This blog tracks the progress of my main research project, which is currently a dissertation-in-progress. Click here to read an abridged proposal for this project, or scroll down to read my blog posts! (Click here if you can’t see them.)
Last Wednesday I was fortunate to be one of five participants in a graduate student workshop run by the Agricultural History Society in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and I’m happy to report that my submission to the workshop won their “best essay” award! The award is sponsored by Yale University Press and the Yale Program in Agrarian Studies.
The essay that I workshopped was a first draft of a dissertation chapter on scientific agriculture in China’s Xikang Province during the 1940s. It’s unconventional by academic history standards: it covers only about a decade, it’s as much about historical failures as successes, and none of the historical actors involved were prominent nationally. This chapter typifies the “history of everyday life” approach that characterizes much of the dissertation, and the positive feedback I received seemed to vindicate that approach: “I like the people,” remarked one senior scholar. On the other hand, my main respondent, Deborah Fitzgerald, pointed out a common pitfall: historians fresh out of the archives are in exclusive possession of a multitude of fascinating facts, and the goal is to be the boss of your facts–not the other way around. In places it was clear that I’d let my facts become the boss of me as narrative disintegrated into trivia, and that’s an issue that I’ll have to work on as I revise.
四川省档案馆, 花牌坊街191号 http://www.scsdaj.gov.cn
[Note: I have edited this post since its initial publication for greater accuracy, particularly regarding Qing-era records. Thanks to Gilbert Chen for his input!]
I spent the bulk of my last research stint in China–just over eleven months–visiting the Sichuan Provincial Archives (四川省档案馆) in Chengdu for my research on the history of Xikang Province. The ChuanDang 川档, as the name is locally abbreviated, are an amazing and under-utilized resource (I was sometimes the only user present), but they’re also quirky and can be confusing. A lot has changed since Maura Dykstra wrote her guide to the Sichuan Archives. A source of much confusion is the archives’ melange of originals, microfilm and digital documents, compounded by the hybridity of its digital and non-digital interfaces. After an intro to the basics of archiving at the ChuanDang, I’ll offer tips and strategies for navigating some of the more complex aspects of these archives today. Most of my experience is with Republican-era documents, and I’m not able to comment extensively on working with Qing microfilms.
Highlights: The ChuanDang mainly feature archives for Sichuan provincial bureaus from the Qing through PRC eras, but there are a couple of collections worth highlighting: First, many international scholars come to consult the Ba County archive, which is one of the very few extant county-level archives from the Qing Dynasty; this collection has now been digitized and is keyword-searchable. Secondly, the ChuanDang hold virtually all of the accessible Xikang Province archives, most of which was subsumed by Sichuan in the early 1950s, much of which has yet to be digitized. Finally, there are some catalogs corresponding to central government organs that were temporarily based in Chengdu; for example, I accessed records of the Central Meteorological Bureau (中央气象局) from the 1940s.
Transportation: The location of the archives in northwest Chengdu isn’t very central and there is no subway stop nearby (Line 2 is about a 30-minute walk away). Bus routes 4, 37, 62 and 109 have stops near the archives. On any of these routes, get off at the stop named 四川省档案局. I recommend routing your trip on Baidu maps (click here).
Hours: The reading room is open from 8:30am to 11:30am and 12:30pm to 5:30pm on Monday through Friday, plus 8:30am to 11:30am on Saturdays. However, from 12:30 to 2pm the service desk is usually staffed by an attendant who does little more than supervise the reading room; to request documents you will likely need to wait for the main staff to return around 2.
In my experience you can request digital documents any time that the main staff is available (roughly 8:30-11:30 and 2-5:15), but you should request any originals before 3pm. Staff will often do a very loud last call (perhaps not unlike your local bar) around 3. Technically the deadline for print requests is 4:30, but staff implored me to aim for 4pm or earlier when requesting copies of originals, which can be very time-consuming for them.
On Day 1: If you don’t have a Chinese ID you’ll need to have your passport and your introduction letter from a Chinese institution ready. Sign in at the guard post by the front gate on HuaPaiFang Street (you’ll need to show your passport the first time) and proceed to the reading room through the automatic sliding-glass doors immediately ahead. You’ll have to walk through a metal scanner, and then you’re in the beautifully-lit atrium that is the Sichuan Archives Reading Room. Put any large bags in one of the automated lockers to the left of the metal scanner before you start working.
