#grave anthropology

[yourheartinyourmouth]

hi, native new englander here! they’re called “flying death’s heads”, and they symbolize a couple of different ideas, mostly about the transience of life and the imminence of death and the ascension of the soul into the afterlife, and was a non-religious decorative motif used on gravestones in the 18th and 19th centuries

i have a necklace of a flying death’s head that was molded directly from a 1700s gravestone*:

*this group always gets full permission from the municipality and the cemetery before they do anything

I love New England death's-head gravestones because there are some of horrific beauty that force you to confront Death head on

And then sometimes you get this instead

[book-of-forbidden-knowledge]

Sorry, not sorry.

[yaseraphine]

[russellmoreton]

Blueprints : Anthropological Forms by Russell Moreton Via Flickr: Botanical traces with leper graves

[ghostjelliess]

Hey, check this out: to open the Crow's Quill Issue 13 PDF directly to this specific story (starting on page 35), you can click here because I learned how to specify a page number in a pdf link and I am very proud of myself (it was not hard, though it does take a little longer to load) ^^

[beaniedbaby]

learned how to use dowsing rods in class today

[anthropology-with-cat]

I found an ‘interesting’ YouTube channel today.

I saw a video talking about plague corpse disposal from the black death.  The thumbnail was eye catching, and admittedly, pretty extreme. But I assumed it was just to get clicks and would primarily be educational.

I was so, so wrong.

The video’s base concept was about an island that was used as burial grounds for plague corpses. The island is off limits to the public (as it should be) but YouTube guy wants to see whats there.

By this point I have fully recognize that this is not an educational video and it’s just strange YouTube.

Then thing get worse. 

He gets onto the island via a loop hole in the law, and starts finding bones. Which at this point are small animal bones. Most likely chicken.

They move on to a different area where they start to find human remains. At first they were sticks, the camera showing them for a few frames. Then things got, questionable.

And while I’ve only taken an into to forensics anthropology, it’s pretty easy to tell that these bones were staged. Skeletons are not going to stay in articulation when in a tidal zone. The waves would move them out of out of association.  in the video, the segment had part of the pelvis, the femur and what appeared to be either another femur or the tibia. Again they didn’t linger. They ‘found’ a mandible after that. It was sitting arranged on a pile of shells.

I can’t tell if these were real remains, but regardless. If you spend an entire video talking about how bad you feel about these forgotten individuals then stage bones to be those forgotten individuals. You’re doing far worse, using deceased individuals real or not, just to generate clicks and views on a video.

[sibirsibir]

Archaeologists identified the first known tomb of a Warrior Woman with weapons in Hungary - arkeonews

A team of archaeologists led by Balázs Tihanyi of the Department of Biological Anthropology and the Department of Archaeology at the University of Szeged, and the Department of Archaeogenetics at the Institute of Hungarian Research, dated the first known female burial with weapons in the Sárrétudvari-Hízófóld Cemetery in Hajdú-Bihar County, Hungary, to the 10th century, the period of the Hungarian Conquest.

From the Eurasian steppes, the Maygars (Hungarians) migrated to the Lower Danube region circa 830 AD. By the late 9th or early 10th century, they had arrived in the Carpathian Basin. The Kingdom of Hungary was established at the end of the tenth century after they quickly gained control of the region. In the Carpathian Basin and in battles throughout much of the rest of Europe, Hungarian mounted archers established a formidable reputation during this period. During this time, it is common to find warriors buried with various weapons, such as composite bows, arrows, quivers, bow-cases, axes, spears, sabres, swords, and swords with sabre hilts.

However, the existence of female burials with weapons has always been a topic of great interest and debate for scholars and the general public. These graves are difficult to interpret because finding weapons in a female burial site does not automatically equate that woman with a warrior.

In the study published in Plos One, archaeologists conducted both morphological and genetic analyses to determine whether the individual was female. Despite the skeleton’s poor preservation, the skull and genetic markers from different regions in the body indicated the interred was a female.

[artdcnaldson]

ugh "leverage" to ensure she won't go tattling to patrick. especially as he starts getting meaner and meaner, he tells her it's to make sure she doesn't back out and tell on him. because patrick would genuinely kill art if he knew what he's been doing to his baby sister.

i know it doesn't really fit in the canon of the other parts to this au, but hear me out anyway... what if he agreed to fuck her, properly this time, in her sweet little pussy. BUT he needs said leverage to make sure she keeps quiet about it (truly he just needs to immortalize taking her virginity so he can watch it back for the rest of his life). so he "agrees", he's the one to bring it up lol, on the condition that he can record it. y'know like really shitty, amateur, pov style, on her creaky dorm bed and pink, frilly sheets. shaky and grainy, but it's good enough for him. it's not like he would ever actually post it anywhere or show people, but she doesn't know that.

he gets off on how nervous she is when he points the camera at her, she's blushing and trying to hide her face. but he just slaps her cheek and manhandles her to look right down the lens of his shitty phone camera. tells her to moan louder around his big cock, tell the camera how good he feels, really just stroking his own ego. makes her tell the camera exactly how he's making her feel, can't cum unless she asks into the camera. he nearly cums right inside her when she tells him he's too big and it hurts :(((((

yummy yummy yummy

-🐞

OHHHHHHH <3 I had to let this simmer. This had to ruminate. Had to really let it sit and grow legs or whatever wine people say idk

RATING: E (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v, degradation, making a sex tape, loss of virginity, world’s worst aftercare), mean!art as always, uncomfortable power dynamics, DUBCON due to coercion

He catches you leaving one of your classes, chatting happily with a few girls as you walk. Their eyes widen as he approaches, smacking his gum, looming tall over them. You murmur a quick apology and bound over like an obedient little pet, falling into stride beside him as he walks.

