felt a stupendous blow in the back between my shoulders. My first notion was that a bomb [grenade] had hit me from behind, but what had really happened was that I had been sniped from in front…To my surprise I discovered that I wasn’t dead.’ 
As these accounts indicate, for many wounded soldiers the proximity of death was palpable: space sensibly contracted to their wound, their body and its immediate surroundings. ‘A man badly knocked out feels as though the world had spun him off into a desert of unpeopled space,’ Tawney admitted: a feeling heightened by the standing order forbidding troops from stopping to aid the wounded during an advance. ‘Combined with pain and helplessness,’ he continued, ‘the sense of abandonment goes near to break his heart.’  When Pte David Jones was shot in the leg on the Somme shortly after midnight on 11 June 1916, and left barely able to crawl, a corporal hoisted him on his back until a major saw what he was doing and told him:
‘“Drop the bugger here” for stretcher-bearers to find. If every wounded man were to be carried back, their firepower would be cut in half. “Don’t you know there’s a sod of a war on?”’ 
Many of the seriously wounded stumbled or crawled into shell-holes to wait for their rescuers; some lay out for days. On the first day of the Somme Pte A. Matthews was escorting German prisoners back across No Man’s Land, that narrow strip between the opposing lines of trenches, when he was shot in the thigh. An officer dragged him into a disused trench and bound up his wound as best he could before rejoining the advance. While the trench sheltered Matthews from direct fire (‘shells were bursting all around me’), he realised that unfortunately it also concealed him from the view of any rescuers. Later that day a company runner chanced to see him and left his water-bottle, but Matthews was unable to move – ‘I might as well have been chained to the ground’ – and as night fell all he could do was shout for help. Nobody came. He eked out his iron rations and water, but by the third day it was all gone. The next night a group of wounded men making their way back found Matthews, and shared the iron rations they had scavenged from the dead. They could do no more for him, but promised to get help. An hour or two later they returned, disoriented, and set off in a different direction. The next night they came back again, ‘in a terrible state’, one of them crawling on his hands and knees. They shared some biscuits and water before setting out once more; Matthews never saw them again. The next morning a shell-burst buried the biscuits and pierced his water-bottle, and he was reduced to catching rain in his helmet and drinking from pools of water in the trench. He drifted in and out of consciousness until, ten days later, an officer on patrol found him – ‘nearly treading on me’ – and dug him out before getting him onto a stretcher. When he reached the Advanced Dressing Station at Sailly he was ‘a mere skeleton’: he had been lying out in No Man’s Land for 14 days.  This was something of a record; Matthews’s experience combines bad luck and good luck in equal measure, and it is impossible to know how many others succumbed to their injuries while waiting or, perhaps like the party of wounded men who stumbled back to his trench time and time again, never made it to safety.
If they were fortunate the wounded would have others for comfort and company while they waited, but all any of them had for first aid was a field dressing and an ampoule of iodine. Capt Harold McGill reckoned that ‘the obsessing fear of the men was death from hemorrhage’ – understandably so in the absence of effective blood transfusion until late in the war – and the field dressing was the first vital response to bring bleeding under control.  One soldier explained:
‘The first field dressing which each man carries sewn in the lining of his tunic has saved many lives. Comprising as it does two pads of gauze and cotton-wool and a bandage, it can be ripped out of its case and clapped on to the wound, and so save the injured man, who may have to lie out hours before he can be taken back to a dressing-station, many risks from loss of blood or outside infection.’ 
Of course, the utility of the dressing depended on the nature of the wound. The same man recalled a lecture from his Medical Officer, who had explained that a field dressing could be used to stop bleeding from an arm or a leg, but ‘if the man was hit in the body or head – well, the doctor shrugged his shoulders in a way that made us think.’ If they were not alone the wounded might also be able to improvise a tourniquet or even a splint with their bayonet or rifle, and if the iodine bottle had not smashed – unlikely, McGill thought: ‘The men reported to me that during the action they had nearly always found their pocket ampoules of iodine tincture broken when the time came to use them’ – they could make a rudimentary attempt at cleaning the wound.
Given the cascading combination of immediacy, difficulty and uncertainty it is scarcely surprising that the space of the wounded should have contracted so drastically. And yet at the same time that space expanded, partly through what had become the taxing task of traversing even a short distance to relative safety, and partly through the tantalizing prospect of a ‘Blighty’, a wound judged sufficiently serious to require evacuation to Britain (and perhaps beyond for troops who came from elsewhere in the Empire). 
Arthur Empey came round from surgery at a Casualty Clearing Station to find rows of soldiers lying on stretchers: ‘The main topic of their conversation was Blighty. Nearly all had a grin on their faces.’  One medical orderly explained that ‘a wound, even when serious, is the messenger of freedom’ – and he had never met a wounded man who wanted to return to the trenches. Another had ‘only heard of one who said that he was anxious to return there, and he was subsequently transferred to No. 2 General Hospital in Le Havre, where the huge numbers of mental cases were cared for.’ 
Even so, the extended space of evacuation was a fraught and dangerous one. Many of the wounded fell in No Man’s Land, in the front-line trenches themselves, or in broken land during the fluctuating tides of advance and retreat in the opening and closing phases of the war. They were injured in major offensives (‘pushes’), in small raids (‘stunts’) and by routine, almost ritualized shelling and firing (‘the morning hate’). These were the most immediate danger zones in space and in time, extending back towards the reserve trenches and the small towns and villages in the rear. The wounded were supposed to move within a legal envelope that protected them from further attack. The Hague Regulations stipulated that ‘all necessary steps must be taken to spare’ – as far as possible – ‘places where the sick and wounded are collected.’ But that possibility was none the less limited. Firing and shelling were often notoriously inaccurate, casualty clearing stations were routinely located close to batteries and railheads, and it was not always easy to make out the red cross symbol that was supposed to guarantee protection. In the final months of the war even base hospitals on the French coast were bombed, while hospital ships crossing the Channel ran the gauntlet of mines and torpedoes.  If the wounded imagined travelling through an extended space towards safety, then it was a safety rendered conditional by the continued risk of attack. And the journey itself always exacted its own, sometimes deadly toll on the wounded body, which prompted Patrick MacGillto write of being ‘a passenger on the Highway of Pain that stretched from Lens to Victoria Station’. 
My purpose is to reconstruct that highway and the relationship between wounded bodies and the journeys they undertook. Many of those planning for war had a remarkably sanitized view of both. When one hard-pressed volunteer with the British Red Cross Society, working at a field hospital in Belgium in September 1914, described her pre-war training she recalled
‘the drill and the white-capped stretcher-bearers at home, and the little messenger boys with their innocuous wounds, which were so neatly and laboriously dressed.
