I was so taken with writing last week’s entry on the physical perils of conducting Cold War archaeology that I decided to expand the discussion to consider some of the academic perils of the field.
While the academic risks of engaging in Cold War archaeology are obviously less than the physical perils, they are nonetheless worth contemplating. The first academic peril that comes to mind I will call the risk of not being taken seriously. Every field of art and science has faced this risk sometime in its existence. Charting new territory requires leaving the familiar path and stepping into the unknown. What one expects to find there, or more importantly, what founders might tell others they expect to find there, could be unbelievable enough for them to not take you seriously. Some fields, like quantum physics have struggled for decades to be taken seriously. Perhaps due to the fact that quantum mechanics frequently attempted to articulate physical conditions where classical physics theory had previously failed and where, lacking many yet-to-be-developed instruments, the first quantum physics theories could not be easily tested experimentally. As such, many of the early theoretical discussions were probably more akin to discussions of philosophy and metaphysics than science. Throughout these early and middle decades of the twentieth century, it required strong believers to sustain the intellectual momentum and scientific culture necessary to grow the quantum physics discipline to the point where it would be taken seriously.
Archaeology as a scientific endeavor is a relatively late chapter in the field’s history. Practitioners have worked for almost two centuries to be taken seriously, transcending early enduring representations of the archaeologist as tomb robber to nurture more suitable images of the archaeologist as scientist or historian. This pursuit of legitimacy is perhaps one reason why archaeologists often respond so critically and passionately to the whip-cracking, gun-toting tomb-raiding images of Indiana Jones. They seem to believe, and perhaps correctly, that outsiders may not recognize that what Indiana Jones (a fictional, historical character) does is rarely like the archaeology they know, love and practice.
A failure of the field to achieve legitimacy has some rather dire consequences. Legitimacy is closely tied to the ability to attract funding, to the ability to publish, and the state of being widely known and respected. These three challenges are, in fact, the three principal academic perils of Cold War archaeology I intend to address.
The ability to find funding for research is a core concern of every academician. In recent decades, the ability to fund archaeological research has become more difficult as the physical and biological sciences, as well as business schools, have increasingly monopolized the already tight academic research funding resources. As a result, funding for social science and humanities research has declined over the years, making Cold War archaeology’s entry into an already competitive funding arena less than welcome. Without funding, the field will find it difficult to advance itself as others have in the past, especially as travel and other costs continue to rise in the face of global economic and energy challenges. It may be that the Cold War archaeologist will have to locate and tap alternative and unconventional funding resources.
Assuming funding does not present any insurmountable challenges for a Cold War archaeologist, the perils of publishing still lie ahead. Without the ability to publish, any field runs the risk perishing, or at least not developing a following. The task of finding journals in which to publish and then convincing them to allocate valued space to an emerging field might be difficult. Currently, there are several notable journals that publish archaeological research, including the American Journal of Archaeology, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, European Journal of Archaeology, Antiquity, International Journal of Historical Archaeology and Journal of Archaeological Research. The fledgling Journal of Conflict Archaeology also looks quite promising.
The American Journal of Archaeology and Oxford Journal of Archaeology are journals aimed at classical archaeology and are unlikely to publish Cold War archaeology research. On the other hand, the European Journal of Archaeology and Antiquity, as well as the Journal of Archaeological Research, International Journal of Historical Archaeology and the Journal of Conflict Archaeology all seem to have some potential. In any case, the Cold War archaeology papers that are submitted will need to be exceptional if they hope to compete with a range of excellent papers from other areas of archaeology; papers that are constantly being submitted and more often than not, being rejected behind others more promising.