“What class is that?” He asks, nodding back towards the building. Most of the time he forgot you even attended the school beyond cheering at his games and floating around his dormitory like a ghost.

“Peoples and cultures,” you reply, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s an anthropology course I’m taking. It’s actually really interesting, like, these past few lectures have been—“

“What are you doing tonight?” He interrupts, not really caring beyond the simple answer to his question. He has a one track mind, and for the moment he’s just thinking about getting in your pants.

He watches you think, then shrug. “Um… nothing, I guess? Why?”

Art stops by a tree suddenly, tugs you by your wrist to stop with him. “Do you promise if we fuck you won’t tell Patrick?” He watches as your eyes widen, as sheer need and excitement makes you practically vibrate out of your skin.

Frantically you nod. “I’d never tell Patrick, I’d take it to my grave, I swear,” you say, totally earnest, bouncing on the balls of your feet as he looks at you.

“God, I want you so bad,” he hums, brushing your hair back behind your ear. You melt beneath his touch, gaze all half-lidded and soft. “I just… I think I’d have to have some leverage, just to make sure no one ever finds out.”

You tilt your face, resting it on his hand, your eyes half-lidded and dazed with need. You hum a soft, “Mhmm,” without even knowing what he’s implying, what he’s asking of you. But he hears what you’re thinking, all dumbed down and needy— yes, Art, whatever you say Art, anything you want, Art.

He wants to do it in your room, that night. He walks you back to your dorm and tells you to get your roommate out, make sure she’s busy for however long you need. He’d text you when he’s on his way.

So you’re just… fucking vibrating with excitement, cleaning up your dorm, changing your sheets, fluffing your pillows. You light three warm vanilla sugar candles so the dorm smells nice and sweet, put on your roommate’s SEXXXMIXXX <3 CD that she had burned in High School (and kept your fingers crossed it was still relevant). You took the longest fucking shower of all time, scrubbed your skin until it stung, shaved you’re entire body, wondered if maybe he wouldn’t like bald pussy, then worried that he’d hate if you kept the hair even more. Moisturized, then put on pretty, light makeup— lipgloss, mascara. All in the span of time it took for him to text you.

Art :) <3

omw

You feel a little dizzy by the time he’s at your door, already wet just anticipating what you were about to do. He grins down at you, at your silky little pajama set, pink and lacy around the edges. Smacks his gum, trails his hand along the sides of your waist.

“Pretty.” He looks smug as he rubs the lace between his fingers. “You got all dressed up for me, huh?”

It’s amazing how timid and shy you can look as you stand in front of him, biting onto your lip as you nod. He shuts the door behind him and guides you backwards until you knock against your bed and laugh nervously. Jesus, he’d already fucked your ass, your throat, he’d done things to you that even the dirtiest fucking sluts on campus wouldn’t dream of allowing. But you’re all shy because he’s finally going to fuck you properly?

You gasp as he tugs down the neckline of your top, exposing your tits to the cool air of the dorm. So cute, soft. Your nipples already hard and sensitive, so just the lightest pinch makes you let out a pretty moan.

“Remember what I said about leverage?” Art says, and you nod slowly, dreamily. “I want to film it.”

Your eyes widen slightly, as you think back to the pictures he’d taken of you just a few weeks prior. “And you’d… what? Like post it if Pat finds out?”

“No, no, only if you tell,” he corrects. Even then… he doubted he’d actually ever post it anywhere. He had a tennis career to consider, after all. But the important thing was that you believe he will. “It’s just to make sure this stays our secret.”

You swallow, consider it. You didn’t plan on telling Patrick, so it was fine, right? He’d hate Art, and you didn’t want that. You would never want that, no matter what.

So you nod softly. “Okay,” you say finally. “I’d… yeah, I understand. Okay.”

God, you’re easy. So fucking easy it makes him a little sick to think about. What if he wasn’t Patrick’s friend, if he was some frat house asshole who would take advantage of how bad you wanted him? You’re so lucky he’s a good person.

He uses your own fucking digital camera— pink and decorated with little heart stickers. Turns it on and records you as you slip off your sweet silky pajamas, revealing soft, smooth skin beneath. You’re so shaky, so nervous. You can’t even look into the lens.

“No panties?” He asks, lips quirked into a grin. He steps forward to slip his hand between your thighs, to cup your pussy in one big hand. God, you’re so fucking wet, just like you usually are. He could just slide right in without any resistance, just bury himself right inside that tight little pussy. “Jesus, you’re a fucking mess, just dripping for it, aren’t you?”

You moan, relishing in the feeling of his hands on you. Art never touched you, not to get you off, at least. So the feeling of his thick calloused fingers against your cunt makes you whine. He breaches your entrance with just a fingertip and grins at the feeling of you clenching around the intrusion, desperate for anything he’ll give you.

But the relief is gone as soon as you’ve gotten it. He pats your thigh, nods to the bed. “Go lay down. Let me film you stretching yourself out for me.”

“Art,” you whine once you’ve laid down, embarrassed as he trains the lens on you. “Do you have to film this part?”

It just makes him double down, grinning smugly as he settles at the foot of the bed. “C’mon, just fucking do it. Show the camera how fucking wet you get for me.” You hear the whir of him zooming in as your hand slips between your thighs, as lithe fingers slide through your soaking wet folds and you tease your clit. He groans softly, grinning at the sight on the camera. “Alright, spread yourself out now. Show me how small and tight you are.”

You whimper pathetically, but obey. Your fingers form a V as you spread your lips, revealing the pretty, drippy hole of your cunt. He doesn’t even have to tell you to start fucking yourself, you just do. Pretty, manicured fingers disappearing inside the tight channel of your pussy, slow and easy as you pant and gasp sweetly.