The messenger boys’ wounds were always conveniently placed, and they never screamed and writhed or prayed for morphia when they were being bandaged. And shoulders were not shot away, nor eyes blinded, nor men’s faces – well, not much good ever came of talking of the things one has seen, and they are best left undescribed. “These are not wounds, they are mush,” I heard one surgeon say; and then I thought of the little messenger boys and their convenient fractures.’ 
The wounds were not the stylised, artfully coloured images of the text book and when G.H. Makins suggested that a survey of them ‘forcibly reminds the observer of the water-colour drawings made by Sir Charles Bell’ he was referring to Bell’s extraordinary ability to convey the horrific damage wrought by musket balls and shrapnel during the Peninsular War. Bell was a military surgeon and his sketches were no less remarkable for their rendering of the agony, despair and sheer terror of the wounded: a far cry, as he noted, from the text-books. 
Similarly, schemes for medical evacuation typically displayed an elegant linear geometry, an abstract grid of transmission lines that resembled what Fiona Reidcalled ‘a modernist dream’ with no catastrophic breaks or nightmare tangles (Figure 3).  This highly imaginative geography of an evacuation machine, carefully oiled and smoothly running, intersected with debates around a politics of speed.  [For much more, and a detailed case study, see my post on ‘The Leaden Hours’ here]. In the first months of the war there were complaints that it was taking far too long for the wounded to be brought from the firing zone to hospitals on the French coast. These reports provoked sufficient public unease for Lord Kitchener, Secretary of State for War, to send Col Arthur Lee to France to investigate. In a series of private communications Lee conceded that ‘in surveying the scene from London, or studying it upon a map, questions of transport present no very serious difficulties’, whereas once in France it quickly became obvious that getting the wounded to railheads was complicated by intense enemy shelling, and that the railways were under enormous pressure – ‘the wounded must of course give way to food, ammunition and reinforcements for the fighting forces’ – and with many bridges destroyed and signalling systems dislocated the hastily improvised ambulance trains, often little more than cattle trucks filled with straw, had ‘to slowly explore their own way back towards [the hospitals at] the Base.’  Two years later the politics of speed had reversed; the concern now was that the RAMC had become so fixated on rapid evacuation that the injured were suffering needlessly. The debate reached its climax when Sir Almroth Wright, Consultant Physician to the British Expeditionary Force, criticized what he saw as the preoccupation with rapid evacuation, ‘hustling the wounded from hospital to hospital’ he called it, and the overwhelming importance attached to ‘the fact that a [Casualty Clearing Station] has passed so many thousands or tens of thousands of wounded through the wards, evacuating these in a minimum of time so as to be at disposal for reception of more patients.’ He claimed that as soon as a new convoy arrived at a base hospital, and as a direct result of ‘the catastrophes which are associated with long journeys’ from the Casualty Clearing Station, ‘amputations and other operations in large numbers have to be performed upon men who had been judged fit to travel’ (my emphasis). Wright’s complaints were summarily – and angrily – dismissed as ignorant and even ‘stupid’ in what was a bitter personal dispute, and the official response doubled down on the machine-like efficiency of the evacuation system.
What flickers in the fissures of these exchanges is the stubbornly, viscerally bio-physical: injured bodies did not present themselves as pristine plates in a medical atlas and their precarious journeys were not inscribed on the paper trails of an evacuation plan. The relations between the two were not only intimate; they were also reciprocal. The nature of the wound materially affected evacuation. Treatment times and pathways for ‘walking wounded’ and stretcher-cases were different, for example, and the worst cases were often the last to reach a Casualty Clearing Station and – if they survived – they travelled much further down the line and ultimately back to Britain. Those journeys in turn affected the wound: rescuing casualties from No Man’s Land was almost always at the risk of further injuries from enemy fire, for example, and as bearers struggled to carry stretchers over shell-shattered ground and through waterlogged trenches, as ambulances bumped and skidded over muddy tracks and torn-up roads, and as ambulance trains clanked and wheezed their way to the coast, the spasmodic jolting greatly aggravated pain and increased the risk of haemorrhage.
To be continued
John Keegan, The Face of Battle(London: Pimlico, 2004), p. 40; Keegan was referring specifically to General Sir William Napier’s account of the battle of Albuera in 1811, but he was also sharpening a general point.
Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain: the making and unmaking of the world (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985) p. 64.
Regiments were raised from other British colonies in the Caribbean and Africa too, and also in Newfoundland; in some cases colonial and imperial casualties were treated by their own medical services, and in others by the RAMC, though they all worked in close concert with one another. For a general discussion, which extends to the French and German medical services, see Leo van Bergen, Before my helplesssSight: suffering, dying and military medicine on the Western Front, 1914–1918 (London: Routledge, 2016).
On ‘shell shock’ and, of direct relevance to my discussion, what was known as ‘wound shock’, see Stefanos Geroulanos and Todd Myers, The human body in the age of catastrophe: brittleness, integration, science and the Great War(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2018) especially Ch. 2.
Casualty estimates are notoriously difficult, but on the Western Front more than five million from the Allied armies were wounded, most of them from France and the United Kingdom, and more than three million from the Central Powers, principally Germany and Austria-Hungary. There were also tens of thousands of civilian casualties, from towns and villages close to the front lines but also from long-distance shelling and air strikes much more distant from battlefields whose boundaries were already dissolving.
Captain A. Radclyffe Dugmore, When the Somme ran red(New York: George H. Doran, 1918) pp. 201-2. Hence too Mark Harrison’s apt description of a ‘medical machine’ assembled on the Western Front: The Medical War: British Military medicine in the First World War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). The imagery of two streams was a common one too, and so was its mechanical rendering. ‘One of the most stabbing things in this war,’ wrote Sister Kate Luard, ‘is seeing the lines of empty motor ambulances going up to bring down the wrecks who at this moment are sound and fit, and absolutely ready to be turned into wrecks’: John Stevens (ed) Unknown warriors: the letters of Kate Luard1914-1918(Stroud, UK: History Press, 2014) 8 May 1915.
Stevens, Unknown warriors, 10 April 1917; Ward Muir, ‘An intake of wounded’, in Happy though wounded: the book of the 3rdLondon General Hospital(London: Country Life, 1917) p. 64.
H.G. Hartnett, Over the top(Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2009) p. 60; Hartnett wrote his memoir in the early 1920s from diaries he had kept during the war.
His own journey was a long and painful one. ‘After tramping five or six miles in search of medical attention,’ Hartnett continued, he and his mates ‘finally reached Albert, where the confusion was even worse if that was possible. Long lines of wounded men along the footpaths and roadways were waiting their turn to get attention from doctors and their assistants, stationed at intervals along the roads, out in the open’ (p. 61). From Albert he was taken by lorry and light railway to a casualty clearing station and, after his wound had been dressed, by ambulance train to Rouen; then it was on to Le Havre and a hospital ship bound for Southampton.
