Question 1: The readings for “Topic 3: Fieldwork” all touched on, to varying degrees, ethical concerns related to the idea of doing ethnography. Did the readings and video raise any ethical issues tha

The Public’s Grasp of Contemporary Anthropology In order to convey some sense of the public’s grasp of just what anthropologists are up to, I begin at the intersection of anthropology’s most recent public ethical controversy—the challenge to Napoleon Chagnon’s work on the Yanomami—with the first professional controversy I personally experienced, which was in 1971 when the American Anthropological Association (AAA) was in turmoil over the question of American anthropologists aiding the US military in Southeast Asia.

2In his review of Tierney’sDarkness in El Dorado(Washington Post10 December 2000), the work that sparked the Yanomami controversy, Marshall Sahlins refers repeatedly to the war in Vietnam, alluding more and less directly not merely to the similar jungle settings in Southeast Asia and South America, but also to the services that science renders war, via the West’s ‘arrogant perceptions of the weaker peoples as instrumental means of the global projects of the stronger. In the human sciences, the war persists in an obsessive search for power in every nook and cranny of our society and history.’ 3 My interest in the Chagnon episode is in the way the public understands anthropology, which is most directly observed in the popular press. The press treats any issue as if it is novel and thusipso factonews.Timemagazine reports that, ‘Scientists fear the Yanomami controversy could tarnish the reputation of anthropological research at a time when indigenous peoples are asserting their Correspondence to: Glenn Petersen, Department of Sociology & Anthropology, Bernard Baruch College, City University of New York, 1 Bernard Baruch Way, New York, NY 10010, USA. Email: [email protected] Anthropological Forum Vol. 15, No. 3, November 2005, 307–317 ISSN 0066-4677 print/1469-2902 online #2005 Discipline of Anthropology and Sociology, The University of Western Australia DOI: 10.1080/00664670500282022 rights to restrict foreign scholars’ (Roosevelt 2000, 77–78).The Chronicle of Higher Educationspins it similarly: an article headlined ‘Scholars Fear that Alleged Misdeeds by Amazon Anthropologists will Taint Entire Discipline’ claims that: ‘Some scholars are worried that the allegations will make it harder for all cultural anthropologists who do fieldwork to persuade their subjects and the public that they are responsible, objective, and trustworthy’ (Miller 2000, A14). Looming above a piece describing anthropologists as constituting ‘one of the most bellicose tribes on earth’ and riven by disputes tending toward ‘blood feuds’, theNew York Timesheadline proclaims ‘Anthropology Enters the Age of Cannibalism’ (Zalewski 2000, 4). InScience, we learn that the controversy ‘has prompted a fierce firefight, but so far little soul-searching’ (Mann 2000, 416).

Perhaps the most striking of these accounts comes from John Noble Wilford’s coverage of the AAA meetings in San Francisco, headlined ‘Book Leads Anthropologists to Look Inward’. Wilford, aNew York Timesscience writer who regularly covers anthropological topics, reports that, ‘anthropologists have taken the firststep to re-examine their own culture, the way they delve into the mores of other cultures’ (Wilford 2000, A19; my emphasis).

The Chagnon affair inclines me to believe that, whatever it is that ethnography is or has become, it is understood poorly, if at all, by the public. The message I repeatedly find in reports and editors’ headlines is that anthropologists have not been especially concerned about what happens to the people we study.

An Autobiographical Detour I feel as though I have been waiting for more than 25 years to be on the receiving end of a professional critique, or to find that my work in some way has been put to use against the people among whom I do my ethnography.

At some stage in my undergraduate days, I began to imagine that not only would anthropology provide me with a morally rewarding means of earning a living, but also that I might do something useful with it. I also recall the powerful impact of Vine Deloria’s criticisms of anthropology inCuster died for your sins(1969). He was excoriating in his portrayal of anthropology’s dealings with American Indians. It strikes me now that his work did not deter me from believing anthropology could be of use to the world.

In Marvin Harris’s graduate course on the history of anthropological theory, I wrote a paper that was critical of the work of American anthropologists in Micronesia during the years immediately following World War II and, shortly thereafter, I decided to do dissertation work in Micronesia. My recent survey of political anthropology in Micronesia (Petersen 1999a) is in part an attempt to put that early hostility toward Micronesianist anthropology into better perspective. I am aware that I have long expected something similar to happen to me, that is, that I will in turn be subject to intense criticism from younger anthropologists or others committed to political issues in Micronesia or to other political projects. This has not happened, 308 Anthropological Forum and I think one of the reasons I am writing this now is an attempt to understand why I have not been critiqued on these grounds.