“Can you do three?” He asks. He zooms the camera out, makes sure he gets all of you— your tits heaving with each breath, the slow grind of your hips to meet your fingers. You nod softly, press a third finger alongside the other two. He grins at the sight of the stretch of your cunt around them, how your body works to accommodate them. “God, it’s a tight stretch, huh?”

“Mhmm.” You moan as you pump your fingers slow, in and out. Wet to the point of it sounding obscene. Slick dripping out with each thrust, making your fingers glisten.

He can hardly take sitting there and watching, but god, he’d love it later on when he was alone with only the video to keep him company. But who knows? Maybe he’d fuck you once and never want anyone else. He already felt that way… kind of. You were so eager, so obsessed with him. You touched him like it was an act of worship. He couldn’t get that from easy pussy.

He sets the camera down on the foot of the bed while he undresses, tugging off his sweats and tee shirt, mussing up his hair in the process. It’s not lost on him, the way your fingers speed up at the sight of his cock, how needy and desperate you are.

“How bad do you want it?” He asks as he picks up the camera.

God, he’s mean. You whine when he grabs your wrist and makes you slip your fingers from inside of your cunt. Empty, needy, desperate. “Please, fuck me, Art.” You’re embarrassed, of course you are. He has a camera focused on your needy little expression, one hand on your thigh all warm and possessive. “Please, I’ve been so good for you. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I just need you, I need you inside of me. Want you to be my first. Please, Art.”

He’s not sure where he wants the camera as he notches the head of his cock at your wet little hole. Part of him wants to film the second he buries his cock inside of that tight fucking cunt, but the other wants to film your face, watch how pretty you look as you take your very first cock.

And god, you’re trembling beneath him. Visibly shaking with anticipation, or nerves, or need. He runs a hand along your torso, cups one of your tits in his hands and thumbs over your sensitive nipple. “What, are you cold?” He teases.

“N-no,” you stammer, meeting his gaze. “Just— I just want it so bad.”

He films your face, which was the right call, he decides. He has to think about it technically, or he’ll risk blowing his load one pump in, like a total fucking loser. You’re so tight around him, clamping down on his cock as he sheaths himself within you, inch after inch. And god, that angelic face of yours— mouth agape, wet and pink and pretty, the tiniest furrow between your brows, lashes splayed against your cheeks as you moan, soft and sweet. “Hurts,” you practically whimper. “God, Art, fuck, it feels—“

He films where your cunt swallows him, stretched to the point of obscenity around his thick cock. It shouldn’t even be able to take him, not when you’re so small, so fucking tight. It’s a fucking miracle you’d even taken a toy before. He’d make you film that next. All desperate, fucking yourself on silicon while you drooled over a picture of him. It was sweet that you’d been trying to prepare yourself to take him and you were still a shaking, needy mess.

Tears well in your eyes as he thumbs at your swollen little clit, he feels your pussy clench around him, already so fucking keyed up. He should be good. He should make love to you, nice and slow, like a good boy. He’s starting to think he’s not a good boy, not at all. “Just lay there and take it, yeah? Just look nice and pretty for the camera.”

You cry out when he pulls back only to drive back in, hard and deep. His pace is relentless as he fucks into your cunt— warm and wet and tight and fucking perfect. He honestly shouldn’t have waited, he should’ve fucked you the first night you offered yourself up to him— sweet and needy and clinging off his shoulder like you were his girlfriend.

“A-Art, fuck—“ You cry out, fisting your pretty hands into the frilly duvet, as he bullies himself into you. “Oh, god, fuck, A-Art, it’s too much— I-I can’t—“ A strangled moan seems to rip itself from your throat as your head falls back against the pillows.

He grins. “Yeah? Don’t tell me, honey, tell the camera.”

You whine, turning your head away as embarrassment rips through you. It’s mean, keeping it trained on you while you’re so fucking vulnerable. He grabs your chin, holds it in place as he fucks into you, deeper, rougher. It punches out gasps from your pretty open mouth— Ah! Ah! Ah! Over and over and over.

He pops your cheek, not too hard, but enough to draw your attention back from him and away from your dizzying thoughts. “Tell the camera how good it feels to have my big cock in that little pussy of yours, yeah?

“It feels— ngh— I love it,” you have pretty fat tears slipping down your cheeks as he drills into you. “You’re so big, I— God, fuck— I feel you in my stomach. Here—“ You grab his hand, move it to press against the bottom of your stomach. He can’t feel anything, not except warm skin beneath his, but he groans at your words, at the implication that he’s so deep he’s in your fucking guts.

He has to bite his tongue so hard he tastes blood. He knows he’s going to cum, knows that he’s not going to last or show off epic, manly stamina and impress you. Not that you give a shit, but he wants to set a standard for whatever fucking loser you fuck next. He’d have next time, and as many other times as he wanted. You’d keep coming back for it, for him.

He struggles to manhandle you the way he needs while holding onto the camera. He tosses it into the sheets so he can press your knees up to your chest. “Hold them— yeah, that’s it, fuck— feels good.” You’re so obedient, holding your legs up for him so he can get deeper. Your eyes roll back, flutter shut. He fumbles to grab the camera, to immortalize you like this.

Your cunt squeezes around him, makes his rhythm falter as he struggles to fend off his orgasm. God, he just wants to bury himself deep and rut into you, to cum deep and hard, leave you dripping with him. It’s about him… but it’s about you too. He’d be good, he’d make you cum.

“Tell me how bad you need to cum. Fucking beg me for it,” He groans, rubbing at your clit with a calloused thumb.

You whine, squeezing around his cock as he draws you closer and closer. “Need it, Art. It feels so good— you’re so fucking perfect, feel so perfect inside of me. Wanna cum for you, around your cock, wanna show you how good you feel. Please, please, god, I want it, I want to feel it, Art. Want you to cum inside of me, need it so bad— I fucking dream about it, about you. You’re so much better, you’re everything I want, Art, fucking claim me. I want you to.”