Wilfred Owen, Collected Letters(ed. Harold Owen and John Bell) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967) 31 December 1917; ‘An O.E.’ [G.P.A. Fildes], Iron times with the Guards(London: John Murray, 1918) pp. 74-5; Lawrence Gameson, Private Papers, IWM Doc 612; Philip Gibbs, Now it can be told(New York: Harper, 1920) p. 374; Capt Leonard Pearson, in Lyn MacDonald, The Roses of No Man’s Land(London: Penguin, 1993) p. 187.
Edward G.D. Living, Attack: An Infantry Subaltern’s Impression of July 1st, 1916 (New York: Macmillan, 1918) pp. 69-70. He managed to walk out after one of his men applied iodine and a field dressing to his wound, but walking became steadily more painful; eventually, weak from loss of blood, he was placed on a stretcher and wheeled to an advanced dressing station, and from there he was taken by ambulance to a Casualty Clearing Station.
R.H. Tawney, ‘The attack’, Westminster Gazette, 24-5 October 1916.
Graves confessed that his memory of what happened next was ‘vague’. He was not expected to survive, and was taken to a dressing station where he remained unconscious; when his commanding officer went down and saw him lying in a corner ‘they told him I was done for.’But the next morning an ambulance took Graves to a Casualty Clearing Station, where he remained until 24 July when he was put on an ambulance train for a Base Hospital on the coast and was eventually repatriated to Britain. Meanwhile his commanding officer had written to his mother tendering his condolences at the loss of her son. Robert Graves, Goodbye to all that(London: Penguin, 2000; first published in 1929) pp. 180-2.
Siegfried Sassoon, Memoirs of an infantry officer(London: Faber, 1930). This is a fictionalised account of Sassoon’s experience on 16 April 1917; he recorded his more immediate reactions in his journal but said virtually nothing about the initial shock of being hit. He left the trench as ‘walking wounded’ and, after his wound was dressed at an aid post, was driven to a Casualty Clearing Station: Sassoon Journal, Cambridge University Library MS Add. 9852/1/10.h
 Jones resumed his crawl and was eventually found by a bearer party: Thomas Dilworth, David Jones and the Great War (London: Enitharmon Press, 2012) p. 117. Tiplady, Soul of the soldier, p. 131 explained the logic behind the injunction: ‘When a man falls his neighbor cannot stay with him. He must press on to the objective, otherwise, if the unwounded stayed to succor the wounded, there would be none to continue the attack.’ This was of course emotionally hard. ‘The grimmest order to me was that no fighting soldier was to stop to help the wounded,’ one sergeant confessed. ‘The CO was very emphatic about this. It seemed such a heartless order to come from our CO who was … looked upon as a religious man. I thought bringing in the wounded was the way Victoria Crosses were won. But I realized that this would be an order to the CO as well as us from the General and that the whole of the attack could be held up if there were many wounded and we stopped to help them’: Sgt Charles Moss, in Richard van Emden, The Somme(Barnsley UK: Pen and Sword, 2016) p. 00.
Arthur Mills, Hospital Days(London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1916) p. 14.
Mills, Hospital days, p.
McGill, Medicine and Duty, p. 157.
‘Blighty’, a corruption of the Urdu vilayati(‘foreign’ or ‘European’) was first used by Indian soldiers to refer to Britain in the Boer War; its use became widespread in the First World War.
Arthur Empey, Over the top(New York: G.P. Putnam, 1917) p. 00.
Christopher Arnander (ed), Private Lord Crawford’s Great War Diaries(Barnsley, UK: Pen and Sword, 2013) 30 September 1915. ‘To these men,’ Crawford added, ‘the relief of leaving the front honourably wounded is inconceivable after months of killing, anxiety and fatigue.’ David Lindsay, the Earl of Crawford, enlisted in the RAMC as a private in April 1915 at the age of 43; in July 1916 he returned to the UK as a member of the coalition government.
M.R. Werner, Orderly!(New York: Jonathan Cape & Harrison Smith, 1930) p. 76.
Stephen McGreal, The war on hospital ships, 1914-1918(Barnsley UK: Pen and Sword, 2009).
Patrick MacGill, The Great Push: an episode of the Great War(New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1916) p. 254. This was a memoir lightly disguised as fiction; MacGill was wounded at Loos on 28 September 1915, and in the preface wrote that he had ‘tried to give, as far as I am allowed, an account of an attack in which I took part’ (p. 7).
Sarah Macnaughtan, A woman’s diary of the war(London: Nelson, 1916) p. 23. Similar make-believe drills took place behind the front lines, where they were met with a healthy cynicism by ‘wounded’ and stretcher bearers alike. ‘After heavy losses we would get reinforcements and this would be followed by a Field Day to break in the newcomers’, explained one orderly with a Field Ambulance. ‘Men with labels describing their supposed injuries were hidden in unlikely spots and had to be found and dealt with as if actually wounded’: Edwin Ware, Diary,p. 94 [WL:RAMC/PE/1/707]. One private recalled a rehearsal for a ‘special stunt’ in which he played a casualty: ‘My wounds were not too painful to prevent my enjoyment of the spectacle while waiting for the stretcher bearers, who did not seem in a great hurry. Casualties here had their own choice of wounds, and they all seemed to prefer some wound which made it impossible to walk a step, much to the disgust of the stretcher bearers.After some argument with the stretcher bearers who came at last to attend to me, I was bundled unceremoniously on to a stretcher with my mess tin making itself unpleasant in the middle of my back, despite the fact that both my legs had been shattered (in theory)’: Doreen Priddey (ed.), A Tommy at Ypres: Walter’s War(Stroud: Amberley Publishing, 2011) 5-9 December 1916.
G.H. Makins, ‘A note upon the wounds of the present campaign’, The Lancet, 10 October 1914 (p. 905); M.K. H. Crump and P. Starling, A surgical artist at war: the paintings and sketches of Sir Charles Bell 1807-1815 (Edinburgh: Royal College of Surgeons, 2005). Bell uncannily prefigured the horrors for which his successors were equally ill-prepared one hundred years later. ‘The cases I have had under my care,’ he wrote in his Dissertation on gunshot wounds(1814), ‘have proved to me that the books we possess upon the subject of field-practice do not even hint at the nature of the difficulties the surgeon has to encounter there.’
Fiona Reid, Medicine in First World War Europe: Soldiers, Medics, Pacifists (London: Bloomsbury, 2017) p. 19.
Derek Gregory, ‘The politics of speed and casualty evacuation on the Western Front, 1914-1918’, forthcoming.