The first time you visit, you’ll need to show your introduction letter to the staff behind the service desk, which is in the middle of the room. They give you a paper form to fill out with your name, danwei, phone number and–importantly–a short description of what kinds of records you’re looking for. Be prepared to write 2-3 sentences in Chinese characters on the topic(s) and period(s) you’re interested in. Think broad–if your description is too narrow, there is a chance that at some point you may be denied access to records that don’t seem to match your topic or time period.
If all goes well, staff will write down a username and serial number for you on a slip of paper, and this will be your login information for the archives’ in-house digital interface. The username should be your Chinese name, and in my experience, the serial number is the date on which you arrived followed by your number in the sequence of new users for that day. Eh, it’s not as complicated as it sounds–you’ll figure it out.
The index: When I first visited in 2011, there was only a barely-legible hand-written index in what seemed like a million binders in glass bookcases along a wall. That’s still there, but most researchers now use the brilliant new text-searchable digital index, which is available on any of the computer workstations in the reading room. Open the IE browser and the login page will appear; then make sure to select the option for entering a serial number (编号). PRC citizens use their shenfenzheng number to enter the system, but you will need that number they wrote down on a little slip of paper (see above).
Typical among PRC archives, catalogs are chronologically sorted into the Qing, Republican (1912-1949) and PRC (1949-present) eras. However, there are a lot of choices within those master categories, and you might want to look at the complete list here. Note that the ChuanDang actually contain records for two provinces: Sichuan and Xikang, since the latter was mostly absorbed into Sichuan after 1955.
The archives’ website appears to feature an online search function for the index, but judging from my attempts at using it, this online index only works a small subset of the archives, and seemingly only Qing records.
Pulling records: Requesting documents through the digital index is easy, but be careful: not only are you allowed to request only 20 items per day, but you’re allowed to make only one request per day. Fortunately, it’s a multi-step process that allows you to add items to your list before officially submitting it. When you’re ready to make your request for the day, check the check-boxes next to each item you want to request and hit the button at the top that says “Submit a List” (提交一个清单). Then, make sure to verbally tell someone at the main desk that you have put in a request (“我提交了一个清单”). Staff may well not put your request through until you make a verbal request, precisely because you are only allowed one such request per day and they don’t want you to squander it.
The digital index is fairly intuitive, but what happens after you put in a request is more confusing. If some files you requested are digital, staff will tell you right away which ones you can access, and they’ll make those files available to your account. You can then return to your work station, hit refresh on the browser, and you should now see links to view these files. Files that don’t provide a link haven’t been digitized, or aren’t available to you.
If some files you requested have not been digitized, staff may simply tell you that they haven’t been digitized. They may or may not ask if you want to see the originals. If you do want to see them, be proactive in requesting the originals (“我能不能看原件？”). However, if some of the files you requested are digital and some are not, staff will likely ask you to view the digital files first and may not comply with your request to pull originals until you say you have done so. Originals can’t be pulled between 11:30 and 2pm. Expect to wait up to an hour or longer for your originals to arrive, and don’t be shocked if some of the files don’t arrive, even if staff initially seemed to indicate that they were available. In fact, about half of my requests for originals that staff initially approved did not arrive in the end, often with no clear reason given except that they were unviewable.
Unviewable records: It’s likely that staff will at some point tell you that you “can’t view” (看不了) one or more files. There are many possible reasons for this–for example, the file may be undergoing digitization, it may be too politically sensitive. The ChuanDang are in the throes of digitization, so the volume of files currently undergoing digitization is fairly large. Generally, entire catalogs (全宗) are taken out of circulation at once for digitization, so it might be good to ask in advance which catalogs are unavailable, or better yet–write down a list of collections you’re interested in and ask about their availability before putting in a request. Staff at the main desk will probably have to make a phone call to archivists to find out.
Most importantly, be patient and anticipate that you may not be able to view a lot of the records you want. I was dismayed to learn that collections I considered to be crucial to my dissertation were indefinitely unavailable, but this ultimately prompted me to be more creative with my approach and make slight alterations to my research questions or seek the answers in alternative sources.