The link between Sahlins’s evocation of the Vietnam conflict and the Chagnon affair resonates here. Over the years, but especially in my early years of study in Micronesia, I have worried about having my ethnographic work abused. At the outset of my graduate studies I learned that a monograph on Vietnamese Montagnards by Georges Condominas (1977) was used by the US military, much to Condominas’s outrage; I was thus aware that if one worked on a sensitive topic one had to be attuned to the possible misuses to which one’s work might be placed. A large portion of what I have done has focused on questions of contemporary Micronesia’s political status. 4During the years of difficult negotiations with the USA, I feared that the US negotiating team might misappropriate some of my reports and analyses. I have never been accused of spying for the USA, and only occasionally have Micronesians alluded to the possibility that I might be. I had been investigated, though, by the FBI for my anti-war activities at Columbia, and had spent time at the Soviet Union’s United Nations embassy (as well as with UN representatives from other countries who were involved in trusteeship issues), so I knew that some branch of the US government’s intelligence-gathering operations was at least aware of my actions.

The initial memorandum circulated by Turner and Sponsel regarding allegations about Chagnon’s impact upon the Yanomami evoked my own misgivings about misuse of anthropological data. It also referred to a debate scheduled for the forthcoming AAA meetings. My immediate reaction was to recall an analogous episode at my first AAA meeting in 1971. This incident shaped my own attitude toward anthropology, and involved two of the anthropologists who most shaped my career in anthropology.

While I initially took up anthropology in order to return to the Pacific islands I had fallen in love with while I was in the military, I made my decision to work in Micronesia specifically in order to engage with and challenge the American colonial presence there. I was both struggling with the guilt of having fought in a colonial war and seeking to expiate it through some form of political action. The 1971 AAA incident led me to believe that anthropology was compatible with my attempts to resolve these issues.

I was at that time engaged in a range of anti-war activities in New York and Washington. I was also active in the advocacy group, Friends of Micronesia, and lobbied among delegates to the UN Trusteeship Council for Micronesian self- determination. It seems fair to say that my interest in Micronesia was from the outset thoroughly embedded in the larger framework of my opposition to American imperialism. It is in this context, then, that my experience of the AAA controversy over the covert services of anthropologists in Vietnam shaped my outlook on the profession.

These events represented the culmination of a short, intense flare-up of questions about anthropological ethics, recounted in Eric Wakin’sAnthropology goes to war (1992). Put succinctly, some surreptitiously obtained documents implicating social Important to Whom? 309 scientists, including anthropologists, in covert studies in Southeast Asia in conjunction with American military and intelligence operations there were forwarded to Eric Wolf, chair of the AAA’s Ethics Committee, who invited those implicated to explain themselves. Instead, these individuals proposed that the Ethics Committee be rebuked for trafficking in stolen documents. The Association established an ad hoc committee headed by Margaret Mead to consider the matter.

At the plenary business meeting of the AAA meetings, Mead reported on her committee’s conclusions, excusing those who were accused of working with the military and chastising Wolf for dealing with the purloined papers. An open debate ensued, during which it became clear that a substantial majority of those present repudiated Mead’s report and its conclusions, asserting instead that professional anthropologists were responsible first to the people they study, and should not work for a military power engaged in hostilities against them.

For me it was a turning point. Despite my misgivings about anthropologists who had worked for the US military administration in Micronesia in the years following World War II, this episode convinced me that anthropology was largely committed to an anti-colonialist perspective. It meant that I could practise anthropology as part of a commitment to opposing imperial authority. I have maintained this outlook, as has the discipline, ever since. My sense of the larger sweep of anthropological ethics intersected with my personal experiences and transfixed those events into my deeply felt attitudes toward anthropology.

In 1972, I had a more direct dispute with Mead at the AAA meetings in Toronto.

She was discussant for a panel on recent ethnographic work in Tonga and Samoa; an Islander complained about the session’s lack of relevance to current political issues, and I joined the skirmish. Mead rebuked us both for what she insisted was our naivete´ . Shortly thereafter, she became a member of my doctoral committee, and despite my distaste for her part in the two episodes discussed above, I came to respect her practical sensibilities regarding the human aspects of fieldwork; she gave me good advice.