If Cold War archaeologists are able to conquer the challenges of legitimacy, funding, and publishing, they must still succeed in attracting a strong and consistent following. This is not post hoc, ergo propter hoc. Attracting a following will require researchers to produce research and papers that will cause people to care deeply about the field and its practitioners. It also requires finding ways to draw positive attention to the field and its unconventional aim of uncovering humankind’s recent past. This means not only drawing attention to the work of the field’s practitioners, explaining what do and how they do it, but ultimately why what they find is, or should be, important to them.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Physical Perils of Cold War Archaeology
Several months back, Sam White, a collector of Civil War artifacts was killed in Chester, Virginia when the seventy-five pound, 140-year old cannon ball he was restoring abruptly exploded, killing him and raining shrapnel in a quarter mile radius around his home. The tragedy led me to consider some of the hazards of military (aka battlefield) archaeology in general, and the physical perils of Cold War archaeology, more specifically.
At first, it seemed implausible that I could identify any true hazards associated with archaeological research on Cold War sites. I mean, aside from a few paper cuts one might get perusing documents in an archive, or the occasional blister from heavy handling a trowel, there appeared to be few things that could befall the Cold War archaeologist. It appeared that the unfortunate artifact collector in Virginia led a far more dangerous life than any Cold War archaeologist.
However, when I actually began to consider some of the hazards that one might run into in the process of conducting an archaeological investigation of someplace like a Cold War nuclear weapons development or testing site, the perils were suddenly very serious and very real.
Obviously, one of the first hazards that come to mind at a nuclear site is the potential for exposure to ionizing radiation. While the nuclear materials used at weapons laboratories were fairly well controlled throughout the Cold War, radioactive contamination is a lurking danger at any of the former nuclear testing site, but perhaps not in the way one might think. The danger is not due to the possibility of finding large chunks of uranium or plutonium, these were too valuable to be left lying around and too easy to detect when lost. The danger at a site like the Nevada Test Site or at certain Pacific Islands is more likely to be due to the probability of stirring up old radioactive fallout during an archaeological excavation. Many of the “dirtiest” fission bombs sucked up tons of dirt or coral in the explosion, mixed it with radioactive isotopes of varying half-lives, and then dropped it as fallout anywhere from seven feet to 7000 miles from ground zero. As a result, digging through fifty-year-old soil anywhere in the US might expose a person to latent fallout to some degree, but digging through fifty-year-old soil at the Nevada Test Site is certain to expose you to far more. I believe that one would need to inhale a considerable amount of fallout dust to pose any real health danger. Nonetheless, it is a potential peril of Cold War archaeological practice.
At other kinds of nuclear weapons sites, like missile silos or strategic bomber bases, the danger from radiation is almost nonexistent, unless the site was somehow inadvertently contaminated. An example of this is an Atlas F missile site near Roswell, New Mexico that was contaminated in the early 1960s as the result of a fire in the silo that destroyed the missile and its warhead. Other than in a situation like that, nuclear warheads were never opened on airfields or in the silos, thus making the chance of radioactive contamination virtually impossible.
ICBM silos, however, are likely to pose other more industrial-type environmental dangers as a result of the various kinds of fuels, cleaning solvents, and once-common Cold War construction materials, like asbestos. Chemical compounds like isonite (isopropyl nitrate), samine, and melanj were used in liquid rocket fuels for both short and long-range missiles by various nations. Chlorinated organic solvents like trichloroethylene, carbon tetrachloride, and trichloroethane were often used for cleaning in missile silos, as well as in other parts of the military-industrial complex. Residues of these compounds remain in the soils surrounding numerous Cold War sites despite ongoing efforts by the departments of Defense and Energy to remediate these legacy wastes.
Other common site dangers range from those created by rodent, insect, or snake infestations in abandoned buildings and underground facilities to the incalculable perils posed by time-weakened walkways and collapsing passageways. Even though the only individuals who seem to currently assume these risks are taggers, scavengers and “urban explorers” who have gained unauthorized access to places like abandoned missile sites for their own ends. However, even professional and avocational archaeologists conducting site surveys could face the physical and environmental risks left by a decaying Cold War infrastructure in the form of open, but hidden, holes and pits filled with water or even chemical wastes.