Several years ago we were in Dubrovnik and visited War Photo‘s mesmerising exhibition space in the old town; part of it was devoted to a permanent exhibition documenting the wars in the former Yugoslavia, but part of it was given over to a visiting exhibition by Maria Turchenokova. One image has haunted me ever since: two or three desperately young Yemeni children, standing in a narrow, shallow crevice in the ground, half-covered by a sheet of rusted corrugated iron: this was their ‘air raid shelter’. I’ve since searched for the image many times, without success; this isn’t it, but the photograph (of a man peering out of a “shelter” on the outskirts of Saada in 2015) conveys something of the vulnerability of ordinary Yemenis:
ACLED notes: ‘Around 67% [over 8,000] of all reported civilian fatalities in Yemen since 2015, resulting from direct targeting, have been caused by Saudi-led coalition airstrikes, making the Saudi-led coalition the actor most responsible for civilian deaths…. Air and drone strikes were especially deadly for civilians in 2015 and during the Hodeidah offensive in 2018.’
The Yemen Data Project provides this timeline of air strikes (there’s also an interactive map by governorate on the same page):
You can find a summary version of the report from Rod Austin at the Guardianhere, which concludes with this prescient observation:
Labour MP Lloyd Russell-Moyle, a member of the committee on arms export controls, said: “These statistics simply underline the fact that our government has enabled Saudi Arabia to destroy the social fabric of an entire country for money. I shudder to think of the consequences of our dirty war in Yemen. A generation of Yemenis now hate Britain as much as they hate the Saudi royal air force that is dropping our bombs on them.”
If you are puzzled by those sentiments, then you should read Arron Merrat‘s in-depth report from the previous week, ‘The Saudis couldn’t do it without us’: the UK’s true role in Yemen’s deadly war’, here:
For more than four years, a brutal Saudi air campaign has bombarded Yemen, killing tens of thousands, injuring hundreds of thousands and displacing millions – creating the world’s worst humanitarian crisis. And British weapons are doing much of the killing. Every day Yemen is hit by British bombs – dropped by British planes that are flown by British-trained pilots and maintained and prepared inside Saudi Arabia by thousands of British contractors.
The Saudi-led military coalition, which includes the UAE, Bahrain and Kuwait, has “targeted civilians … in a widespread and systematic manner”, according to the UN – dropping bombs on hospitals, schools, weddings, funerals and even camps for displaced people fleeing the bombing.
Saudi Arabia has in effect contracted out vital parts of its war against Yemen’s Houthi movement to the US and the UK. Britain does not merely supply weapons for this war: it provides the personnel and expertise required to keep the war going. The British government has deployed RAF personnel to work as engineers, and to train Saudi pilots and targeteers – while an even larger role is played by BAE Systems, Britain’s biggest arms company, which the government has subcontracted to provide weapons, maintenance and engineers inside Saudi Arabia.
Arron documents the dispersed geography of contracted-out aerial violence in forensic detail:
The British bombs that rain down on Yemen are produced in three towns: Glenrothes in Scotland, and Harlow and Stevenage in south-east England. Bombs roll off production lines owned by Raytheon UK and BAE Systems, firms contracted by the government to manufacture Paveway bombs (£22,000 apiece), Brimstone bombs (£105,000 apiece), and Storm Shadow cruise missiles (£790,000 apiece) for the Saudi Royal Air Force. BAE, under government contract, also assembles the jets that drop these bombs in hangars just outside the village of Warton, Lancashire.
Once these weapons arrive in Saudi Arabia, Britain’s involvement is far from over. The Saudi military lacks the expertise to use these weapons to fight a sustained air war – so BAE, under another contract to the UK government, provides what are known as “in-country” services. In practice, this means that around 6,300 British contractors are stationed at forward operating bases in Saudi Arabia. There, they train Saudi pilots and conduct essential maintenance night and day on planes worn out from flying thousands of miles across the Saudi desert to their targets in Yemen. They also supervise Saudi soldiers to load bombs on to planes and set their fuses for their intended targets.
Around 80 serving RAF personnel work inside Saudi Arabia. Sometimes they work for BAE to assist in maintaining and preparing aircraft. At other times they work as auditors to ensure that BAE is fulfilling its Ministry of Defence contracts. Additional RAF “liaison officers” work inside the command-and-control centre, from where targets in Yemen are selected.
The image below shows crews from Britain’s Royal Air Force and the Saudi Royal Air Force involved in a joint training exercise, ‘Saudi British Green Flag 2018’. According to a report in Arab News:
The exercise aims to improve the overall combat readiness of the Saudi Air Force and increase the capacities of crews and personnel through a series of training flights of varying complexity. It allows both forces to share technical knowledge and learn about how the other operates.
Maj. Gen. Haidar bin Rafie Al-Omari, commander of the air base and the exercise, said it is a critical part of this year’s training plan for the armed forces.
“The Green Flag Exercise involves all our air force combat systems supporting Operation Decisive Storm and Operation Restoring Hope (in Yemen),” he added.
“The British Royal Air Force aims to integrate all combat systems, including air combat, air support and electronic warfare, and especially how to use them against the enemy’s land defense systems for maximum operational efficiency.”
‘Restoring Hope’; ‘operational efficiency’: the absurdist language is truly rebarbative.
Arron notes the pariah status of the UK and the US in these joint air wars, even if he doesn’t call it that:
The UK government’s argument that it does not pick the targets in Yemen resembles nothing so much as the logic of the American gun lobby, with its infamous claim that it’s not guns that kill people, but the people who use them. Since 2016, many countries have revoked or suspended arms sales to Saudi Arabia – including Austria, Belgium, Germany, Finland, Netherlands, Norway, Sweden and Switzerland. But Britain and the US, whose planes constitute the backbone of Saudi Arabia’s combat fleet, are still holding out.
There’s more – much more – in the full report.
There is a welcome sting in the tail: on 20 June the UK Court of Appeal ruled that arms sales to Saudi Arabia were illegal – albeit in one respect (but none the less a vital one).
British arms sales to Saudi Arabia have been ruled unlawful by the court of appeal in a critical judgment that also accused ministers of ignoring whether airstrikes that killed civilians in Yemen broke humanitarian law.
Three judges said that a decision made in secret in 2016 had led them to decide that Boris Johnson, Jeremy Hunt and Liam Foxand other key ministers had illegally signed off on arms exports without properly assessing the risk to civilians.
Sir Terence Etherton, the master of the rolls, said on Tuesday that ministers had “made no concluded assessments of whether the Saudi-led coalition had committed violations of international humanitarian law in the past, during the Yemen conflict, and made no attempt to do so”.
