Blockchain Papers

Tim K. Mackey, Alec J. Calac, Tiana McMann, Ken Miyachi · 10 authors

Background: Historic and ongoing problematic practices regarding the collection, storage, and use of Indigenous health data have led to the need to ensure principles of Indigenous Data Sovereignty (IDS) are followed in research practices and technology development. Objective: This project, a partnership between UC San Diego and the Native BioData Consortium (NativeBio), sought to explore the practical application of blockchain technology and its potential to facilitate Indigenous-led research collaboration. Methods: This project first undertook purposeful relationship building with NativeBio to form a Community Advisory Board (CAB) for identifying community and technology needs for a blockchain research collaboration platform with an initial focus on genomic data. Over a 2-year project period, a series of public meetings and presentations at Indigenous-led conferences introduced the concept of exploring compatibility between blockchain and IDS principles, followed by iterative prototyping and co-design of a blockchain platform with NativeBio, using Ethereum as the underlying protocol. Results: Direct engagement with NativeBio and the CAB informed the initial design and development of a "b-IDS" proof-of-concept (POC) blockchain platform. The POC consists of three main components: (1) the web front-end layer, (2) the Ethereum network that executes the smart contract and blockchain storage aspects of the framework, and (3) the back-end database that stores off-chain interactions and data for future use with external genomic data repositories. After refinement of the POC, a community-based participatory research (CBPR) use case aligned with IDS principles was identified as a practical workflow and incorporated into the design of the POC for implementation. Conclusions: The findings from this project demonstrated the potential use of operationalizing IDS through blockchain technology with proactive and sustained engagement with Indigenous partners. Blockchain technology may have certain advantages over other data governance approaches and systems, facilitating timely oversight, shared decision-making and consent structures, and direct involvement of Indigenous communities in technology design, respecting the core principles of IDS and CBPR. Future development of the blockchain-IDS POC will need to incorporate other research practices and ethics frameworks to expand its use to other public health and biomedical research use cases.

L. L. Wynn, Susanna Trnka, Jesse Hession Grayman

Anthropologists like to tell stories about how they were wrong. These stories are part of our collective identity. Consider Briggs's (1970) classic ethnography, Never in Anger. Briggs tells a story about doing fieldwork in Nunavut (then the Canadian Northwest Territories) in the early 1960s. She showed anger on behalf of the Inuit group she was living with when they were wronged by a white outsider. To her surprise, her Inuit interlocutors reacted by ostracizing her for months. She describes feeling devastated, lonely, and depressed, but in slowly working her way back to personhood with her Inuit participants, she learned in a powerfully embodied fashion a core principle of their culture: that adults never show anger or make demands, and that to lose one's temper is to demonstrate a dangerous lack of control, even insanity. She documents how this emotional control is inculcated in children from a very young age. Thus her awful moment of social failure is transformed into a profound reflection on affect and socialization in Nunavut culture. The resulting ethnography became one of that era's most famous. Even when our failures and mistakes are less obvious than Briggs's and don't threaten to derail our research projects, many ethnographic writings reflect on moments when the author realized they had brought a bad assumption into the field with them and, as a result, learned something from their research participants—something that shifted their methodological or theoretical approach, or changed what they were studying. These stories are particularly prevalent among graduate students returning from their first fieldwork experiences. The stories go something like this: I went to the field planning to study x, and when I was in the field, I listened to my interlocutors and realized that what I really needed to study was y. For example, in her book Food, Sex and Pollution, Meigs (1984) writes about going to the field intending to study divorce, but when she gets there, everyone seems bored and uninterested when she asks about the topic. Instead, they want to talk to her about sex, gender, and the pollution rules that govern what they can and can't eat. It's such a collective concern that she describes their interest in the topic as a “religion.” Responding to this, she changes her research topic and commits to addressing her research participants’ interests, letting them chart the direction of her work. Briggs tells a similar story: she goes to the Inuit planning to study shamanism, but when she arrives, she finds that the small group she is living with have converted to Christianity and don't want to discuss their “pagan” past. That, combined with her attempts to process the social ostracism caused by her angry outburst, leads her to a whole new project on emotions and socialization. Without