Even some less obvious perils could be encountered in conducting archaeological research on Cold War sites, include the unearthing of unexploded ordinance or land mines, small arms cartridges, and even high explosives (HE). These dangers vary by site location and by the actual risk level they pose, but all pose threats that are not normally found in other historic or prehistoric sites. Perhaps, not surprisingly, I have little desire to detonate even the smallest small arms cartridge hidden in the dirt using the point of my Marshalltown. Likewise, nothing would seem to take the fun out of a field survey of a former explosives firing site than the discovery of chunks of unexploded HE capable of blowing up my truck if inadvertently detonated. And, as Sam White’s accident proved, the tools of war make no differentiation between combatant and collector and are often deadly for many years.
I assure that the point of this litany of perils is not to scare anyone away from the practice of Cold War archaeology, or an attempt to give the field some “street cred”, but simply to show that the hazards of battlefield archaeology can be as simple and as menacing as a seventy-five pound cannon ball and that it will probably take more than my favorite Marshalltown and a box of Sharpies®, or even a brown felt fedora and a bullwhip, to conquer some of these real Cold War villains.
At first, it seemed implausible that I could identify any true hazards associated with archaeological research on Cold War sites. I mean, aside from a few paper cuts one might get perusing documents in an archive, or the occasional blister from heavy handling a trowel, there appeared to be few things that could befall the Cold War archaeologist. It appeared that the unfortunate artifact collector in Virginia led a far more dangerous life than any Cold War archaeologist.
However, when I actually began to consider some of the hazards that one might run into in the process of conducting an archaeological investigation of someplace like a Cold War nuclear weapons development or testing site, the perils were suddenly very serious and very real.
Obviously, one of the first hazards that come to mind at a nuclear site is the potential for exposure to ionizing radiation. While the nuclear materials used at weapons laboratories were fairly well controlled throughout the Cold War, radioactive contamination is a lurking danger at any of the former nuclear testing site, but perhaps not in the way one might think. The danger is not due to the possibility of finding large chunks of uranium or plutonium, these were too valuable to be left lying around and too easy to detect when lost. The danger at a site like the Nevada Test Site or at certain Pacific Islands is more likely to be due to the probability of stirring up old radioactive fallout during an archaeological excavation. Many of the “dirtiest” fission bombs sucked up tons of dirt or coral in the explosion, mixed it with radioactive isotopes of varying half-lives, and then dropped it as fallout anywhere from seven feet to 7000 miles from ground zero. As a result, digging through fifty-year-old soil anywhere in the US might expose a person to latent fallout to some degree, but digging through fifty-year-old soil at the Nevada Test Site is certain to expose you to far more. I believe that one would need to inhale a considerable amount of fallout dust to pose any real health danger. Nonetheless, it is a potential peril of Cold War archaeological practice.
At other kinds of nuclear weapons sites, like missile silos or strategic bomber bases, the danger from radiation is almost nonexistent, unless the site was somehow inadvertently contaminated. An example of this is an Atlas F missile site near Roswell, New Mexico that was contaminated in the early 1960s as the result of a fire in the silo that destroyed the missile and its warhead. Other than in a situation like that, nuclear warheads were never opened on airfields or in the silos, thus making the chance of radioactive contamination virtually impossible.
ICBM silos, however, are likely to pose other more industrial-type environmental dangers as a result of the various kinds of fuels, cleaning solvents, and once-common Cold War construction materials, like asbestos. Chemical compounds like isonite (isopropyl nitrate), samine, and melanj were used in liquid rocket fuels for both short and long-range missiles by various nations. Chlorinated organic solvents like trichloroethylene, carbon tetrachloride, and trichloroethane were often used for cleaning in missile silos, as well as in other parts of the military-industrial complex. Residues of these compounds remain in the soils surrounding numerous Cold War sites despite ongoing efforts by the departments of Defense and Energy to remediate these legacy wastes.