As part of its case the government had argued that RAF training (those ‘Green Flag’ exercises captured above, and those ‘in-country services’ described in Arron’s analysis) had made Saudi compliance with international humanitarian law more likely, but their case was shredded. Mark Townsend reported:
‘[C]ourt documents from the case show that indiscriminate bombing of civilians by the Saudi-led coalition in Yemen took place after British training – sometimes almost immediately after. Three days after Britain provided training – between 27 July and 14 August 2015 – up to 70 people were killed by airstrikes and shelling at the port at Hodeidah.
The following month airstrikes on a wedding in the village of Wahijah, near the Red Sea port of al-Mokha, killed at least 135 people.
In October 2015 repeated airstrikes on a Médecins Sans Frontières hospital in Haidan occurred, despite the hospital’s GPS coordinates being shared with the coalition. The episode prompted the UK to provide further training to the Saudi air force between October and January, including targeting training.
However, in March 2016 airstrikes by the Saudi-led coalition on a crowded village market in Hajjah province killed 106 people. Days later deadly attacks struck a civilian building in the city of Taiz.
Andrew Smith of Campaign Against ArmsTrade, which brought the case, said: “We are always being told how positive the UK’s influence supposedly is on Saudi forces, but nothing could be further from the truth. The atrocities and abuses have continued unabated, regardless of UK training and engagement.
“The training and rhetoric has only served to provide a figleaf of legitimacy to a war that has killed tens of thousands of people and created the worst humanitarian crisis in the world.”
Not incidentally: if you’re wondering about US involvement – not something that Donald Trump wonders about – then I recommend the President’s favourite newspaper, the New York Times, and its interactive report ‘Saudi Strikes, American Bombs, Yemeni Suffering‘ here (which also draws on the Yemen Data Project), together with Declan Walsh‘s report, ‘Saudi Warplanes, mostly made in America, still bomb Yemeni civilians‘ here. These should be read in conjunction with geographer (yes!) Samuel Oakford‘s report on the inability of the US to track its fuel supply for the Saudi military mission in Yemen and his subsequent report for the Atlantic (which includes characteristically sharp and well-informed commentary from Larry Lewis).
A special issue of Media, War and Conflict has just appeared, guest-edited by Katharina Niemeyer and Staffan Ericson, devoted to media and terrorism in France:
Katharina Niemeyer and Staffan Ericson From live-tweets to archives of the future: Mixed media temporalities and the recent French terrorist attacks
Julien Fragnon ‘We are at war’: Continuity and rupture in French anti-terrorist discourse
Gérôme Truc, Romain Badouard, Lucien Castex and Francesca Musiani Paris and Nice terrorist attacks: Exploring Twitter and web archives
Maëlle Bazin From tweets to graffiti: ‘I am Charlie’ as a ‘writing event’
Katharina Niemeyer The front page as a time freezer: An analysis of the international newspaper coverage after the Charlie Hebdo attacks
Johanna Sumiala, Minttu Tikka and Katja Valaskivi Charlie Hebdo, 2015: ‘Liveness’ and acceleration of conflict in a hybrid media event
You can find more on Dan Reed‘s documentary – the still that heads this post – here. And you can find my commentaries on Paris (January 2015) here, Paris (and Beirut: November 2015) here and Nice (July 2016) here.
Apologies for the long silence – I’ve made several trips to the UK to deliver lectures, but I’ve also been (almost literally) in the trenches. My supposed-to-be 8,000 word essay on ‘Woundscapes of the Western Front’ has morphed into a monster: 35,000 words and I’m still not done…. More on that eventually (I so hope…). But en route, and in part as a response to a question I was asked after one of my presentations, I want to elaborate on a footnote.
My essay is about the evacuation of wounded soldiers, but human bodies were not the only ones requiring medical attention on the Western Front. By August 1917 the British Army had 368,000 horses and 82,000 mules in Belgium and France. At the outbreak of the war the cavalry were expected to play their traditional role –
[Image: National Library of Scotland]
– but by the end of the war most horses were pulling gun limbers, ammunition trains, supply waggons and ambulances [more here].
Horse-drawn ambulances were never made obsolete by motor ambulance convoys. Their capacity was limited and they were very slow – ‘hopelessly immobile’, according to one senior RAMC officer – but they remained the only option in some places. On the Somme in July 1916 the ground was so pitted with shell-holes that motor ambulances could not be used close to the line and horse ambulances worked for 24 hours or more at a stretch, ferrying casualties to motor ambulance convoys waiting further back:
Not surprisingly, horses (and mules) were highly vulnerable to shelling and shrapnel, to gas attacks and, wherever environmental conditions deteriorated, to injuries from traversing near-impossible terrain:
There is a haunting scene in Erich Maria Remarque‘s All quiet on the Western Front:
‘The cries continued. It is not men, they could not cry so terribly. “Wounded horses,” says Kat. It’s unendurable. It is the moaning of the world, it is the martyred creation, wild with anguish, filled with terror, and groaning….
They’ve got to get the wounded men out first,’ says Kat. We stand up and try to see where they are. If we can actually see the animals, it will be easier to cope with. Meyer has some field glasses with him. We can make some bigger things, black mounds that are moving. Those are the wounded horses. But not all of them. Some gallop off a little way, collapse, and then run on again. The belly of one of the horses has been ripped open and its guts are trailing out. It gets its feet caught up in them and falls, but it gets to its feet again. Detering raises his ri e and takes aim. Kat knocks the barrel upwards. ‘Are you crazy?’ Detering shudders and throws his gun on the ground. We sit down and press our hands over our ears. But the terrible crying and groaning and howling still gets through, it penetrates everything. We can all stand a lot, but this brings us out in a cold sweat. You want to get up and run away, anywhere just so as not to hear that screaming any more. And it isn’t men, just horses.
Yet far more equine losses were attributed to disease than enemy action, in contrast to troop losses (the First World War was the first in which deaths from wounds exceeded deaths from disease by a ratio of 2:1). One driver had a simple explanation. ‘Owing to the importance of the horses, whose lives were of greater value than those of the men, the horse-lines were usually in places free, or practically free from “strafing”’: Charles Bassett, Horses were more valuable than men (London: PublishNation, 2014) p. 65.
The horse-lines were indeed in the rear (see the remarkably pastoral image below: Glisy, on the Somme), but the nature of their work ensured that horses and mules had to be taken right up to the fire zone; between 1914 and 1916 battle losses accounted for 25 per cent of equine deaths, and they soared thereafter.
Yet, just as with human bodies, the toll of the equine dead overlooks that of the wounded. In response to the military importance of horses and mules, the (Royal) Army Veterinary Corps [the ‘Royal’ prefix was granted immediately after the war] established a system of veterinary medicine parallel to the casualty evacuation system of the Royal Army Medical Corps.