having systematically reviewed all the different ways that anthropologists have described their “I was wrong” moments, the AE editors suspect that many, if not most, ethnographies include stories like this, even if most are not as dramatic as Meigs's or Briggs's. These stories are not just about ourselves as individual fieldworkers but about anthropology as a discipline. We tell them to remind ourselves and to teach our students about the discipline's orientation toward a radically inductive and collaborative approach to building knowledge. By telling stories about being wrong, we might seem to be sacrificing our own dignity and authority, but in fact we are shoring up our authority as authentic ethnographers. These stories illustrate our willingness to be humbled by what we don't know, demonstrating our commitment to what Lederman (2007, p. 310) calls anthropology's “systematic openness to contingency.” In short, anthropology is a discipline that has staked its methodological approach on the possibility of mistake and failure. In taking an iterative approach to co-constructing knowledge with our research participants and collaborators, we insist that when we realize we are wrong, we must acknowledge it to move forward. As we were reflecting on this as editors, we thought of our own “I was wrong” stories. For Lisa, it was less a moment and more of a dawning realization. She had been doing research in Egypt on emerging reproductive health technologies, including sildenafil (the generic name for the drug more commonly known as Viagra). As she visited acquaintances and friends in Cairo and Alexandria, she asked them, “Who uses Viagra, and why?” The first time someone mentioned using sildenafil and tramadol (a painkiller) in the same sentence, as if they were synonyms, she dismissed it as ignorance. The man she was interviewing was an illiterate fisherman. He probably didn't use either drug, she assumed, and didn't have the knowledge to realize that they were radically different, having completely different mechanisms of action. Sildenafil produces erections; tramadol, as an opioid narcotic, would be intrinsically erection-wilting, she assumed—and, indeed, recent Egyptian research has demonstrated this (Hashim et al., 2020). The second time someone described using sildenafil and tramadol for the same purpose, she again ignored it. It was not until the third time that an interviewee described the drugs as equivalent that she started to catch on that something significant was afoot. She realized that she had neglected a fundamental point of critical drug studies since at least the 1970s, namely, that a drug's effect is produced not by the drug alone but by the intersection of three elements: the drug and its neuropharmacology; the mindset of the person taking the drug and their expectations about what it will do; and the social context in which they use the drug (Zinberg, 1984). This led Lisa to ask a question that would prove important to her research: Why did people see these drugs as part of a semantic continuum, and what did that say about how Egyptians understand masculinity and its relationship to pharmaceuticals (Wynn, 2022)? In retrospect, I realized that scars were slowly being formed. More precisely, they were being encouraged to form through a communitywide cultivation of silence. Rather than silence being considered an inhibitor of healing, as it is in much of Western medical, psychological, and cultural discourse, this was a case of a community encouraging silence as a means of promoting healing. After several moments when her research participants gently corrected her social blunders, she realized something not just about them and their philosophies of trauma and healing, but about her own deeply held assumption about trauma: that to heal, you need to talk. In contrast, for her research participants, “to break the silence [about past trauma] would be akin to breaking open the wound” (Trnka, 2008, p. 180). Jesse had a key “I was wrong” realization during his PhD research in Aceh, Indonesia (Grayman et al., 2009), where he was studying postconflict humanitarian recovery programs. Jesse was working with an Indonesian medical team that was tasked with providing psychosocial and psychiatric support to civilian survivors of the separatist war (1976–2005). He gave the team a short training on ethnographic methods, with a focus on managing trauma and the ethics of discussing painful conflict memories. Later, during a field exercise, an overeager nurse interviewed a village head about his conflict experience, pressing on despite the man's visible discomfort. As a crowd gathered, the village head recounted horrific torture, evoking tears from an elderly observer. When the conversation ended, the leader quietly remarked, “Sometimes I think there is no need to remember the past like this.” Jesse wondered whether he had misconceived his effort to upskill the medical team with ethnographic methods. Afterward, Jesse reflected on this as a moment of failure, noting that confessional narratives, central to many mental health models, are not always therapeutic. While some participants thanked the team for listening, it was nearly impossible to discern the few who might not benefit from talk therapy. Though Jesse turned the experience into a teachable moment, he regrets that the researcher's moment of learning unfolded in a real community, with