Eric Wolf and I came to have adjoining offices at the City University of New York’s Graduate Center, and we spoke of our episodes with Mead and other related topics over the course of two decades—he was one of my two or three key role models in anthropology.

I began my dissertation field research in Micronesia in 1974 and my first publication was on the 1975 referendum on Micronesia’s political status, held while the first Micronesian Constitutional Convention (ConCon) was underway in Saipan.

Entitled ‘What do we do now that we have voted to be independent’, it appeared in theMicronesian Independent(10 August 1975), a small newspaper published in Majuro. I analysed in detail the vote in what was then Ponape District, demonstrating that the ethnic Pohnpeians with whom I worked voted two-to-one for independence, and, in doing so, made it clear that they were uninterested in any other political relationship with the USA. This piece was widely discussed among the ConCon delegates. Because the US government closely monitored the Trust Territory and was 310 Anthropological Forum attempting to influence the outcome of the ConCon, I assumed that the US negotiating team was assessing my reports. I was ambivalent about this, wanting the USA to know how Pohnpeians perceived the situation, while also fearing that this knowledge would be used to their detriment.

At a 1993 conference on the history of American anthropology in Micronesia (Kiste and Marshall 1999), Felix Moos, who appears to have been the only anthropologist serving on the US negotiating team, asserted that there had been no indigenous interest in Micronesian independence, only that of outside agitators such as Thomas Gladwin at the University of Hawai‘i. In the course of the discussion, I cited my 1975 article detailing the extent and intensity of Pohnpeian desire for independence from the USA. ‘Didn’t the committee read that?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ said Moos, ‘we read it, but we didn’t believe it’—so much for my fears and doubts.

Misunderstanding ‘Ethnographic Authority’ Over the years, I have found repeatedly that, outside anthropology, ‘ethnography’ has come to mean no more than writing about a place one has visited. Why should this be so? The responsibility, I think, lies at least in part with James Clifford (1988), and with the work of Clifford Geertz (1973) and the volumes edited by Clifford and Marcus (1986) and Marcus and Fischer (1986).

InThe predicament of culture’s opening essay, ‘On Ethnographic Authority’, Clifford (1988, 22; his ellipsis) writes: ‘the predominant mode of modern fieldwork authority is signaled: ‘‘You are there … because I was there’’’. This might otherwise be rendered as ‘I was there, so I know’, which has in turn come to be widely misunderstood to mean that ‘ethnographic authority’ is essentially produced by writing about a place to which one has been. In turn, all that is necessary to produce or do ethnography is writing from personal observation. 5 I believe, however, that ethnography is, at least to anthropologists, an inherently critical activity. When trying to explain what anthropologists mean by ethnography, I find myself using the concept ofstruggle: the ongoing struggle between trying to see what is actually happening and trying to put it into an interpretive framework; the struggle, once one has arrived at tentative conclusions or hypotheses, to continue paying attention to what is actually going on; and the struggle between seeing patterns of social behaviour and not losing sight of individual actors engaged in living their own lives. 6Crucial to these processes of struggle is the willingness to tolerate them; to cultivate an ability to appreciate tensions between the different aspects of raw observation and interpretation, between individual action and collective patterns; and to recognise that a successful attempt to reconcile the contradictionsdoes not reconcile them away, but is progress toward an appreciation of how the countervailing forces and tendencies within societies work to preserve the whole. We must maintain, not resolve, the tension between all these poles.

The Chagnon affair tells us that the public, at least in the guise of the press, does not understand that ethnographers are inherently critical in their awareness of what Important to Whom? 311 sorts of relations they have with the people among whom they study. Apparently, fellow scholars do not understand that ethnography is inherently critical in its work, that is, in the gathering, interpretation and use of data. Why is this so? Perhaps we are not as critical as we think we are. Or maybe the way we do things is obscuring what it is we are doing. Or is something else going on here?

On the Uses of Ethnography For some time, I have been torn by my contrasting senses of ethnography’s use to me in the classroom and its irrelevance elsewhere. My own work as an ethnographer makes it possible for me to teach about what it means to be human in a way that no other knowledge or experience does, but I also find myself asking a larger question about ethnography: to whom is it important, if indeed it is important at all, and why?