The equivalent of the Field Ambulance was the Mobile Veterinary Section; animals needing more extensive emergency care were transferred to Veterinary Evacuation Stations (the equivalent of the Casualty Clearing Station) located at railheads. They were moved either by horse-drawn ambulance –
– or by special motor ambulances designed to carry two horses each (there were 26 of them, donated by the RSPCA and subscribed from public donations):
Like wounded soldiers, horses needing further medical or surgical attention were transported by barge (mainly in Flanders: each barge could carry 32 animals) –
– or by rail to Veterinary Hospitals at the base on the French coast.
In the first months of the war cattle trucks on supply trains returning empty to the base were used (here too the parallels with the evacuation of wounded soldiers are exact!) but once the Veterinary Evacuating Stations had been established special horse trains were introduced. These had to be more or less self-sufficient: supplies of water were especially vital. Major-General Sir John Moore emphasised: ‘In transporting sick and enfeebled animals, particularly by train, which during hot seasons of the year is very exhausting, the greatest care must be exercised in watering and feeding en route.’ The need was compounded by the slow and often circuitous journeys made by trains that – like the ambulance trains carrying wounded soldiers – always had to yield to troop trains and supply trains rushing up to the front.
Between 18 August 1914 and 23 January 1919 over half a million sick and wounded animals passed through the British Army’s Mobile Veterinary Sections and Veterinary Evacuating Stations in Flanders and France. On average a special train carrying 100 sick or injured horses would arrive twice a day at each Veterinary Hospital; between 2,500 and 3,500 horses were admitted to hospital each week, and at their peak more than 4,500 were being cared for at any one time.
The capacity of these hospitals was originally set at 1,000 animals, but this was subsequently doubled. It was not uncommon, Moore explained, ‘to see three animals in the operating theatre under chloroform at the same time.’
Very few animals were allowed to stay more than three months at the base, where the hospitals operated in conjunction with Convalescent Horse Depots.
According to Moore, the core principle of the Army Veterinary Corps was ‘to get down from the front as many animals as it was possible to save; in other words to give every animal a chance.’ But what lay behind this was the same instrumentalism that guided the RAMC’s casualty evacuation model and its system of triage: the need identify the casualties most likely to survive in short order and to treat them expeditiously so that they could be returned to the front and the fight.
You can find more from these sources:
Simon Butler, The war horses (Halsgrove, 2011);
Stephen Corvi, ‘Men of Mercy: the evolution of the Royal Army Veterinary Corps and the soldier-horse bond during the Great War,’ Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research 76 (308) (1998) 272-84;
M-G Sir John Moore, Army Veterinary Service in War (London: Brown, 1921) [available here]
Rachael Passmore, ‘The care, development and importance of the British horse on the Western Front in World War I,’ MA thesis, Department of History, University of Leeds, 2009 [accessible here];
John Singleton, ‘Britain’s military use of horses 1914-1918’, Past & Present 139 (1993) 178-203.
Like my original essay, this post is confined to the British Army; for a remarkably detailed and beautifully illustrated account of the veterinary medical system of the US Army on the Western Front see here.
Unless otherwise credited, ALL IMAGES are Copyright Imperial War Museum, London
For an update and succinct review of attacks on hospitals and medical facilities in Syria – see also my ‘Your turn, doctor’ here – I recommend the latest fact-sheet from Physicians for Human Rights:
Attacks on health care, in gross violation of humanitarian norms and the Geneva Conventions, have been a distinctive feature of the conflict in Syria since its inception. PHR has documented and mapped 553 attacks on at least 348 separate facilities from March 2011 through December 2018. The reduction in the number of attacks over the past year is a clear reflection of the diminishing intensity of the conflict, which came as a direct result of the Syrian government’s takeover of most opposition-held areas. The systematic targeting of health facilities has been a crucial component of a wider strategy of war employed by the Syrian government and its allies – who are responsible for over 90 percent of attacks – to punish civilians residing in opposition- held territories, destroy their ability to survive, and draw them into government-held areas or drive them out of the country. This strategy of unbridled violence – which in addition to attacks on healthcare has included chemical strikes, sieges, and indiscriminate bombing of predominantly civilian areas – has devastated the civilian population, weakened opposition groups, and translated into direct military gains for the Syrian government.
Of the total number of documented attacks on health facilities, nearly 73 percent were carried out from the air. Nearly 98 percent of attacks on health facilities perpetrated from the air are attributable to the Syrian government and its ally Russian, which entered the conflict in 2015.
The share of attacks on health facilities from the air has grown from 38 percent of the total in 2012 to 90 percent in 2018. The Syrian government became steadily more reliant on airpower as the conflict evolved. Through their air forces, the Syrian government and Russia extended their strategy of collective punishment deep into opposition-held territory and far beyond hardened front lines. The Syrian government and its allies disabled or destroyed hundreds of facilities through aerial bombardment, leaving countless civilians without access to vital medical services.
The latest 20-page report from the Independent International Commission of Inquiry on the Syrian Arab Republic to the UN’s Human Rights Council is here. I’ve drawn on many of these reports for my continuing work on siege warfare in Syria (see for example here, here and here), and this report – based on investigations carried out from 11 July 2018 to 10 January 2019 – makes for grim reading. Here is the summary (but you really need to consult the full report):
Extensive military gains made by pro-government forces throughout the first half of 2018, coupled with an agreement between Turkey and the Russian Federation to establish a demilitarized zone in the north-west, led to a significant decrease in armed conflict in the Syrian Arab Republic in the period from mid July 2018 to mid January 2019. Hostilities elsewhere, however, remain ongoing. Attacks by pro-government forces in Idlib and western Aleppo Governorates, and those carried out by the Syrian Democratic Forces and the international coalition in Dayr al-Zawr Governorate, continue to cause scores of civilian casualties.
In the aftermath of bombardments, civilians countrywide suffered the effects of a general absence of the rule of law. Numerous civilians were detained arbitrarily or abducted by members of armed groups and criminal gangs and held hostage for ransom in their strongholds in Idlib and northern Aleppo. Similarly, with the conclusion of Operation Olive Branch by Turkey in March 2018, arbitrary arrests and detentions became pervasive throughout Afrin District (Aleppo).
In areas recently retaken by pro-government forces, including eastern Ghouta (Rif Dimashq) and Dar’a Governorate, cases of arbitrary detention and enforced disappearance were perpetrated with impunity. After years of living under siege, many civilians in areas recaptured by pro-government forces also faced numerous administrative and legal obstacles to access key services.
The foregoing violations and general absence of the rule of law paint a stark reality for civilians countrywide, including for 6.2 million internally displaced persons and 5.6 million refugees seeking to return. For these reasons, any plans for the return of those displaced both within and outside of the Syrian Arab Republic must incorporate a rights- based approach. In order to address effectively the complex issue of returns, the Commission makes a series of pragmatic recommendations for the sustainable return of all displaced Syrian women, men and children.