real people and real leaders, just barely coming to terms with peacetime after living through decades of political violence. Even today, remembering the event makes Jesse anxious and embarrassed. This draws our attention to another key aspect of the way anthropologists process being wrong. We often experience our mistakes as embodied, visceral moments of regret, embarrassment, frustration, or humiliation. Thus, perhaps recounting our mistakes is not just about asserting our ethnographic achievements and authority, but about helping ourselves process our dark, painful feelings and difficult memories of fieldwork. Wanting to reflect more deeply on these issues, we invited anthropologists to submit to a special forum in which they discuss their moments of being wrong and what these can tell us about our discipline. We asked them to recount events when they realized a flaw in their methodological approach, an interpretive error, an ethical mistake, an event that triggered a theoretical paradigm shift, or a realization that their approach to teaching or doing anthropology needed an overhaul. We asked them to address these questions: When did you realize you were wrong? How did you come to that realization? What did you learn? How did you change the way you do or teach or write anthropology? As we read the submissions to this special forum, we were struck by three recurring themes. The first was embodiment and affect. As described in Jesse's and Susanna's stories of being wrong, and in Briggs's powerful ethnography, it can feel like swimming in dark emotions to realize that you are wrong and to process what it means for how we understand our past and our future in a society. Coming to terms with our mistakes is both an intellectual and an affective process, one that is experienced and felt deep in the body, both as we live the moments of mistake and process them later. A second theme was scale. Being wrong can be a tiny realization leading to a subtle reorientation in focus or approach, a microrecalibration of knowledge or of everyday fieldwork practice, or a grand, dramatic moment that causes a seismic shift in perspective. Of course, it's rarely one or the other. As Kuhn (1962) notes of paradigm shifts, they might seem like revolutions, dramatically overthrowing old modes of thinking, but in reality they take place gradually: anomalies slowly accumulate until the dominant paradigm topples under their weight. The third theme is temporality: “I was wrong” can be a light bulb moment or a slow, unfolding realization, a moment in the field or a decades-later discovery. Some “mistakes” do not reveal themselves until several years or even decades after one's fieldwork, reshaping one's sense of not only their research or the people they spent time with, but of themselves. In My Life as a Spy, Verdery (2018) reflects on how state security services labeled her a CIA agent during her three years conducting ethnography in Romania in the 1970s and 1980s. Their mistaken interpretation of her as a foreign agent began, she suggests, through her own error in judgment—motorbiking alone through the Romanian countryside in search of a field site, she inadvertently strayed into a restricted military zone, missing the sign warning “Entry prohibited to foreigners” (“I had made a stupid mistake. It would not be the last time,” Verdery [2018, p. 3] dryly remarks). the way I carried myself was suspect. At least, so it seemed to my friend Emilia, who told me that when she met me in 1990 she immediately thought I might be a spy: “You were dressed very modestly, you didn't hold yourself above us. Your style was to reduce the difference between yourself and Romanians, under-communicating it.” In short, my manner of dress was a form of hiding. Eventually she came to see it as my way of trying to form good relations with villagers, but her first thought was, “Maybe she's a spy. Instead of seeming like someone from a totally different world, you seemed to be one of us”—that is, she thought I had been specifically trained to fit in. (p. 17) recognize me as a spy because I do some of the things they do—I use code names and write of “informants,” for instance, and both of us collect “socio-political information” of all kinds rather than just focusing on a specific issue. … When I read in the file that I “exploit people for informative purposes,” can I deny that anthropologists often do just that, as Securitate officers do? In 1962 the US Department of Commerce, without authorization or permission from the author, translated from French into English the anthropologist Georges Condominas’ ethnographic account of Montagnard village life in the central highlands of Vietnam. The Green Berets used the document for assassination campaigns targeting village leaders. For years, neither publisher nor author knew this work had been reprinted in English for military ends. How can one accept, without trembling with rage, that this work, in which I wanted to describe in their human plenitude these men who have so much to teach us about life, should be offered to the technicians of death—of their death! … You will understand my indignation when I tell you that I learned about the “pirating” [of my book] only a few years after having the proof that Srae, whose marriage I described in Nous Avons Mangé la Forêt, had been tortured by a sergeant of the Special Forces in the camp of Phii Ko. Condominas's