Art wanted to pull out. He did. He was going to glaze your pussy with his cum, get it on video, swipe his fingers through it and make you taste it. But Jesus Christ, you fucking ruined that idea. He cums suddenly, practically collapses on top of you as he fucks into your cunt, spilling himself deep inside of you. And like the perfect fucking toy you are, you cum too, milking him for all he’s worth, walls clenching down around his cock as he lazily ruts into you.

He pants, stays buried inside of you as he tries to catch his breath. He’d never cum inside someone before— he was too afraid of knocking someone up. He’d always had the self control to pull out, but he lost himself in fucking you, in the tight grip of your pussy around him. Christ, that was bad.

When he pulls out, a thick gush of his cum follows, pearly white, dripping down your ass and to the bed. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, you’ve tugged a blanket over yourself shyly. Looking so demure, so sweet, batting your lashes up at him expectantly.

The camera lays dropped and forgotten on the bed, he goes and presses the stop button on the camera and you grab at his arm. “Do you want to stay the night?” You ask with a shy bite of your lip. “I told Izzy to fuck off, so she’s with her girlfriend. We’ve got the dorm for the night, so you can stay.”

Art makes a face akin to annoyance as he redresses, tugging on his boxers and sweats. His shirt is somewhere… he can’t focus. “I’m not your boyfriend.”

Your eyes widen, you swallow as heat floods your cheeks. “Yeah, I mean, I know,” you stammer. “I just thought…”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t do that, then. This is just about fucking.

Art watches the sad little nod, the tiniest twitch of your nose as you fight the rush of tears to your eyes. “I know that, Art,” you say sadly, and you’re trembling again. “I just wish you’d stay for a bit. I’m… I feel a lot right now. I’ve never… I’ve never felt this before I just want—“

“What do you want? A hug, a kiss?” He watches you sniffle sadly, nod and mutter a watery, yeah. He sighs, stops searching for his shirt, and pulls you against his chest. You feel so warm, so vulnerable as you shake and cry hot tears against his chest. He frowns, pulls back, and presses his lips to yours, quick and chaste. “I’m not doing this again if you keep acting like this.”

You sniffle and nod. “Okay, I know, I won’t do it again.” He kisses the crown of your head. Grabs a random shirt from the top of your laundry basket, grabs the camera, and heads for the door. You watch him leave with a pouty, wobbly little frown and get up to redress. You find his Stanford Tennis shirt partly beneath your bed and pull it on. It’s big, fits you like a hug, smells so boyish and warm. You lay back down on the bed he just fucked you on and breathe deep, let his smell flood your senses. It feels a little like being wanted.

AURRRRR this was so much longer than I thot <3

Anyways. Love pat’s sister au, feel free to send me any asks you want about these messy bitches <3

🐞 anon i love u

[the-necromancer-wife]

Skully J. Graves and a personal reflection about what respect should be really about:

(And also a not-so-small slightly anthropological analysis about the importance of the work of cultural promotors)

This person was here long before I came to NRC...

A graduate of hundreds of years ago.

Before, Halloween was a minor event, but now it's known all over...

Hes said to have laid the foundation for today's Halloween

His name is Scully J. Graves.

Known as... "King of Halloween"!

(Translated by: @MostroLoungeVIP on twitter - X)

I was wrong. Since the very beginning when i thought Skully was neurodivergent, and also when i wrote about a possible traumatic event. Nothing of it was depicted in the event story and even if my expectations were very high, i am not disappointed. I would like to share my thoughts with you:

Hundreds of years ago, before all of us were born, there was this person known as Skully J. Graves. A young man with a unique perspective, one that no one knew where it was originated.

But a valid perspective nonetheless.

You see, sometimes we don't really know why a person thinks and acts in certain ways. We don't know why people do what they do.

This is what happens with Skully. The truth is that we don't know what happened to him or where his opinions came from. Certainly we can make theories and imagine everything we want. Was it that he was raised in a secluded and conservative enviroment? Was he neurodivergent? Did he lost someone by his own hand on Halloween's day?

Every point of view is valid and we don't really need to know the whole truth to acknowledge how valid his feelings are. Personally, I didn't understand him very well at first and that's why i wanted to justify his actions so badly. Skully was feeling alone, left out and rejected for his different opinion, and my only question was "Where this opinion originated from?" instead of "How can I understand what he stands for?" and ultimately, of course, accept him as he is.

I realized I was trying to make him fit into the reasons I would use to explain myself if I had that opinion.

And Skully himself has (had) a similar conflict. To his eyes, things had certain purpose and that purpose had to remain unchanged. Halloween was about fear, thinking about oneself's actions in silence. There was a post here on tumblr that explained how his idea of a perfect Halloween coincided with different festivities.

But all this was not about Skully only. It was also about every single NRC student that couldn't respect Skully's opinion. About a bunch of people that the first question they asked themselves was "What is wrong with him?"

The same question i was asking myself before, trying to find a source for his "quirkiness" as if there had to be an explanation for his different opinions. Even the act of calling him "quirky" was a mistake itself because i labeled as such based on my own judgment.

This was a story about a kid that learned to see beyond his own judgment and teached others to do the same. Skully teached me a valuable lesson that will be useful to me for the rest of my life. I learned how easy it is to dismiss others even if I think I'm being respectful.

Respect should be about understanding, not about justifying.

Otherwise, I'm just being condescending.

And that's the reason why I was not disappointed in the end, even if i was waiting for things to end differently.

...