A report from Elizabeth Tsurkov in Ha’aretz confirms many of these findings. Describing Assad’s Syria as a police state with rampant poverty’ and a ‘playground for superpowers’, she writes:
Eight years into the crisis, Syria’s economy is in tatters, half of its population displaced, hundreds of thousands of Syrians are dead, many of Syria’s cities and towns lie in ruins. Yet on top of this pile of ashes Assad sits comfortably, quite secure in his grip on power.
In areas reconquered by the regime — or as the regime euphemistically describes it, areas that “reconciled” and whose residents “returned to the bosom of the nation” — the Syrian police state is back, more aggressive than ever…
In 2011, Syrians took pride in “breaking the barrier of fear.” But fear now prevails, as the various branches of the regime’s secret police launch raids and arrest suspected disloyal elements. Many of those arrested are former activists, rebels, health and rescue workers, and civil society leaders. Syrians who wish to prove their loyalty to the regime, obtain power through it or simply settle personal scores inform on others to the regime. Suhail al-Ghazi, a Syrian analyst based in Istanbul, told Haaretz that Syrians are informing on each other “because they have been doing it for years or because they need money or favors from the regime.” In areas recently recaptured by the regime, “some locals were always pro-regime and stayed there to work as informants or just could not leave. Now they have the chance to take revenge on the majority of civilians who apparently held a more favorable view of the opposition,” Ghazi explained.
Most of Syria’s population now lives below the poverty line. Across all parts of Syria unemployment rates are high, as the normal economy has been disrupted by years of war and the mass flight of businesspeople and capital out of the country. Syria’s middle class has largely disappeared — many of them fled to neighboring countries or Europe, while others are now living in abject poverty, along with most Syrians.
A small group of war profiteers linked to the various armed groups have been able to enrich themselves by trading in oil, weapons, antiquities, stealing aid, and smuggling people and goods in and out of the country and into besieged areas, while most Syrians struggle to survive. Nearly two-thirds of Syrians are dependent on aid for their subsistence. Basic services like electricity, cooking gas, clean water and health services are lacking in many parts of the country.
Speaking on the condition of anonymity, a resident of Latakia — an area where many of the regime’s leadership and their relatives reside — told Haaretz: “You have corruption everywhere. Bribing was common before the war, but now it is endemic.”
He described the ostentatious displays of ill-gotten wealth: “High-ranking officials, they and their families, have more rights. They roam the city in fancy cars and do whatever they want. Half of the country is dying from hunger, while the sons of officials are arrogantly showing off their wealth. With money you can do everything. This is not new, but it has become more obvious because of the lawlessness prevailing in Syria.”
At the sub-regional scale Enab Baladifiled a revealing report last month on conditions in the Ghouta (which it describes as ‘military-ruled ruins’):
Today, Ghouta is living in a state of siege similar to that it witnessed between 2013 and 2018 at the service, relief and security levels, but the difference is that food is available.
With dozens of announcements about the restoration of electricity to areas east of the capital, as well as the restoration of water and communication services, the needs of civilians are still not covered by those services repeatedly announced by the regime.
Enab Baladi spoke to five people from the eastern Ghouta who returned to it, all of whom refused to be identified for fear of the regime prosecution. They described the service situation as “miserable”, especially with regard to the water and electricity services.
According to the five sources, the electricity is continuously cut for five hours, operates for only one hour, and then it is cut again, while water reaches homes one hour a day, and people rely on submersibles and artesian wells which they dug during siege in the previous years to get water.
Some areas of Ghouta also lacked many of the services that were the top priorities of organizations before the regime forces controlled the region, while food today enters without manipulated prices, unlike in the past….
The report describes Eastern Ghouta as riven by checkpoints; an emphasis on demolition rather than reconstruction; and continuing arrests and detentions.
In early August , al-Assad forces launched a campaign of arrests, which has been considered as one of the largest security operations since the regime took over Ghouta, for it has targeted the regime dissidents and activists in the Syrian revolution. The campaign was carried out in the cities and towns of Saqba, Hamuriyah, Duma, Mesraba, and Ein Tarma.
The regime also subjected local activists, civil society workers, and former media professionals, as well as members of local councils and relief agencies, to investigations into the aids they received when the area was held by the opposition.
Security branches launched arrest campaigns targeting members of the former “local council” and other members of Rif-Dimashq Provincial Council in the city of Kafr Batna in central Ghouta, according to Enab Baladi referring to local sources.
Sources affiliated to the council told Enab Baladi that Syrian security forces raided the houses and workplaces of the detainees before taking them to an unknown destination. Other local council members, who preferred to stay in Ghouta rather than go to northern Syria, are detained for the same reasons.
In the face of all that, it’s not easy to find grounds for optimism, but there is a glimmer of hope in a report from Maryam Saleh at The Intercept:
Syrian activists and lawyers are testing the bounds of international law, making two new attempts to bring the government of Bashar al-Assad before the International Criminal Court.
Syrian refugees in Jordan, through London-based lawyers, sent communications to the office of the ICC prosecutor, asking her to exercise jurisdiction over Syria based on a precedent set last year in a case involving Myanmar’s persecution of Rohingya Muslims. The communications are the latest push by Syrian civilians to hold accountable the government whose brutality upended their lives. In recent years, Syrian lawyers and human rights activists have experimented with rarely utilized aspects of international law, succeeding in getting European and American courts to weigh in on atrocities committed in Syria.
“Because of how politicized the war in Syria became, lawyers and those fighting for accountability really had to be creative,” said Mai El-Sadany, the legal and judicial director at the Washington-based Tahrir Institute for Middle East Policy. “The most recent ICC Article 15 submissions” — a reference to communications with the ICC on information about alleged international crimes — “are evidence of this, that there is space for creativity in the accountability space.”
Even when the evidence of potential crimes exists, investigations into crimes committed in states that have not ratified the Rome Statute are near impossible because of jurisdictional issues, and U.N. Security Council members are quick to use their veto power to block investigations into crimes potentially committed by their allies.
That’s what makes the various avenues Syrians are pursuing so significant. As of last March, more than two dozen cases had been filed in European courts regarding atrocities committed by the Syrian regime, rebel fighters, and the Islamic State and other fundamentalist militant groups. The family of Marie Colvin, an American journalist killed in 2012 while reporting from the city of Homs, sued the Syrian government in a U.S. district court; in January, the court found Syria responsible for killing Colvin.
Many of the cases in Europe were brought under a legal doctrine known as universal jurisdiction; application of the doctrine varies from country to country, but it essentially allows for courts to prosecute cases regardless of where the crime was committed or whether the accused party has any links to the prosecuting state.