Other common site dangers range from those created by rodent, insect, or snake infestations in abandoned buildings and underground facilities to the incalculable perils posed by time-weakened walkways and collapsing passageways. Even though the only individuals who seem to currently assume these risks are taggers, scavengers and “urban explorers” who have gained unauthorized access to places like abandoned missile sites for their own ends. However, even professional and avocational archaeologists conducting site surveys could face the physical and environmental risks left by a decaying Cold War infrastructure in the form of open, but hidden, holes and pits filled with water or even chemical wastes.
Even some less obvious perils could be encountered in conducting archaeological research on Cold War sites, include the unearthing of unexploded ordinance or land mines, small arms cartridges, and even high explosives (HE). These dangers vary by site location and by the actual risk level they pose, but all pose threats that are not normally found in other historic or prehistoric sites. Perhaps, not surprisingly, I have little desire to detonate even the smallest small arms cartridge hidden in the dirt using the point of my Marshalltown. Likewise, nothing would seem to take the fun out of a field survey of a former explosives firing site than the discovery of chunks of unexploded HE capable of blowing up my truck if inadvertently detonated. And, as Sam White’s accident proved, the tools of war make no differentiation between combatant and collector and are often deadly for many years.
I assure that the point of this litany of perils is not to scare anyone away from the practice of Cold War archaeology, or an attempt to give the field some “street cred”, but simply to show that the hazards of battlefield archaeology can be as simple and as menacing as a seventy-five pound cannon ball and that it will probably take more than my favorite Marshalltown and a box of Sharpies®, or even a brown felt fedora and a bullwhip, to conquer some of these real Cold War villains.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Military Archaeology and Cold War Archaeology
Previously, I wrote about the relationship that I thought existed between the fields of Cold War Studies and Cold War Archaeology. In this post, I’d like to push that thinking in yet another direction and consider the relationship that exists between the fields of Military or Battlefield Archaeology and Cold War Archaeology.
The archaeology of battlefield and related military sites is a well-regarded subfield of historical archaeology. In the United States, the field rose to prominence through the work of archaeologists like Douglas Scott, whose archaeological investigations have caused scholars to re-interpret the battle events and history of the Battle of Little Big Horn. Around the globe, major battlefield archaeological research has been conducted on the US Civil War, English Civil War, and World War One. Currently, there are no less than half a dozen Russian battlefield archaeology “search parties” actively working to locate the remains of Red Army soldiers killed during the Second World War.
And this research is making a mark. Just in the past several years, a number of popular books on the field have been published on the field, including, by Tim Lynch and John Cooksey’s Battlefield Archaeology (2007), Combat Archaeology: Material Culture and Modern Conflict (Duckworth Debates in Archaeology) by John Schofield (2006), and Fields of Conflict: Battlefield Archaeology from the Roman Empire to the Korean War by Douglas Scott, Lawrence Babits, and Charles Haecker (2006). Although the National Park Service really leads the national battlefield archaeology effort, other institutions like The Center for Historic and Military Archaeology (CHMA) are also contributing. The CHMA is an academic research and experiential learning program at Heidelberg College in Tiffin, Ohio that provides an undergraduate program for archaeologists focusing on historic and military archaeology of Civil War sites. Meanwhile, the Journal of Conflict Archaeology serves as an leading publication for a field “devoted to battlefield and military archaeology and other spheres of conflict archaeology”. Clearly, military archaeology is an established field of inquiry and one that underpins my own archaeological interests, as well as those of others.