When I saw Skully's portrait in the end, I noticed his glasses were missing. I read that they fell after Sebek and him fought. Skully himself was upset about the tainted glasses broke, as anyone would be when their opinions are being judged. But we were able to see his eyes and he was able to see beyond his nose. I mean, it was the moment he snapped, but also what I think it is a very subtle metaphor on changing oneself's point of view.

And this was the Skully that was known years later, hundreds of years later. When there was nothing left of him to remember but the fact that he was the one responsible for making Halloween a world-wide known celebration.

Yes, a celebration.

Another valuable lesson this event taught me, was how crucial are those people with different points of view, historically and culturally speaking. Skully's beliefs were different, yes, but he was also extremely passionate. And that passion was what impulsed him to dedicate his life entirely to promote Halloween culture everywhere he went.

He traveled and learned and shared and ultimately popularized Halloween. If he hadn't, Halloween would be a forgotten celebration, like many others. This happens even in real life. Different cultures, small cultures often struggle as the time passes to keep their traditions alive because there is no one there to pass the knowledge to the next generations. There is no one to promote them outside of the small town where they were originated.

In Twisted Wonderland, is safe to assume Halloween Town was the origin of Halloween. And it was a small town. So small, even the name Jack Skellington dissolved in the modern world.

But Skully's name remained, and was even known as "King of Halloween"! And even if his ideas were a bit (a lot) different from modernity, you can't deny the impact he had on the popularization of Halloween.

Twst managed to explain a very complex historical process that involves not only cultural promotion, but also appropriation. As Halloween is celebrated in many many forms depending on the time and place. A lively halloween or a quiet halloween or a Samahin, they're all valid and unique! And they were all possible thanks to the work of Skully J. Graves, as well as the work of Jack Skellington before him, and many others before and after them both.

It is heritage, cultural heritage.

And seeing this event from that perspective, it is clear the amount of respect we owe to historical figures. Even if their thoughts seem a bit...archaic (or barbaric!!! as Jamil refered).

Revolutionary ideas in the past are often considered normal and "the obvious" in the present, as well as many "barbarics" (yes, Jamil, i'm looking at you) acts in the past are now considered well...just that.

And the reason why modernity is able to see some points of view as archaic /obvious is because those were thoughts that evolved by being constantly analyzed, criticized, modified and/or teached to newer generations.

So, yeah, thank you Skully J. Graves.

There was something breathtaking about his portrait: A young man with a unique perspective, one that no one knew where it was originated. But one that impulsed him to preserve and spread a celebration...

...hundreds of years ago, before all of us were born.

[fox-teeth]

It's Worldbuilding Week! All this week I am sharing worldbuilding notes and sketches for my sci-fi comic "The Maker of Grave-Goods" available October '24 through @shortboxcomicsfair

For the third entry, we're learning about Mazu's people's names and how they are related to divinatory practices.

[art-thropologist]

20/6/23

With all the news about the sub going missing around the Titanic and OceanGate, I would like to state very clearly that the Titanic is considered an active graveyard/burial. There are likely still remains in the wreck (science side of Tumblr can explain). This is one of the reasons why pulling up artifacts is such a big deal and so rarely done. Engagement is carried out with so much respect and consideration for the victims and their descendants.

You don’t just decide I’ll pop over to this location of massive trauma and tragedy because it’s a popular culture icon I can brag about. This is not the frame of mind one should have when visiting a grave. Please recognize that for 1500 souls this was not where they wanted to rest, and is thus very different from visiting other famous graves (Oscar Wilde, Van Gogh, etc). And sure, maybe the Titanic seems like it would be more digestible as opposed to other thanotourist sites of human violence (ie Gettysburg, Auschwitz, Borden House). The fact that it was a natural disaster lessens the cognitive dissonance of it being of equal solemnity.

What OceanGate is doing with these tours is extremely offensive if not ethically unsound from my archaeological and anthropological position.

[fancyfeathers]

Burn It All Down

(Yandere!Justice League & Yandere!Young Justice)

Based on Yandere!Justice League with their darling!children AU

Previous Chapter <- Chapter Four, The Odyssey -> Next Chapter

This chapter is told from the perspective of Wonder Woman's Son!Reader

Each chapter will be the perspective of the reader but as the different children since when I originally had this concept, they were all darling/reader characters.

“Hey, I’m going out, do you need anything?” You called out to your former classmate as you grabbed your backpack from the table of the vacation apartment the two of you were staying in. Saying you were former classmates is the wrong word to use, you were a criminal justice major and she was a chemical engineering student, but you both had to drop out due to unseen and sudden circumstances. 

“No, if I need anything I can run out by myself.” She replied and you heavily sighed at her words, knowing what exactly she meant by those words. 

“Absolutely not, that will attract attention and we can't afford that right now.” You snapped back at her as you opened the front door of the apartment. “I’ll be back later, I’ll pick up dinner while I’m out.”

You were around six when your birth parents died in an accident, it was not even just your parents, it was your older sisters as well, your baby brother. You were supposed to be on a family trip to Europe, a final farewell to your older sister who had just graduated from Georgetown University with a major in anthropology and she was going to spend a summer in Greece for an internship. You were on a boat destined for the island of Ithaca, you knew in myths that it was the home of the legendary king and hero, Odysseus, and you knew once upon a time when that king was trying to return home to his wife and son he was stopped by Posedion’s storm. Your birth mother told you that it was just like in the story and you would get through it just like Odysseus did, in a way she was right, you did make it out alive but they did not. You remember when the boat capsized and you can still hear your family’s screams as if it was yesterday, you remember seeing your birth mother’s throat slit by a stray piece of metal that broke off the boat as the back of your head hit a rock and you were knocked out cold, drifting through waters you thought you would die in.