Viewing records and taking notes: Records come in one of three formats: digital, microfilm (mainly Qing records), and originals. ROC and early PRC records are in the process of digitzation, and you are generally allowed to view originals only if the record you want is in a catalog (全宗) that has not yet been digitized and isn’t currently undergoing digitization. In my understanding, visitors can no longer view the originals of Qing records, and these are available either as digital files or on microfilm. According to a colleague who recently worked with Qing records, the Ba County archives as well as Qing records from before the Guangxu reign have been digitized, while Guangxu- and Xuantong-era records are available only on microfilm.
Digital files will open as PDFs in a web browser, so your experience will be much like viewing online PDFs on any PC. Microfilm viewing also seems pretty standard. Originals are handed over to you at the main desk when they arrive, after you sign in with your name and passport number. There is plenty of desk space for viewing originals and great natural lighting. As of early 2017, staff did not require gloves for viewing originals, nor did they provide them (but please wash your hands first!). You are free to take notes on your own paper with a pen or pencil, or to bring in your laptop and type as you read. Photographing records, however, is strictly prohibited (and the rule is enforced).
Staff prefer that you return any originals you view on the same day, but of course, this is not always feasible. Staff generally will store records for you upon request as long as you are coming in again within 24 hours, and they seem willing to do this for up to (about) three days in a row. Incidentally, I noticed that the typical Chinese visitor would request records, look at them for a couple of hours, make copies and then return their records.
Requesting prints or photocopies: While you’re not allowed to photograph documents, one of the most amazing things about the Sichuan Archives is that everyone is allowed up to 20 free pages of copies per day, which is a fairly high daily limit (eg. the Chongqing Municipal Archives allow only 10). Prints/copies can be made from all three formats, including microfilm. On the flip side, you don’t have the option of paying for more copies; 20 is simply the limit. When viewing digitized files, this means 20 PDF pages; when viewing originals, this means twenty individual page faces (not folios), even though they will likely copy facing pages onto a single sheet of paper.
Entering a request for copies can be confusing. To request copies of microfilm or digital files, you need to write down the index number(s) and pages requested on a form that you can pick up at the main desk. But when requesting copies of originals, don’t fill out a form; instead, you should insert a slip of paper (these can be found in baskets throughout the reading room) at each photocopy start point within the document, with the number of pages you want copied written on it; then hand it to a staff member and indicate that you would like copies. Since some files are paginated and some are not, I recommend always writing the number of pages to copy instead of the page range. Expect to wait about 20-40 minutes for your copies to arrive. If the person on copy duty hasn’t come in, you may not be able to request copies (I discovered that this includes many Saturdays), so check early.
Tips and Strategies
Here are some strategies I developed for working at the ChuanDang over the course of my year there. As far as I know, everything below is perfectly within the rules, and most of these are probably mutually beneficial for you and the staff.
- Digital before originals. If you’re consulting a large number of documents in different collections, there’s a good chance that some have been digitized and others haven’t. In my experience, the staff clearly prefer that you view the digitzed docs first and then, when you have exhausted those, and on a different day, move on to requesting originals of records that haven’t been digitized. But there’s a benefit to starting digital for you as well: once approved, the digital records in your account are viewable as long as the account is active, which means you can build up a library of dozens of records over time. You can request digital files, move on quickly to originals, and then return to the digitals whenever you feel like it.
- Avoid letting your account expire. Your serial number can expire with as little as a week of inactivity, along with your collection of saved digital records. If plan to keep working but need to be away for over a week, you should talk to staff about your timeline and ask if they can keep your account open. If your account does expire, getting a new one is as simple as taking in your passport and asking for it (but your digital records and record history are gone forever).
- You can download digitals to the computer station. Digitized records are delivered to users in PDF format through a browser window, so it’s possible to download them to the work station’s hard drive (but DO NOT try to transfer them to your own device!). I had been doing this tentatively for my first couple of months, unsure whether or not it was acceptable, but I found out one day when the intranet was down. Other users couldn’t view their digital records, but since mine were on the hard drive, I could. In fact, a junior staff member asked me to wait while she checked with her supervisor to make sure that this was okay. She came back nodding and said, “how did you know you could download them? You’re very clever!” Of course, this practice could be banned at any time, and be prepared to stop if staff ask you to.