Paralleling the question I posed earlier of Cold War Studies, one can reasonably ask, what can the field of Cold War archaeology contribute to the world of military archaeology? The answer would seem to be: a lot. As ancient and medieval conflicts have long been studied, so too are 18th, 19th, and early 20th century conflicts now being studied. It seems logical that the Cold War conflict will eventually become a focus of both history and archaeology. Following the practiced principle and principals of battlefield archaeology, Cold War archaeology could learn to learn as much from its sites as military archaeologists have already learned from theirs. Imagine an archaeological investigation of the former Soviet missile base near San Cristobal, Cuba leading scholars to re-interpret the events and history of the Cuban Missile Crisis in the same way Douglas Scott and his team led to a reinterpretation of the Battle of Little Big Horn.
Obviously, any union of the two would necessitate getting beyond the notion, if such a notion exists, of battlefields as singularly representative of military archaeology. At a minimum, it would require the recognition of Cold War battlefields in their more transient and intangible forms. These new battlefield forms include the more familiar airfields, military bases, underground bunkers, missile silos, radar installations, and nuclear weapons testing sites, but also some lesser-known sites and structures, such as those built to sustain civilian communication networks, continuity of government, or civil defense.
One example of this sort of lesser-known structures are a chain of underground repeater and main stations built by Bell Telephone Company in the 1960s as part of an Armageddon-proof transcontinental coaxial phone cable system. Called the L-4 line, the system consisted of buried concrete repeater stations located every two miles along the transcontinental route and larger main stations (manned underground facilities) located at 120 to 160 mile intervals. Constructed of reinforced concrete and is covered with several feet of earth, both types of stations were designed and built to survive everything up to a direct Soviet nuclear warhead blast. The main stations featured blast doors that closed automatically in the event of a nuclear blast, gas-turbine engines for providing emergency power, and ventilation systems designed to filter air inside the building and prevent the entry of airborne fallout, as well as sleeping accommodations and decontamination showers for workers. As a critical link in the civilian communication network, the Cold War fought by those working in these Bell Telephone bunkers was on a battlefield unseen in previous American wars.
With a few philosophical compromises, military archaeology and Cold War archaeology seem destined to work together. Perhaps what remains to be seen is if Cold War Archaeology can first stand on its own before attempting to run with the “big dogs” of military archaeology.
The archaeology of battlefield and related military sites is a well-regarded subfield of historical archaeology. In the United States, the field rose to prominence through the work of archaeologists like Douglas Scott, whose archaeological investigations have caused scholars to re-interpret the battle events and history of the Battle of Little Big Horn. Around the globe, major battlefield archaeological research has been conducted on the US Civil War, English Civil War, and World War One. Currently, there are no less than half a dozen Russian battlefield archaeology “search parties” actively working to locate the remains of Red Army soldiers killed during the Second World War.
And this research is making a mark. Just in the past several years, a number of popular books on the field have been published on the field, including, by Tim Lynch and John Cooksey’s Battlefield Archaeology (2007), Combat Archaeology: Material Culture and Modern Conflict (Duckworth Debates in Archaeology) by John Schofield (2006), and Fields of Conflict: Battlefield Archaeology from the Roman Empire to the Korean War by Douglas Scott, Lawrence Babits, and Charles Haecker (2006). Although the National Park Service really leads the national battlefield archaeology effort, other institutions like The Center for Historic and Military Archaeology (CHMA) are also contributing. The CHMA is an academic research and experiential learning program at Heidelberg College in Tiffin, Ohio that provides an undergraduate program for archaeologists focusing on historic and military archaeology of Civil War sites. Meanwhile, the Journal of Conflict Archaeology serves as an leading publication for a field “devoted to battlefield and military archaeology and other spheres of conflict archaeology”. Clearly, military archaeology is an established field of inquiry and one that underpins my own archaeological interests, as well as those of others.