You remember being held when you somewhat came to, you certainly had a concussion, but someone was holding you as you were all wrapped up in a blanket, and the person noticed that you were awake and she rocked you and hushed you back to sleep. It is only when you woke up fully almost a week later after your rescue that you realized what had happened, you had washed up on the shore of the island known as Themyscira, the home of the Amazons. The woman who found you was named Diana, the Princess of the Amazons, the Wonder Woman, and a member of the Justice League. She rescued you from the waves and nursed you back to health, she told you that you were a gift from the gods, she had prayed and hoped for a child with her wife and then you washed ashore. She took you in, raised you, living two lives, traveling between the states and the island you never thought existed, living as the son of Diana Prince and her stay-at-home wife in the United States capital, and then you were the son of the Princess of the Amazons and her bride on Themyscira. You learned how to fight, trained by the Amazons, but they never looked at you differently, after all, you were a male but raised by them, a beloved son, a blessing from the gods to answer Diana’s prayers.

But her blessing means you lost everything you ever had, you remember waking up crying in the middle of the night, remembering what happened to your family, their bodies would never be found, stuck at the bottom of the sea forever more in a watery grave. You remember your other new mother, Diana’s so-called wife coming in when you woke up crying, holding you through it as if she had been through this all before, and eventually you found out that she has been through this exact same thing before. She was a librarian once upon a time, she worked at a small library on the island of Malta, just south of Italy, having moved there to look after her grandmother who fell sick and eventually died, but she stayed, it was her home until it was taken from her. She had fallen into the waters of the sea while trying to ride her bike on a rocky path during a storm, she had woken up in Diana’s arms just like you did, stranded on the island of Themyscira, she was trapped just like you were, Diana’s dream comes true, the sweetest and most gentle person to stand by her side as her wife, and most adorable little boy to raise as her own.

You hated thinking about the past, so you made yourself focus on the future and what needed to be undone.

You now walked the streets of Pittsburgh, keeping your head low and keeping to yourself. You just needed to get what you needed and get back to the apartment before anyone, even in the slimmest chance, recognized you.

“You’re the son of Diana Prince, correct?” You felt like you were going to vomit when you heard someone say that, your first instinct was to run, but you made yourself look. The woman who called out to you was not someone you recognized, she was a beautiful woman, and she somewhat reminded you of the Amazon women you trained in your youth. She just stepped off a motorcycle that she parked on the street corner, her helmet tucked under her arm and another woman stepping off it as well, though she was slightly less put together than the one who spoke to you. She reached out her hand to you to shake, greeting you with a smile. “My father is Bruce Wayne.”

“Wait… you’re… oh my gods.” You knew who she was, you remember Diana speaking about an unfortunate accident where the daughter of one of the members of the Justice League went missing around five years ago, the daughter of the Batman. You took her hand, shaking it with a firm grip. “My apologies, I was worried for a moment.”

“That is understandable, but we are here to help you.” She spoke, shoving her hands into her coat pockets and glancing around the busy street before gesturing to her friend with her. “She’s a Kent, Supergirl.”

“Like Superman?”

“His daughter.” She leaned in closer, whispering into your ear. “We don’t have much time, they are on your trail, Wonder Woman and Captain Atom were spotted on the west side, apparently there was a bomb threat, but I doubt that was the main reason they were here.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am, extremely so.” She replied as she walked back to her bike, dragging along the girl she called Supergirl with her. She jumped back on along with her friend and put her helmet back on. “Get out of sight and stay out of sight. I’ll be in touch when it’s safe.”

Before you could respond, she was already speeding halfway down the road. You knew that you did not have the time to run the errands you needed to, you just needed to get back to where you knew it was safe. You started walking down the streets but soon walking turned into running and soon you were in a full sprint down the street, something pushed you forward, it was to the point where you felt like someone else was guiding you. 

“Look, it’s Wonder Woman!”

“Mama, mama, look! Wonder Woman is here!”

Panic set in as you reached an intersection of the road that a crowd was gathered around, and by the shouts, you knew what was going on. You could barely see through the crowd of people but through the cracks in between shoulders, you spotted a glimpse of raven black hair and the all too familiar shimmer of gold. You turned on your heel, maneuvering your way through the other people on the street joining the crowd.

“Please, I am looking for a young man, he is my son, he has been missing for weeks, I…” You heard her loud voice through the crowd and your heart sank when you heard her hesitate in her words, she spotted you, even with your back turned. You immediately booked it, running full speed down the street, causing a commotion in the crowd when they caught onto what was happening. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you knew that you were being chased, just like back when you were training in Themyscira, but then it was for fun, you never thought you would need to put those skills into motion in the real world, especially being chased by your mother of all people. “Stop! Get back here this instant, young man.”

You kept on running despite her words, you knew that now that you disobeyed her you would get punished if you were caught, maybe a year isolated from the outside world on Themyscira, or maybe she would tie you up in the Lasso of Truth and compel you to tell the location of your friend, and then you would probably also let it slip of your recent interaction. You mentally caught yourself praying, praying to any god who may listen…

Apollo never once answered a single one of your prayers…

Why would Hera even bother with you?

Aphrodite never made herself known to you…

You dashed into a back alley, but you felt the vomit rise in your throat as you realized it was a dead end. You felt the sob about to slip from your lips as you turned around to see your mother turning around the corner after you, you expected her to say something, anything, but she did not even look at you like you were not even there. You saw a pained look in her eyes, squeezing her eyes shut and taking a deep breath in and out before turning away and walking off down the alley. You glanced around, finding a tin trash can and you did not even see your own reflection until a few moments later when it reappeared. You had turned invisible. You glanced around, no one else was in the alley, but you spotted an owl resting upon a window ledge, there was one problem with this, it was the middle of the day. Your eyes narrowed at the owl and you took a step forward, your curiosity getting the better of you.