- Call ahead about availability. When I expressed frustration about records being off-access for digitzation, staff consistently recommended that I call ahead to find out which collections were off-access at any given time. The number is 028-87660582.
- Really, don’t photograph records. I’ve seen multiple people get yelled at for photographing records (digitals and originals), even though signs forbidding this are posted throughout the reading room. Not only does this put a strain on your relationship with the staff, but they will likely want to watch you delete your photos before they let you go. It’s not worth it.
- Print and sprint. When working with originals or microfilm, staff seem to encourage visitors to photocopy what they need and then return materials as quickly as possible.* They don’t mind you requesting the maximum number of copies (20) every day; in fact, they seem to encourage it. This isn’t the greenest strategy, but you may want to consider taking advantage of the relatively generous copying policy to cut down on time spent with originals or microfilm.
- Check the non-digital index. Some source types, such as photographs and ziliao (资料), have not been fully entered into the digital index. You may want to browse the hand-written index along the wall for these. If you find items that aren’t in the digital index, you’ll need to request them in writing; talk to a staff member about that.
- Develop a good working relationship with the staff. Like many archives in the PRC, staff may seem less welcoming towards users (and not just foreigners) than what we’re used to in our home country. Some of the best advice anyone gave me about archiving in China is that it’s a relationship between the researcher and the staff, and that the most productive experience comes from mutual understanding, which takes time. If time allows, start slowly and learn the ropes. Staff will take you more seriously when they’ve seen you coming in and following the rules week after week, and they’ll be more likely to go out of their way to help you–but don’t demand that on day one.
Eating and Caffeinating near the Archives
The ChuanDang are on Huapaifang Street (花牌坊街), a road named after a site where memorials once commemorated chastity martyrs. The surrounding neighborhood isn’t terribly exciting, but there are a few places to eat or get coffee. My favorite by far is the Parasol Cafe, an eccentric coffee shop whose owner rides a Harley and keeps llamas in a stable nearby.** Parasol serves seriously decent coffee and cake, and you can order food from the restaurant next door (I recommend choosing from their jiachangcai menu for budget options). To get to the Parasol Cafe, look for Xilin Alley (西林巷) just to the left of the archives (if you’re facing them from Huapaifang Street) and follow it all the way to the end, where you’ll find a row of restaurants prominently situated in front of a hotel; Parasol will be on the left-hand side.
Acknowledgments: My year at the Sichuan Provincial Archives was made possible by an IIE Fulbright research grant.
*After reading this guide, a colleague of mine commented that he had a different experience with printing: “My personal experience is that the archival staff would lose patience if you continuously ask them to print documents for you,” he writes. As with other areas of archival research, I suppose the ideal is reaching a balance that is acceptable to you and the staff.
**The cafe owner does not keep “lamas” in a stable, as a typo (since fixed) seemed to indicate.
This is an abridged version of my project proposal for “The Rooted State: Plants and Power in the Making of Modern China’s Xikang Province,” which presents the basic questions my project asks and summarizes my argument in response to those questions. I have intentionally omitted certain things that would conventionally be included in a proposal, such as the methods and structure, since I’m not ready to make those public yet. The point here is simply to introduce the topic.
In the developed world of today it’s easy to forget how much political ambition once orbited the farm, but hints remain. For years on my way across the University of Illinois main quad, I passed by a quote inscribed on the century-old building that once housed the agriculture school, but now houses the anthropology department: “The wealth of Illinois is in her soil, and her strength lies in its intelligent development.” It would have been an instantly recognizable sentiment to educated Chinese of the early twentieth century, where a popular maxim held that “China is a nation founded on agriculture,” and another that agricultural development would “benefit the nation and enrich the people.” Perhaps the strongest such assertion was that of sociologist Yang Kaidao: “The China of the past was a nation founded on agriculture, the China of the present is a nation founded on agriculture, and the China of the future will remain a nation founded on agriculture.”