Paralleling the question I posed earlier of Cold War Studies, one can reasonably ask, what can the field of Cold War archaeology contribute to the world of military archaeology? The answer would seem to be: a lot. As ancient and medieval conflicts have long been studied, so too are 18th, 19th, and early 20th century conflicts now being studied. It seems logical that the Cold War conflict will eventually become a focus of both history and archaeology. Following the practiced principle and principals of battlefield archaeology, Cold War archaeology could learn to learn as much from its sites as military archaeologists have already learned from theirs. Imagine an archaeological investigation of the former Soviet missile base near San Cristobal, Cuba leading scholars to re-interpret the events and history of the Cuban Missile Crisis in the same way Douglas Scott and his team led to a reinterpretation of the Battle of Little Big Horn.
Obviously, any union of the two would necessitate getting beyond the notion, if such a notion exists, of battlefields as singularly representative of military archaeology. At a minimum, it would require the recognition of Cold War battlefields in their more transient and intangible forms. These new battlefield forms include the more familiar airfields, military bases, underground bunkers, missile silos, radar installations, and nuclear weapons testing sites, but also some lesser-known sites and structures, such as those built to sustain civilian communication networks, continuity of government, or civil defense.
One example of this sort of lesser-known structures are a chain of underground repeater and main stations built by Bell Telephone Company in the 1960s as part of an Armageddon-proof transcontinental coaxial phone cable system. Called the L-4 line, the system consisted of buried concrete repeater stations located every two miles along the transcontinental route and larger main stations (manned underground facilities) located at 120 to 160 mile intervals. Constructed of reinforced concrete and is covered with several feet of earth, both types of stations were designed and built to survive everything up to a direct Soviet nuclear warhead blast. The main stations featured blast doors that closed automatically in the event of a nuclear blast, gas-turbine engines for providing emergency power, and ventilation systems designed to filter air inside the building and prevent the entry of airborne fallout, as well as sleeping accommodations and decontamination showers for workers. As a critical link in the civilian communication network, the Cold War fought by those working in these Bell Telephone bunkers was on a battlefield unseen in previous American wars.
With a few philosophical compromises, military archaeology and Cold War archaeology seem destined to work together. Perhaps what remains to be seen is if Cold War Archaeology can first stand on its own before attempting to run with the “big dogs” of military archaeology.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Why Study Cold War Archaeology
Indelibly imprinted on both the global psyche and its landscape, the Cold War proved to be a lengthy and fearsome element of 20th century life that was facilitated in part by the growth of a vast military industrial complex. Today, much of that complex, the physical legacy of the Cold War, is coming of age, in preservationist terms, and will soon need to be managed in one way or another by heritage specialists.
Despite, or perhaps due to, its relative propinquity, making cultural or historical sense of the Cold War might prove difficult. Complicated by both past and lingering issues of national security, geopolitics, and partisanship, any serious attempt at reading the Cold War, even if done broadly through the use of archival texts, personal narratives, provenienced artifacts, and cultural landscapes, can be as academically risky as they it is intellectually rewarding. Still, it is a critical reading that needs to be done.
Unprecedented as a form of war, I believe that only some of what we think we know about the Cold War past is accurate, as the powers of national secrecy, revisionism, and nationalism have been constantly working to cloud our view. It is as if, as David Lowenthal proclaimed in a book of the same name, the past is a “foreign country” that is continually being enlarged and diminished, embellished and purified, and lengthened and abbreviated, all while simultaneously being tinged with the colors of our present. However, despite this subjective coloring, a reading of the Cold War past offers to our present the broad potential benefits of identity, guidance, enrichment, and even escape. These benefits, in turn, provide a rationale and foundation for the work of identifying, understanding, and preserving some of our most critical of Cold War cultural and historic resources.