“...Lady Athena?” Your question felt like what a fool would ask or a child playing pretends, so you were only more shocked when the owl nodded, actually nodded. “You… you saved me… tell me, why did you come to my aid?”

The owl took off flying, but it was over the building, not a direction you could go even then you could not follow now, you would be seen. You sat down behind a dumpster, curling your knees up to your chest so that no one walking past the alley could see you…

“Mama, can you tell me about our ancestors again?” You asked your birth mother, you were sitting on the front porch of your old house, a cottage up in Maine. “The ones from your side, from Greece.”

“Not just Greece, my love.” She spoke, her fingers running through your hair as she corrected you. “Our ancestors are from Ithaca, it was once a powerful kingdom, home to some of the most famous heroes in our history.”

“Heros? Do you mean like the ones in the Justice League?”

“No, I mean like the ancient heroes, ones who are more human like us.” She replied, pulling you up onto her lap and pointing up at the clear night sky, all the stars you could see without fail due to the isolation of the area. You followed her finger as she pointed at a set of stars, a constellation. “Those stars there, those from the constellation of Orion, he was set into the stars by his lover and friend, Artemis, the goddess of the hunt and the moon after her brother Apollo grew jealous of his abilities and tried to kill him.”

“And what about us, who are we descended from?”

“A man who loved his wife and son so dearly, he would do anything to get back to them.”

“If something like that happened to you, would you do anything to come back to us?”

“Anything.”

You snapped awake when you felt hands shaking you awake, your eyes opened to find that girl kneeling before you, it was the so-called daughter of Batman you met earlier today. It was dark out when you woke up and you felt as if you were getting over a hangover. 

“You alright, I found you passed out here when I came looking for you.” You felt her hands help pull you up from the ground, but you felt something slip down your lap before you fully stood up. “Doing some light reading?”

“Huh… I…” you looked down at the thing in your lap, it was a book, a book you remember well from your childhood before Themyscira. “The Odyssey?”

“Seems sort of funny, ya know?” You stared at the daughter of Batman with a blank and confused expression. “I mean your mom and The Odyssey is an epic about… ancient Greece… never mind.”

“I do not exactly find it amusing, especially given the circumstances.” You had no idea how this book got here, but when you glanced up at the windowsill where the owl was before you fell asleep she was there again, staring at you with eyes that looked wiser than any you have ever seen before. “My family… both of my families have always taken that sort of story seriously… I wonder…”

“You wonder, what?”

“Don’t worry about it… just some memories about some stories about my ancestors.” 

“Alright, c’mon, we have some work to do.” She patted you on the back as you stood up and you could not help but glance back at the owl, but when you did, the owl flew down landing on your shoulder. Both of your eyes were wide with surprise, but hers merely narrowed at the owl after the moment. “Does the owl have to come with? I don’t exactly like owls.”

“I think she wants to come with.”

“Well at least give her a name-”

“Athena, her name is Athena.”

“Like after the goddess?”

“You… you could say that.”

[city-of-ladies]

"Centuries ago, two people were buried arm in arm on top of a horse in what is now Austria. The unique burial prompted archaeologists to think that the two were a male-female married couple from medieval times. But it turns out they couldn't have been more wrong.

A new analysis of the remains suggests that the couple was actually a mother-daughter pair who died around 1,800 years ago during the Roman era.

"It's the first genetically proven mother-daughter burial in Austria in Roman times," study senior author Sylvia Kirchengast, a professor of evolutionary anthropology at the University of Vienna, told Live Science. "We also disprove a long-held misconception about the kind of relation between the two individuals.

In the new study the researchers re-evaluated the remains via radiocarbon dating, ancient DNA analysis and a visual inspection. They found that the bones belonged to individuals whose ages at death were 20 to 25 and 40 to 60 years old and lived around A.D. 200 when the Roman Empire held sway over the region. In a twist, both human skeletons turned out to be females, according to an anatomical analysis. DNA results confirmed their biological female status and showed they were first-degree relatives — meaning they were either sisters or mother and daughter, according to the study, which was published in the May issue of the Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports.

Due to the pair's DNA results, their age difference and other factors, the researchers concluded that individuals were mother and daughter, with the daughter embracing the mother in the grave. "It's very unlikely that two sisters have an age difference of 20 years during those times. So we felt that it's more likely that they are a mother-daughter pair," Kirchengast said. 

The inclusion of a horse and gold pendants strongly hints that the women were of high social status. It also indicates they were non-Roman elites. "To our knowledge it's extremely uncommon for Roman people to be buried with horses. They were not a 'horse-people'," study lead author Dominik Hagmann, an archaeologist at University of Vienna, told Live Science. He suspected these two individuals were from a Celtic culture still existing in Roman times. The Celts were more commonly buried horses with their owners.

There are other signs that the deceased were familiar with horses. "What I find odd is that the older skeleton shows signs of frequent horse riding," Kirchengast said. "Maybe both women were enthusiastic horse-riders.""

[blueiscoool]

Man Discovers Rare Viking Arm Ring in Sweden

Archaeologists say the iron armlet could also have been buried deliberately in a sacrificial bog.

Last fall, a Swedish man spotted something in a marsh on Oland, Sweden’s second-largest island. At first, he thought the circular object—found lying on the ground near a construction pit—might be a tool. But it turned out to be a Viking Age iron arm bracelet that could be more than 1,000 years old.

After the anonymous man discovered the artifact, he contacted a local archaeologist, who advised him to bring it to the government of Kalmar, the southeastern county where Oland is located. He did so earlier this month. Experts analyzed the ring, comparing it to similar objects from the Swedish History Museum in Stockholm.