By ‘important’, I mean in this context bothusefulto someone or some project and recognisedas useful. To be useful, it must also be recognised as being of good quality.

For me, the degree and kind of importance in each of these realms is continually changing, both separately and in relation to each other. When I first left for Pohnpei, my interests lay in some rather narrowly defined aspects of social and political economic theory, and I was taken aback when Robert Murphy told me that I should first do good ethnography. Now, 30 years later, I am proudest of the quality of my ethnography. Being a good ethnographer, then, is important to me. Nevertheless, is it important to anyone else?

It often seemed to me that its primary, if not only, relevance was to my performance as a classroom teacher. Eventually, however, a change came about as I added courses in international affairs and political geography to my anthropology. A few years ago, I drew upon these other fields to prepare and present a paper on strategic location and sovereignty in Micronesia at the meetings of the Association of American Geographers. The positive reception I received led me to develop and publish this paper (Petersen 1999b). Not too long after I gave copies to Micronesian leaders, I was appointed as a member of the Federated States of Micronesia’s Permanent Mission to the United Nations, and finally found a use for my ethnography.

Since Micronesians know about Micronesia, they have neither need for nor much interest in my ethnography; they already know about themselves, to put it simply.

Theycanmake use of outside expertise, however, and, to the extent that I want to be useful to them, I have to do something other than anthropology. Moreover, because I was able to serve them in the context of international politics, I was able, at last, to begin doing something that matters.

As I have come to value my own ethnography, I simultaneously have had to recognise that any practical importance to be found in what I do would seem also to derive from not doing ethnography. This conundrum first provoked me to undertake this paper. Moreover, I am inclined to believe that this may be an element of what currently afflicts anthropology as a whole. It also occurs to me that it is ethnographic 312 Anthropological Forum competence(as opposed to authority) that enables me and us to move on to other realms, that is, it may take a very long time to ground ourselves sufficiently in ethnography to move on to other realms. My position representing Micronesia at the United Nations required my familiarity with Micronesia, a familiarity I gained because of my ethnographic work.

On Ethnographic Competence Ethnographic authority implies that a reader unfamiliar with a body of material can rely upon the authority of the writer for assurance that the text provides an accurate depiction. However, this is almost entirely a matter of literary context. To use ethnography for more practical or mundane purposes requires a different sense of accuracy, one that provides some assurances that policies can be based upon what is recounted with some certitude. I call thisethnographic competence.

Though Clifford quotes Malinowski’s own related usage, I think we may reasonably take Clifford (1988) as the ur-text from which notions of ethnographic authority might derive. First, Clifford discusses the efforts of early twentieth-century anthropologists to distinguish their work from that of their predecessors, the ‘men- on-the-spot’—traders, missionaries, soldiers and administrators—whose writings represented the locus of authority for the exotic locales from which these individuals reported. Second, Clifford (1988, 35, 37) stresses the crucial importance of the fieldworkexperience; the participant observation method produced ‘experiential authority’, and this in turn ‘served as an effective guarantee of ethnographic authority’. However, for ethnography to be of practical rather than of theoretical or literary use, the method itself is only of marginal importance. For the people among whom ethnographers work, it is the degree to which this knowledge is useful and accurate that is at issue, not how it was acquired. It is common for a population to have hosted multiple anthropologists, all or most of whom engaged in some recognisable form of participant observation. Yet only a few are recognised as having learned enough to achieve what the concerned local leaders would deem competence.

What is more, in the course of living in a community, the ethnographer is continually demonstrating what manner of person he or she is. The simple fact is that participant observation, as the Chagnon case has shown us, does not necessarily result in the local population developing respect for the ethnographer. The ethnographic experience is not sufficient.

It seems as though the experience that is celebrated as ethnographic authority is simply being present and spending some time in a place. The content and the validity of what is being transmitted do not appear to be at issue. It is in the processes of writing and reading that ethnographic authority seems to take shape. One’s reputation as an ethnographer comes, with a few exceptions, from those who know little or nothing of the place or the people, that is, not from those who are judging the degree to which the written work reflects real conditions, but who judge it instead in terms of how it stimulates them or animates their imaginations. A writer’s authority Important to Whom? 313 is a product not of how well he or she represents what is actually there, but of how effectively he or she communicates to readers a sense of what it is like there. Having been there is thus necessary, but what one did or learned there seems to run second to the simple fact that one was there.