For better or worse, the Cold War was, and remains, a principal driver in defining America’s identity as a global nuclear superpower. Chilling for many, more comforting for others, this identity is deeply rooted in a collection of powerful Cold War spaces, places, and technologies. Beyond the obvious and not-so-obvious technological advances in weapons of mass destruction, the Cold War led to the construction of thousands (literally) of structures and sites around the globe whose sole function was to serve and sustain that war. In the United States alone, trillions of dollars were spent on the creation and expansion of a vast military-industrial complex that was unprecedented in human history. A vast and sometimes secret Cold War cultural landscape emerged in the form of military bases, nuclear weapons research and production facilities, weapons testing grounds, strategic bomber bases, radar station networks, intercontinental ballistic missile complexes, and elaborate control and command centers. Today, the physical legacy of the Cold War is a profusion of both inhabited and abandoned facilities and sites of which scholars are only now beginning to understand the true military, scientific, political, or social significance.
The concept of gaining guidance from the past is hardly a new notion and the Cold War’s physical legacy is no exception. What history has to teach us about the rigid politics of distrust, the elusive qualities of national security, and the enduring social, economic and environmental hazards of militarization often lies only shallowly buried in Cold War era sites. Guidance for political leadership might still be found in understanding of the ways in which the physical legacy of the Cold War was created and used-or perhaps misused–with the ultimate goal of not making the same mistakes again in the future. Effective historical guidance, however, hinges principally on awareness and that awareness comes from knowing the Cold War in all its archival, biographical, and material forms.
Enrichment is a tricky term. Because it can mean to both improve and enhance the quality or value of something, as well as to make someone wealthy or wealthier, the notion of enrichment can be seen as either constructive or predatory. The predatory nature of neo-capitalism, for example, could mean that the greatest enrichment some would find in Cold War landscape is in its destruction for the siting of new shopping malls or upscale condominiums. In the context of this discussion, however, the benefit that I think reading the Cold War past offers to the present is a constructive enhancement of the quality of our shared cultural landscape. In a world where the existing built landscape of the Cold War is falling down (quite literally), the identification and preservation of the elements of the Cold War landscape that have the most meaning for all the world’s citizens seems to make great sense. Of course, if you want more shopping malls or condominiums and the capitalistic escapism they provide, the Cold War landscape may provide that benefit as well.
Several years ago, my sons discovered the James Bond films. Relatively unaware of the temporal, political and social contexts of the movies, they were quickly entranced by the films in the same way previous generations of teenage boys had been. For them James Bond quickly came to symbolize Cold War espionage, but was pure escapism that I doubt few sites of the Cold War’s actual physical legacy could ever match. On the contrary, the authentic stories and sites of Cold War espionage and intrigue are real, interesting, even alarming, in ways that surpass the fantasy of Bond. The trick, of course, is to tease out these real stories of Cold War intrigue and espionage–or whatever other stories they may hold–out of seemingly mute stone (or perhaps concrete) walls.
Because the Cold War dominated global politics, economics, and popular culture so largely for more than forty years, its landscapes and legacies will likely be with us for some time. Indeed, they are with us even today as America confronts its past practices in global affairs. Ultimately, what the world learns from the Cold War period, or what benefits that experience brings to future generations, will depend upon at least partly upon how fully and accurately we present its history to future generations. It may be difficult to imagine that the benefits of identity, guidance, enrichment, and escape might be somehow found in confronting the Cold War’s historical identity and concrete physical legacies, but in my mind, helping the world discover, define, understand and preserve that past are critical tasks for the nascent Cold War archaeologist.
Despite, or perhaps due to, its relative propinquity, making cultural or historical sense of the Cold War might prove difficult. Complicated by both past and lingering issues of national security, geopolitics, and partisanship, any serious attempt at reading the Cold War, even if done broadly through the use of archival texts, personal narratives, provenienced artifacts, and cultural landscapes, can be as academically risky as they it is intellectually rewarding. Still, it is a critical reading that needs to be done.
Unprecedented as a form of war, I believe that only some of what we think we know about the Cold War past is accurate, as the powers of national secrecy, revisionism, and nationalism have been constantly working to cloud our view. It is as if, as David Lowenthal proclaimed in a book of the same name, the past is a “foreign country” that is continually being enlarged and diminished, embellished and purified, and lengthened and abbreviated, all while simultaneously being tinged with the colors of our present. However, despite this subjective coloring, a reading of the Cold War past offers to our present the broad potential benefits of identity, guidance, enrichment, and even escape. These benefits, in turn, provide a rationale and foundation for the work of identifying, understanding, and preserving some of our most critical of Cold War cultural and historic resources.