outrage changed how anthropologists think about their writing, their politics, and their ethics of representation. As Price (2007) notes, ethics committees often focus on any immediate risks to research participants, including whether they could be harmed by certain questions (as in Jesse's recounting of interviews about a violent past). Examples like Condominas's, however, show that anthropologists also need to think about the different scales and temporalities of ethnographic work and its possible harms. These themes—embodiment and affect, scale and temporality—come up in fascinating ways in this forum's commentaries. Rejecting the simple binary of right or wrong, Veena Das dismantles the AE editors’ language of “moments” of realization. Instead, she sees anthropological knowledge as a long, dialectical process: the anthropologist slowly finding their way between, on the one hand, the dominant theories and theorists of their time, and on the other, their interlocutors, the “figures of thought” influencing them in the field. She describes a sense of incompleteness or poor fit with existing theories, one that slowly accumulates and eventually compels the anthropologist to see something in a new way, or notice what they haven't been seeing. “By taking a long-term perspective on the vulnerability of knowledge, which reveals itself over time,” Das aims to “draw attention, instead, to the connections between the knowledge of the alien and our own everyday modes of knowing. We miss these connections if we stay with the stark oppositions of truth and falsity, mistakes and correction.” Like Das, Carole McGranahan sees anthropological theory as formed not only in the relationship between fieldworkers and theorists, but also by the theorists in the field. Reflecting on her own training, she writes, “The ethnography often, though not always, came to me pretheorized. People shared stories with me alongside observations, musings, and explanations. Analysis was by no means only the scholar's domain. It belonged to narrator and audience alike.” Gil Hizi thinks through a series of unexpected moments during his PhD research and describes his mistakes as the “naivete of early graduate studies.” In studying practices of among young Hizi learned that after the is no with a but to the that come from interlocutors, in are studying While he at first that they would take no interest in the of an in his Hizi finds the Hizi from these unexpected moments with mistaken come and he through them to his with his realization of his mistakes from to decades He describes feeling early in his during his first with a he he was wrong until interviews when of the difference between the and the [of became account is through with embodied affect. when one to talk with in the of a field at a to being and even more and when he how to his field notes and back to the US without He up with a that … seems of you are wrong, after the when in the field you knew something was but didn't how to with it. writes about finding on an at a in one of which is about the impossible of a The of this with about medical issues, such as the of back into old anthropological about the to and is certain that the only to that the is from the on an from This to the of her and, like Das, her by asserting the of and the of knowledge. writes a account that a different to the of the anthropologist as about being as an and from and working to open up to the makes a that leads her to being Afterward, she her in terms of a intersection of gender, and also with In an dark and that many of us will she that she is not to for being she can't over what she did wrong. She to how it so that she can make in the one be wrong without being at and In her we the of stories about being wrong that don't stories that people don't feel powerful to or that don't to our authority, that are or or the of trauma among who work in of political and violence. In research with in US knew this work might trauma and health was in not other, more and ways to both for individual such as and for the discipline as a which could do more to PhD students and a new of who are ethnography, for as work. forum are a of names and finding their in the field. Their on both recent mistakes and made over not only tell individual but also describe both subtle and dramatic of what ethnographic fieldwork and ethical research the of writing, and and the of old theoretical even as we to think in new reflect of things we have wrong as as the realization of in as Das it. are stories and perhaps the most that all these is their on and to our research and participants’ for to participants’ to who offered after the own The the anthropological in terms of and the willingness to be Thus, an “I was wrong” realization is the of a commitment to It anthropology as a discipline that is and to

Kyo Maclear