The biggest success so far has been in Germany, where authorities last month arrested a former high-ranking Syrian intelligence officer and two others who are accused of crimes against humanity for torturing detainees in Syrian prisons. Other cases remain pending in France, Sweden, and Spain….
These attempts are possible in part due to an unprecedented level of documentation of crimes in Syria. The victims in some of the cases were identified from a trove of 28,000 photos of people killed in Syrian detention centers, smuggled out of the country by a military defector codenamed Caesar. The U.N. General Assembly, in December 2016, took the step of creating the International, Impartial, and Independent Mechanism to investigate crimes in Syria since 2011. The IIIM, as the body is known, does not have independent prosecutorial authority, but it exists to collect information that could later be provided to courts or tribunals with jurisdiction over the crimes. Last year, 28 Syrian nongovernmental organizations committed to collaborating with the IIIM on its work.
This is heartening in its way, but whenever I’ve been asked about attempts to enforce accountability in relation to the systematic attacks on hospitals, I’ve had to say that the hideous intimacy between torturer and tortured allows for an identification and assignment of culpability that is much more difficult in the case of the extended ‘kill-chain’ involved in bombing.
But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible: we know, from the courageous work of activists cited in Maryam’s report, that Assad’s security apparatus fetishized record-keeping, and that many of those records have been smuggled out of Syria so that they can now serve as testimony and evidence (For other testimonies, see the work of Forensic Architecture on Saydnaya Prison that I described here: scroll down). To sharpen the point, hare some of the slides from a presentation I once gave around precisely these questions:
If my work on bombing in other theatres of war is anything to go by, there will also be extensive trails (paper or digital) that animated the air strikes: though how they can ever be exposed is another question.
The latest issue of the wonderful Middle East Research and Information Project (MERIP)’s Middle East Report on ‘The Fight for Yemen‘ is now available online:
The ongoing war in Yemen that began in 2015 has created one of the world’s worst humanitarian disasters. The scope of destruction and human suffering is catastrophic: hundreds of thousands are dead from bombing, war-related disease and malnutrition and millions remain on the brink of famine without access to drinking water or medicine. While critical awareness of the magnitude of the crisis is growing, the political and economic roots of the crisis and the complex realities of Yemeni political life are often obscured by misunderstandings. Contributors to The Fight for Yemen disentangle the social, political and economic factors that are behind the war, the cataclysmic impact of the war on Yemeni society, particularly its women, and introduce readers to the complex realities within Yemen in order to create a just peace. Middle East Report 289 is partially available on-line with full access to all the articles available to our subscribers.
Toward a Just Peace in Yemen – Stacey Philbrick Yadav, Jillian Schwedler
The Saudi Coalition’s Food War on Yemen – Jeannie Sowers
Yemen’s Women Confront War’s Marginalization – Afrah Nasser
Yemen and the Imperial Investments in War – Priya Satia
Ambitions of a Global Gulf – Adam Hanieh
The Saudis Bring War to Yemen’s East – Susanne Dahlgren
American Interventionism and the Geopolitical Roots of Yemen’s Catastrophe – Waleed Hazbun
Roundtable: Three Women Activists Advancing Peace in Yemen – Stacey Philbrick Yadav
Progressive Surge Propels Turning Point in US Policy on Yemen – Danny Postel
A new documentary on the war in Afghanistan, Combat Obscura, is available on iTunes. From The Daily Beast:
The new Afghanistan war documentary Combat Obscura doesn’t introduce itself, explain itself, or end in a satisfying way.
It’s weird, funny, disturbing, brutal, and heartbreaking—and one of the best documentaries in years.
Combat Obscura is directed by Miles Lagoze, a former U.S. Marine Corps cameraman who spent much of 2011 in Helmand province in southern Afghanistan with a battalion of the 6th Marine Regiment based in North Carolina.
After getting out of the Marine Corps and spending a little time processing his experiences, Lagoze, now 29, enrolled in film school at Columbia University.
He just graduated. Combat Obscura is his first movie.
Lagoze came home from Afghanistan with all the footage the Marine Corps doesn’t want the public to see.
That last sentence needs elaboration. Writing in the New York Times, Ben Keningsbergexplains:
As a United States Marine in Afghanistan, Miles Lagoze, the director, worked as a videographer, documenting scenes of war for official release. (We see a clip of such material on CNN midway through the film.) Somehow, Lagoze kept his hands on unreleased footage he and others shot in Afghanistan in 2011 and 2012, and made it the basis for this film.
The Beast describes Eric Schuman, the film’s editor, as the production’s ‘secret weapon’:
“I would watch through the footage Miles had shot and pull from it what I found most interesting and compelling and then organize that material by subject… I would then try to arrange that material together into sequences that, when placed all together, told a thematic story about a deployment in Afghanistan. By the end, Miles and I came upon a structure that I hope conveys a loss of innocence and growing nihilism and apathy as the film goes on.”
I’ll leave the last word to J.D. Simkins in the Military Times (who praises the film’s accuracy and honesty):
The film’s true brilliance lies in its situational hysteria, a scene-by-scene unpredictability that serves as a microcosm of a war with no end — and no definitive outcome — in sight.
Like the forever war, a lack of closure looms ominously over the film, a sentiment echoed by many of the war’s actors. Lagoze is no different.
A history of war photography – from Vietnam to Iraq and the War of Terror – and how photography has changed war.
Today we watch wars from afar, swayed by the images that fill our newsfeeds, social media and screens. Since the Vietnam War the way we see conflict through film, photographs, and pixels, has had a powerful impact on the political fortunes of the campaign, and the way that war has been conducted. In this fully-illustrated and passionately argued account of war imagery, Julian Stallabrass tells the story of post-war conflict, how it was recorded, and remembered through its iconic photography.
The relationship between war and photograph is constantly in transition, forming new perspectives, provoking new challenges: what is allowed to be seen? How are photographs remembered? Does an image has the power to change political opinion? What influence market economics has upon the way we consume visual media, especially images of war. How new forms of distribution change the image’s potency. Stallabrass shows how photographs have become a vital weapon in the modern war: as propaganda – from close quarter fighting to the drone’s electronic vision – as well as a witness to the barbarity of events such as the My Lai massacre, the violent suppression of insurgent Fallujah or the atrocities in Abu Ghraib. Changes in technology – from shutter speed, use of colour stock, and methods of digital distribution – have also transformed the way photography is used in depicting and even waging accelerated warfare.
Through these accounts Stallabrass maps a comprehensive theoretical re-evaluation of the relationship between war, politics and visual culture. Killing for Show is an essential volume in the history of photography.
A mammoth 688 pages, packed with images – and, since it’s Verso, astonishingly reasonable priced.