For better or worse, the Cold War was, and remains, a principal driver in defining America’s identity as a global nuclear superpower. Chilling for many, more comforting for others, this identity is deeply rooted in a collection of powerful Cold War spaces, places, and technologies. Beyond the obvious and not-so-obvious technological advances in weapons of mass destruction, the Cold War led to the construction of thousands (literally) of structures and sites around the globe whose sole function was to serve and sustain that war. In the United States alone, trillions of dollars were spent on the creation and expansion of a vast military-industrial complex that was unprecedented in human history. A vast and sometimes secret Cold War cultural landscape emerged in the form of military bases, nuclear weapons research and production facilities, weapons testing grounds, strategic bomber bases, radar station networks, intercontinental ballistic missile complexes, and elaborate control and command centers. Today, the physical legacy of the Cold War is a profusion of both inhabited and abandoned facilities and sites of which scholars are only now beginning to understand the true military, scientific, political, or social significance.
The concept of gaining guidance from the past is hardly a new notion and the Cold War’s physical legacy is no exception. What history has to teach us about the rigid politics of distrust, the elusive qualities of national security, and the enduring social, economic and environmental hazards of militarization often lies only shallowly buried in Cold War era sites. Guidance for political leadership might still be found in understanding of the ways in which the physical legacy of the Cold War was created and used-or perhaps misused–with the ultimate goal of not making the same mistakes again in the future. Effective historical guidance, however, hinges principally on awareness and that awareness comes from knowing the Cold War in all its archival, biographical, and material forms.
Enrichment is a tricky term. Because it can mean to both improve and enhance the quality or value of something, as well as to make someone wealthy or wealthier, the notion of enrichment can be seen as either constructive or predatory. The predatory nature of neo-capitalism, for example, could mean that the greatest enrichment some would find in Cold War landscape is in its destruction for the siting of new shopping malls or upscale condominiums. In the context of this discussion, however, the benefit that I think reading the Cold War past offers to the present is a constructive enhancement of the quality of our shared cultural landscape. In a world where the existing built landscape of the Cold War is falling down (quite literally), the identification and preservation of the elements of the Cold War landscape that have the most meaning for all the world’s citizens seems to make great sense. Of course, if you want more shopping malls or condominiums and the capitalistic escapism they provide, the Cold War landscape may provide that benefit as well.
Several years ago, my sons discovered the James Bond films. Relatively unaware of the temporal, political and social contexts of the movies, they were quickly entranced by the films in the same way previous generations of teenage boys had been. For them James Bond quickly came to symbolize Cold War espionage, but was pure escapism that I doubt few sites of the Cold War’s actual physical legacy could ever match. On the contrary, the authentic stories and sites of Cold War espionage and intrigue are real, interesting, even alarming, in ways that surpass the fantasy of Bond. The trick, of course, is to tease out these real stories of Cold War intrigue and espionage–or whatever other stories they may hold–out of seemingly mute stone (or perhaps concrete) walls.
Because the Cold War dominated global politics, economics, and popular culture so largely for more than forty years, its landscapes and legacies will likely be with us for some time. Indeed, they are with us even today as America confronts its past practices in global affairs. Ultimately, what the world learns from the Cold War period, or what benefits that experience brings to future generations, will depend upon at least partly upon how fully and accurately we present its history to future generations. It may be difficult to imagine that the benefits of identity, guidance, enrichment, and escape might be somehow found in confronting the Cold War’s historical identity and concrete physical legacies, but in my mind, helping the world discover, define, understand and preserve that past are critical tasks for the nascent Cold War archaeologist.
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