Though not uncontested, this philosophy influenced Chinese politics all the way up. Planting was a major component of borderlands policy in the early Chinese republic. Chiang Kai-shek and regional warlords implored youths to migrate to the virginal borderlands and turn “wastes” into farms. Numerous treatises appealed not only to the importance of planting as an economic activity, but also as a hallmark of Chinese civilization, where since time immemorial “men plough and women weave.” Planting the borderlands was thus a technology for assimilating indigenous populations into the Zhonghua minzu, the Chinese ethnic nation. Yet large tracts of China’s Inner Asian borderlands (Mongolia, Chinese Turkestan and Tibet) were non-arable, covered in steppe and desert. This raises an interesting question: if China was “a nation founded on agriculture,” could these regions ever truly be Chinese?
From this thought I derive the central question of my project: how did plant ecology relate to Chinese civilizing projects of the early twentieth century in practice? Agrarian nationalism highlighted an intriguing tension between national territory and local soils. In recognition of this, the agrarianist Huang Fensheng quoted the ancient Guanzi that “if the land be vast but not tilled, then it is hardly land,” and warned that “only through cultivation can China have solid borders.” What did this ideology mean for particular localities?
I investigate this question through an in-depth look at the high-altitude Kham region in China’s southwest borderlands. An abortive effort at the end of the Qing Dynasty (1644-1912) to convert this region into a Chinese province named Xikang (meaning “Kham-in-the-west”) was finally realized in 1939, when Xikang became a province of the Republic of China. Kham’s trajectory from imperial hinterland to modern Chinese province was a turbulent process that involved the overthrow of indigenous chieftains and their gradual replacement with a Chinese bureaucracy. The capstones of this effort were those institutions especially designed to assimilate populations into Chinese modernity: the Xikang Bureau of Education and Department of Justice.
The major contribution of my dissertation will be to highlight and theorize the role of plant ecology in the rise of Xikang’s modern bureaucracy, and by extension, to elucidate material facets of Chinese civilization and modernity. This is not a political history in the conventional sense, but an ecological history of a political project that takes as its focus the symbiotic relationship between plants and people. Xikang makes an ideal case study because of its range, being in the ecotone (or transitional ecological zone) between the lowlands of the Sichuan basin and the superlative highlands of the Tibetan plateau; a study of Xikang political ecology is thus inherently comparative. My dissertation demonstrates that bureaucratic political power was largely dependent on the ability to grow high-yielding grains and other crops in a given locality, well into the modern era. Beyond this, the way that various populations interacted with flora and fauna played a fundamental role in Chinese constructions of ethnic and gender identities, and these interactions in turn were environmentally conditioned.
My project touches on one of the oldest problems in the study of humanity: what is the relationship of agriculture to civilization? It’s broadly accepted that intensive agriculture accompanied the rise of world civilizations and civilizing projects, but scholars have narrated the role of agriculture very differently; to Arnold Toynbee it marked a benign evolution from the primitive past, while to James C. Scott it was a mechanism for inducting unwilling subjects into the state and concentrating them in space for political expedience. Jared Diamond notoriously argued for the primacy of Eurasia’s ecological advantage (among other things) in eventual European world domination, and Alfred Crosby has chronicled the importance of seeds and other mobile bio-matter, or the “portmanteau biota,” in European colonialism.
The question of civilization and its relationship to agriculture is well-tread territory, but authors and their critics have pointed out caveats in the existing literature: first, it tends towards expansive scopes and as such is heavily dependent on secondary literature and generalizations; secondly, it has much to say about pre-modern and early modern states but little to say about high modernity or modernization. My project contributes on both of these fronts by focusing on the twentieth century and attending to locality. I am a conventional historian insofar as I rely on archives and published documents, but I approach my sources in a way reminiscent of both ethnography and microhistory, in which rigorous investigations into local communities produce insights into much larger questions and give them human faces.
One benefit of an ethnographic approach to the archive is that it highlights how individual state actors experienced Kham, and how these personal, phenomenal experiences shaped their political project. The bitter taste of mountain buckwheat relative to barley, the bodily suffering of a high-altitude winter, the horseback magistrate’s emotional witness to the destruction wrought by hailstones upon a wheat field—these are all socio-politically consequential experiences. Moreover, they reveal a type of political resistance that isn’t (purely) human. Such resistance, in the words of Holm Tetens, “is the way in which we humans experience reality, acknowledge that we are dealing with something that is not of our making, that we cannot simply manipulate to fit our thinking.”