Ethnographic authority, then, seems to refer much more to a relationship between the ethnographer and the reading or scholarly public, rather than to a relationship between the ethnographer and the data. More important, it has little to do with a relationship between the ethnographer and the people among whom he or she works.

In other words, there does not seem to be a relationship between the accuracy of an ethnographer’s work and the respect that readers have for either the ethnographer or the work.

By ethnographic competence, on the other hand, I refer to evaluations made either by the people among whom the ethnographer works, or by those who must make practical use of the ethnographer’s data in their own work. The crucial difference in this case is between being recognised as competent by the people in the community where one works and by outsiders who make and/or implement policies that affect the community.

To be more explicit, there are degrees of competence in the range of contexts or areas of knowledge. In addition, there are differences between possessing accurate knowledge and being able to communicate that knowledge effectively.

As I understand my own case, specifically in the context of helping to represent the Federated States of Micronesia (FSM) at the United Nations, my ethnographic competence derives from the conjunction of three trajectories. More than 30 years of off-and-on living with the same family in the Pohnpeian community gives me an intimate perspective on the lives of a specific group of people. First-hand study of two Micronesian plebiscites and two constitutional conventions, detailed archival work, and steady research with the FSM national government provide me with perspectives on a wider range of Micronesian concerns. Finally, years of advocacy work at the United Nations and in Washington, DC, as well as archival work in both arenas, give me a sense of Micronesia’s global situation. Competence requires awareness of a diversity of outlooks, opinions and desires among Micronesians; knowing just one village or one island is insufficient.

Moreover, one has to learn how to use knowledge properly, to act and speak without bluster or force. One must understand that in Micronesia many public goals cannot be accomplished if they are undertaken in public view; subtlety is a necessary accessory of honesty, and nuance is as important as skill. It is important to recognise that the Micronesian states must exist and function on essentially the same level as the other international entities with whom they deal; yet their actions must simultaneously reflect local-level political cultures and structures. This calls for a complex sociopolitical calculus, and formulaic answers are not adequate.

Ethnographic competence confers an ability to envision many problems before they arise; it does not grant the wisdom to prevent them, but sometimes enables us to find workable solutions.

314 Anthropological Forum I would like to think I understand local sensibilities enough not to offend Micronesians while representing them as we pursue legal and political safeguards, seek development funds or forge alliances. This means taking into account differences and tensions between households and lineages, between lineages and local chieftainships, between local chieftainships and paramount chieftainships, between paramount chieftainships and an island as a whole, between individual island populations and island groups or archipelagos, among the many different regions and/or states of the FSM, or among the various distinct political entities that constitute modern Micronesia.

While recognising the salience of disagreements among different communities, I must also know whatunitespeople, for example, respect behaviours, economic redistribution and prevention of the alienation of land. I must know how to navigate among contradictions that typify local social dynamics, such as the tensions that link hierarchy and equality. Ethnographic competence lies at least partly in understanding when and among whom, for example, hierarchy trumps equality, or who is interested in the possibility of making land a commodity and who is opposed, and in what specific contexts these positions are most likely to be enunciated or diminished. At another more inclusive level, it lies in having a sense of how to show respect for the authority of the USA without being cowed by it. This, in turn, depends on my grasp of traditional balances of and oppositions between hierarchy and equality.

Conclusion Cultures are defined at least partially by their internal disagreements and discrepancies, even while the social lives of very different peoples tend in many ways to be quite similar. Much of the importance of ethnography lies in the duty to state repeatedly, based on each ethnographer’s own data, that we are all simultaneously the same and different. This idea needs constant reaffirmation and, more to the point, renewal. Competent ethnography promotes both.

I see in ethnography an inherent tension between our desire to go somewhere else, to learn about and from those who are different, and our equal desire to come back and celebrate those people. A notion of ‘the other’ is, after all, a good thing, for this otherness gets us out there in the first place, so that we can come back and tell folks at home not only about the differences, which are interesting, but the similarities, which can, under the best of circumstances, promote a degree of international peace and harmony.