“Care is the antidote to violence.” —Saidiya Hartman at In the Wake: A Salon in Honor of Christina Sharpe (2017) “The task is clear: to create a culture of caretaking in which no one and nowhere is thrown away.” —Naomi Klein (2015) “Y’all better learn how to survive now.” —Miss Bathsheeba, Beasts of the Southern Wild (2012) Louisiana. A dark boiling sky. Beasts of the Southern Wild opens in an anarchic place of car scrap and driftwood, feral animals and tumbledown shacks. We are at the end of the world in a swampy bayou way out in the Gulf of Mexico. A young black girl lays her hand against the body of a pig and tilts her head to listen for the heartbeat. A few moments later, she holds a baby bird to her ear, listens deep, eager to get to the heart of the matter. Animals, for this girl, are close as kin. Their heartbeats (which we also hear, thump-thump-thumping) bespeak the ebb and flow of life. As the girl’s opening voiceover tells us: “All the time, everywhere, everything's hearts are beating and squirting, and talking to each other the ways I can't understand. Most of the time they probably be saying: I'm hungry, or I gotta poop. But sometimes they be talkin' in codes.” The heroine and narrator of Beasts is six-year-old “Hushpuppy,” a preternaturally wise, motherless kid played with mesmerizing force by Quvenzhané Wallis. When we meet her she is stomping around her cardboard-and-tin home dressed only in a dirty undershirt, panties, and rubber boots. Semi-orphaned, Hushpuppy lives in a Louisiana tidal basin—dubbed the Bathtub—with a rowdy, multiracial group of misfits and a sickly, floundering, alcoholic father named Wink (Dwight Henry) who swings between harshly neglecting and aggressively mentoring his daughter. Vulnerable to floods and storm-surge waters, the Bathtub is separated from the mainland or “dry side” by a levee. On the dry side sits a blurry factory, industry, consumerism, and a filthy haze. It may be “rich” and “safe” but it is spiritually desiccated. Life in the Bathtub is bare, bufferless, and broken but it is also full. Full of booze, junk, bacchanal, decay, fireworks, grief, experience, knowledge, extremes of catastrophe, and drunken rapture. People and animals roam freely, untethered to wealth or materialism. Life may tilt toward tragedy in the Bathtub but it is juiced with uncommon liberty and moments of pure communal joy. If this is the frontline of climate change, then carpe diem. A festive fireworks celebration during the opening sequence captures something of the film’s “precarity be damned” ethos. Faced with brewing storms and floods, The Bathtub locals are determined to hang on and protect their autonomy and collective way of life. It is better to be wet and alive in their view than to live in a “dry world”—better to experience self-sufficient squalor than soulless state-dependency; better to stay in place than endure the violence of resettlement. Beasts of the Southern Wild (2012) is one of the most influential and most discussed “climate change” films in recent American history. On the fifth anniversary of its release, I excavate scholarly and popular debates about the film to probe the film’s virtues and blindspots. Is Beasts of the Southern Wild a means to symbolize “climate resistance” (Mirzoeff 2012) or a naturalizing of “black suffering” (Brown 2013a)? What might we learn from the disunity of response to this film?1 Five years after its release, Beasts continues to offer its viewers various ways of thinking through the present-day world in the context of climate change, neoliberalism, and racialized violence. There are many themes drifting through Beasts of The Southern Wild, several of which I will parse later in this essay, but the central one is a celebration of resilience and independence in the face of durational loss or “slow violence.” The film offers a booming tribute to the tenacity of the Bathtub’s multiracial outliers, who go to extreme lengths to defend their homes and their magical if improbable community in the wake of climactic disaster. (The improbability of this community will be a recurring motif in criticism of the film, as I will soon discuss.) In this all-but-drowned place, there is no character more emblematic of this gritty survivalist spirit than Hushpuppy. Ever capable, Hushpuppy cooks (catfood) and cares for herself and a posse of domestic animals. Ever resourceful, she lives bare and in the near open without even proper attire to protect her from the elements. Her very features, from her wild hair to her fierce scowl to her honed stare, appear sculpted by years of sparring and inclement weather. Her big six-year-old eyes seem to have already absorbed it all—scenes of slow catastrophe and unexpected tenderness. The film’s power derives in large part from its faithfulness to Hushpuppy’s feisty and elegiac perspective. She is the only focal point of a disintegrating world. The camera floats and tilts in her direction, capturing the ruined textures and tones of her tenuous surroundings. She is the story’s motor and momentum. She is the community’s storyteller, recording their history for the benefit of “the scientists of the future.” Her freeform delivery, fanciful, laced with wonder and ecological anxiety, narrates what it means to love a wounded place with all your wounded heart; and, by extension, what it means to be fervently attached to all fragile places (be it a post-Katrina bayou, a grief-stricken community or the planet itself.) Through her empathetic eyes we are connected to the weave of the universe, from visions of particles flying through the air, to melting ice caps to Arctic avalanches to prehistoric creatures. The viewer’s proximity to Hushpuppy’s inner life is deeply stirring but also, as some critics and scholars have argued, gravely unsettling. The film taps into a series of concerns about what it takes to “survive” in a time of growing instability and climate change. 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