This interpretation of the documents is not entirely compatible with the thesis that reality is socially and discursively constructed—by now a hegemonic paradigm in the humanities and social sciences. Social constructivism has come under a fresh wave of critiques in the past decade; for instance, Eduardo Kohn contends that “social science’s greatest contribution—the recognition and delimitation of a separate domain of socially constructed reality—is also its greatest curse.” In trying to understand humanity purely in terms of itself, “the analytical object becomes isomorphic with the analytics.” I position my project within this post-humanist critique. In narrating the political ecology of Xikang, I highlight ways in which national, ethnic and gender identities are not socially constructed unless we take the social to extend beyond humanity, in which case its conceptual veracity seems questionable.
In engaging regional studies while trying to say something about the wider world I’m inspired by Franz Boas’ model of the cosmographer, who describes patterns, but always in reference to historical particularities. By following the historical spread of Chinese modernity from Xikang’s temperate valleys to its high grasslands, my dissertation will lay bare its material dependencies; to be rooted is both empowering and restraining. Through a rigorous case study with comparative inflections, “The Rooted State” will point to patterns in modernizing states everywhere.
I have lots of good news to report about my research project, The Rooted State:
- The first article to come out of this project, “Planting and its Discontents: or How Nomads Produced Spaces of Resistance in China’s Erstwhile Xikang Province,” has been published in issue 3 of Resilience: A Journal of the Environmental Humanities. Click here to read more about that.
- I have been offered a dissertation completion grant from the School of Literatures, Cultures and Linguistics at UIUC, which would allow me to focus entirely on writing during the 2017-18 academic year. I am still waiting to hear back about another grant, but having this option is wonderful.
- My paper proposal to the Agricultural History Society 2017 conference in June has been accepted, and I have also been invited to participate in their graduate workshop before the conference with a modest travel grant. I will be workshopping one of my dissertation chapters on experimental agriculture in Xikang Province.
- In March I completed and sent off two essays pending publication: a book chapter for an edited volume on Kham, and an article that will be part of a special issue on historical human-animal interactions in Asia if it passes peer review. I anticipate that both of these will be published by 2018, but possibly earlier.
For perspective, I’ve gotten about as many rejections, including a couple grants and at least one conference that I was excited about. Oh well!
The first publication to come out of this project has landed! My article “Planting and its Discontents: or How Nomads Produced Spaces of Resistance in China’s Erstwhile Xikang Province” appeared in issue 3 of Resilience: A Journal of the Environmental Humanities. The issue’s special theme is “environmental humanities from below,” and it emerged from an environmental history symposium at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign in 2014, though several more authors joined the issue after that.
“Planting and its Discontents” makes the argument that nomadism in the Kham region was inherently subversive in the context of China’s fervently agrarianist politics during the early twentieth century. But who or what exactly was subverting the state? I make the case that the culprit wasn’t just the “friction of terrain,” to use James C. Scott’s phrase, but nor was it just indigenous Khampa defiance. Instead, ecological characteristics of Khampa nomadic pastoralism gave it the upper hand over agriculture above 3,500 meters where grain was no longer viable, making it difficult for China’s modern bureaucracy to function in those spaces–including the carceral system.
I tried to offer a nuanced understanding of resistance, writing that “my diagnosis of resistance is not so much descriptive of practices within drokpa space as of the effects of those practices on the enterprise of assimilation.” Since the article appeared, I have come across two recent essays on Sino-Tibetan relations by other scholars that I think do especially well at drawing on decades of philosophy (or “theory”) concerning the nature of resistance, from Michel Foucault to Janet Abu-Lughod to James C. Scott. One of these is Emily Yeh’s “Tibetan Range Wars: Spatial Politics and Authority on the Grasslands of Amdo” (2003) and the other is Fernanda Pirie’s “The Limits of the State: Coercion and Consent in Chinese Tibet” (2013). I do think my article has something new to say, but I’m inspired to go deeper in future outings.
A minor critique I have of this (my own) article is that it takes a fairly simplistic view of drokpa, which it equates to “Khampa nomadic pastoralists”. I fear that I come too close to replicating the illusory farmer-nomad dichotomy of the historical Chinese state, when in reality there were and are many gradations between these livelihoods (ie, semi-nomadisms). I am now finishing a second article that will point out the problems with that dichotomy, in some ways challenging (or expanding) the premise of this one.