Let me close with several questions. Many anthropologists have an entirely ambivalent relationship with the exotic, but does cultural studies—to name what seems to be the primary alternative to anthropology—have a better or different way of dealing with this? My professional chauvinism distorts my views, but I have not seen that cultural studies provide us with any advance. Moreover, the literary/cultural studies nexus misunderstands the nature of ethnography, a point to which I now return. Important to Whom? 315 As I have worked on this project—first as a conference paper and then as an article—I learned of the deaths of Damian and Iulihda Primo, in whose house I have lived while on Pohnpei. This prompts me to ask: To what extent do I know life on Pohnpei through their eyes? Living on their land, participating in community events as a member of their family and lineage, numbering many of their family members among my closest island friends and acquaintances, I find my entire outlook on Pohnpei shaped by this very specific context. I am not entirely certain that I can say I know life on Pohnpei as it is lived on a daily basis in any way that is distinct from my embedded position on the house-plot Peiare and the farmstead Otoi, or with its lineage of the Under-the-Breadfruit-Tree-Clan (Dipwenpahnmei). I cannot imagine that I could have gained a better look at, or insight into, life there in some manner other than living with a family.

One profound difference between ethnography and cultural studies is this: an ethnographer knows something about life in the relevant community as individuals experienced it, and thus knows something about the effect of cultural contradictions on their lives—in terms of how they report upon experiencing their lives. In trying to deal with reality as a text (as in cultural studies) there is ample opportunity to explore complexity, but it does not seem possible to gain insight into how those complexities shape actual lives, or are experienced by people in daily life.

From Iuli’s stream-of-consciousness accounts of her life and of the lives of her family and neighbours and Damian’s deep philosophical insights, I now know something of how specific persons experience life on Pohnpei. It is not much, perhaps, but I can claim that, at the level of one human being to another, I have shared some pieces of their existence. My communicating about life on Pohnpei, whether in the classroom or through publications, is important because Iuli and Damian, and Dorip and Lukas and Adeli (all of whom have died in recent years), took the time and care to share their lives with me. I can best repay them and show my respect by communicating what they thought I should know. 7 Where does this leave me? First, it was that anthropology was important to me.

Then it was that my anthropology should be important to Pohnpeians and the scholarly community. In time, I cared increasingly that it be important to the world, and I now can see that it is of importance: to my students and to Pohnpeians via the United Nations and international community. It has always been important to me, but now it seems increasingly so. Is this enough? I do not know—and that is why I write.

Notes [1] The version of this paper that appears here is considerably less than half the length of the version I first presented at the conference on Critical Ethnography. I thank Miche` le Dominy for the hardheaded, tender-hearted editing that pared it down to size.

[2] In the fall of 2000 Patrick Tierney publishedDarkness in El Dorado, a journalistic account of work by the geneticist James Neel and the anthropologist Napoleon Chagnon among the Yanomami of Venezuela. Tierney reported significant abuses by Neel and Chagnon; widespread indignation within anthropology concerning these was met by spirited rebuttals.

Borofsky (2005) provides an in-depth review of this controversy.

316 Anthropological Forum [3] Sahlins was among the anthropologists at the University of Michigan who helped to organise one of the first teach-ins on the Vietnam War and worked with Eric Wolf in the course of the AAA’s struggle over this question (an incident I discuss below); his evocation of the war should not be taken lightly.

[4] The Micronesian islands had been under Japanese rule, and became the US Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands after World War II. The USA sought to annex the islands permanently, but Micronesian leaders negotiated for self-government throughout the 1960s and 1970s. The various island groups ultimately entered into separate relationships termed ‘free association’ with the USA and joined the United Nations in the 1990s.

[5] This viewpoint actually misinterprets what Clifford says about the rise of ethnography as a cornerstone of anthropology.

[6] Clifford (1988, 28; his emphasis) speaks of ‘thetensionbetween ethnography and anthropology’. I assume that his notion of tension is much the same as my sense of struggle.

[7] I have always wanted to speak, notforMicronesians, but to report on whattheysay. Charles Lindholm (1995, 272), in an entry on Clifford Geertz inA companion to American thought, says Geertz ‘has painted the anthropologist, and especially himself, as an artist of culture, [but] most practitioners still consider it their job to help their subjects to speak, not speak for them’. I would qualify this: my intention is not to help Micronesians to speak—they tend to be as articulate as any other people—but to try to promulgate what they say to those not likely otherwise to hear them.

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