The entire issue in which this appears is worth looking at, especially if you’re interested in environmental history–many thanks to the editors, Rod Wilson and Bob Morrissey. There are three articles on Chinese environmental history (mine included), and Andrew Bauer’s incisive article challenging the “_____ in the Anthropocene” fad in the humanities is one that I will definitely be citing in the future. And again, if you don’t have access to the journal, a link to my pre-print copy is above. Enjoy! –MEF
Last week I did some short-term archival research at Academia Historica in Taipei and found that the procedures for pulling records there were very different from what I was expecting. This week I migrated over to the Institute for Modern History (Jinshisuo) at Academia Sinica, and again found that waiting times for original document requests were a little longer than I expected. Here’s a brief overview of the procedure there that may be of interest to anyone planning a visit in the near future. Impatient readers may want to skip to “Pulling Documents.”
Starting Out. I’m not aware of any English-language user reviews of the Jinshisuo archives, so here’s a brief overview of the experience: When you enter the white building that houses the archives (somewhat hidden behind the Jinshisuo’s main building), you sign in at a counter on the first floor, then take the elevator to the third floor where you should put your belongings in a free locker before entering the reading room. Staff in the reading room will ask you about your research interests and have you fill out a form on which you indicate which collections you’re interested in. You also have to sign in to the reading room (yes, this will be the second time you sign in).
At clearly explained on the Jinshisuo website, their archives are divided into four collections: Diplomatic Archives (Waijiao dang’an), Economic Archives (Jingji dang’an), Personal Papers (minjian ziliao) and Maps. Make sure to indicate all of the collections you think you might possibly use, because, as I found, some of the computer work stations only access particular databases. In my case, I was originally placed at a work station that had access to the Diplomatic Archives but not the Economic Archives, and had to ask to move. When you get to a computer station, you fill out an electronic form that largely replicates the paper form you just filled, and after a few minutes the staff give you login information for the databases. You’ll need three pieces of login info: a “group” name, a username, and a password of your choosing.
Accessing digitized documents is easy, and at present the staff will let you photograph documents on the computer screen (but they don’t seem equipped to print, at least for the economic archives). They did, however, ask that I record which documents I photographed and how many photos I took.
Pulling Documents. Pulling original docs was a little more complicated and time-consuming. In fact, you should probably allow at least one full week to complete the process-so, if you start on a Monday, you can probably wrap up by Saturday. There are three major steps. First you request your docs, then you receive them and have a chance to photograph them if you wish, and finally you receive a CD or DVD containing your images. Here’s my experience:
I arrived at the Jinshisuo archives on a Monday with a list of requests in hand, since I’d browsed the index before coming. Most of the files I wanted were in the economic archives and almost none were digitized, so I submitted a request through their electronic interface. That’s when the staff told me that it would take up to three days to review my request after which I would probably receive the files I wanted. They’d let me know by email when they were ready.
I made sure to politely tell the staff that I was flying out early the next week, and they said they would take that into account. Indeed, by Tuesday I got an email saying that my documents were approved and available for reading.
When I got to the archives on Tuesday, the staff had my files ready. They invited me to photograph them with a camera provided by the archives–in fact, you must use their camera, and using your own isn’t allowed. As with photographing digitized files, they asked that I record which files I photographed and how many photos I took. They also ask that you write the index number of any given file on a small slip of paper and include it in each image you take of that file. On Tuesday I got through about half of my 17 files and I finished photographing on Wednesday.
At that point I returned the camera to the staff and filled out a form requesting either a CD or DVD containing my images. You pay for the media you choose, but it won’t exactly break the bank–the archives charge NT5 for a CD or NT10 for a DVD (that’s for the entire disc, and not per image!). Then they asked that I again wait for an email indicating that my disc was ready, which could take up to three days.
My disc was ready by Thursday afternoon, and all of my images were there, unaltered in any way. In all it took me four days to get through the 17 files that I wanted, from request to CD pickup, but this required three separate visits to the building (altogether about 8 hours of travel time in my case!).
Service at the Jinshisuo Archives was impeccable, the reading room was perfectly comfortable, and this was overall probably the best archives experience I’ve had yet. A special thanks the the staff member who, noticing that I didn’t have an umbrella on an unusually rainy February afternoon, walked me to the bus station with her umbrella after closing time.