The C-shaped artifact is decorated ornately. Rows of raised dots grace its length, and its ends are shaped into animal heads, according to a statement posted on Facebook. “From the ornamentation, we were able to date it to the Swedish Viking Age, somewhere between 800 and 1050 C.E.,” Karl-Oskar Erlandsson, an archaeologist at the Kalmar County Administrative Board, tells the Viking Herald’s Jonathan Bennett.

The Vikings were a group of Scandinavian warriors who violently colonized coastal Europe between the 9th and 11th centuries. Viking men and women of all classes wore jewelry, including necklaces, brooches and arm rings (also known as armlets). Powerful men commonly gave armlets to their followers to both secure loyalty and demonstrate wealth. According to the statement, most surviving Viking armlets are crafted out of silver or bronze.

“What is unusual is that this one is made of iron,” Erlandsson tells radio station P4 Kalmar, per a translation by Sweden Herald. Of the more than 1,000 arm rings in the Swedish History Museum’s collection, only three are made of iron.

This doesn’t mean that iron jewelry was uncommon during the Viking Age. Iron accessories may just be more difficult to find today, as the metal is particularly susceptible to corrosion. When it’s exposed to water and oxygen, iron rusts and degrades. Luckily, the soils and sediments of wetlands lack oxygen. The newly discovered ring’s marsh burial may therefore have helped preserve it through the centuries, per the statement.

Swedish laws may also account for the lack of rediscovered iron Viking jewelry. Unlike with artifacts made of silver or gold, Swedes are under “no obligation to contact authorities when [they] find an object made of iron,” Erlandsson tells the Viking Herald.

The island of Oland has a long anthropological history. Hunter-gatherers first settled there more than 6,000 years ago. The area is home to at least 15 Iron Age ring forts—circular, fortified settlements built up from the fourth century onward. Several Viking graves have been found on Oland.

As for how the iron armlet got into the marsh, Erlandsson tells P4 Kalmar that it probably wasn’t part of a grave, as the Vikings wouldn’t have buried someone in a wetland. The marsh also rules out a Viking settlement as a source.

“It could be a sacrificial bog, that they have sacrificed to the gods or higher powers,” Erlandsson says. “So then there may be more objects in this wetland.”

If the armlet’s finder chooses to donate the artifact to the county, it will be preserved and further studied, according to the statement. Hoping the marsh is hiding more Viking objects, experts will soon search the area with metal detectors.

By Sonja Anderson.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Elizabeth Weiss

Published; Jan 17, 2025

Biological anthropology and archaeology are facing a censorship crisis. Censorship can be defined simply as the suppression of speech, public communication, or information, often because it is deemed harmful or offensive. It can be enforced by government agencies or private institutions. Even self-censorship is increasingly prevalent, such as when an author decides not to publish something due to fear of backlash from their colleagues, or the belief that their findings may cause harm.

In these fields, censorship is primarily driven by professional associations like the American Anthropological Association (AAA) and the California Society for Archaeology, academic journals (often produced by these associations) such as Bioarchaeology International, universities, and museums, including the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History. The focus of this censorship largely involves the suppression of images—including X-rays and CT-scans—of human remains and funerary objects, which are artifacts found in graves.

Biological anthropologists, such as bioarchaeologists (who study human remains from the archaeological record), have historically used photos and X-rays of skeletal remains and mummies to explore disease patterns of past peoples, teach new methods of age estimation and sex identification, and attract new students to the field of biological anthropology. Archaeologists use photos of artifacts to facilitate comparisons with other artifacts, aid in reconstructing past cultures, and explore topics like the peopling of the Americas, prehistoric trade patterns, and the emergence of new technologies. These are just a few of the many ways images have been used in the field.

Yet, in recent years, the use of photos of human remains and artifacts has faced increasing censorship. For example, the guidelines of the Society for American Archaeology (SAA) and its journals state: “Out of respect for diverse cultural traditions, photographs of full or explicit human remains are not accepted for publication in any SAA journal.”

Additionally, they add that “line drawings or other renderings of human remains may be an acceptable substitute for photographs.” In other words, they also may not be acceptable! So, the photo on the left would definitely not be accepted in SAA journals, and the image on the right may or may not be accepted.

In conference bookrooms, books featuring covers with photos or realistic images of bones are now being rejected for display. Ironically, just ten years ago, my cover photo from Paleopathology in Perspective: Bone Health and Disease through Time was so popular that someone stole the poster from the SAA conference bookroom. Just three years later, however, the SAA wouldn’t allow my publisher to buy advertising space using the cover of my book Reading the Bones: Activity, Biology, and Culture. Now, even realistic images of human remains are shunned! Somehow, I doubt my latest book, On the Warpath: My Battles with Indians, Pretendians, and Woke Warriors, will make it into any anthropology or archaeology conference bookrooms either!

Southeastern Archaeology, the journal of the Southeastern Archaeological Conference, has implemented a policy that it “will no longer publish photographs of funerary objects/belongings.” This is an expansion of their previous policy against publishing photographs of human remains. They now add that “in lieu of photographs, authors may choose to include line drawings or other representations of funerary objects/belongings.” This decision was initially made without member input, leading go backlash against the decision. However, after a discussion and a vote, the censorship was upheld. Majority rule is no way to run a scientific organization—which should be done on adherence to the principles and methodologies of science!

Not to be outdone by the southeastern archaeologists, the Society for California Archaeology (SCA) declared that “NO depictions of the remains of any specific person, regardless of ancestry, are to be included in any presentations, including photographs, drawings, X-rays, 3-D models, etc.” So, forget displaying any historic figures such as the mummy of Lenin, the death mask of Ishi, or the skeletal remains of Joseph Merrick (also known as the Elephant Man, who taught many people that physical deformity does not equate to a lack of intelligence). This restriction even extends to individuals like Jeremy Bentham, a professor from London College, who explicitly requested his preserved body be displayed, illustrating the breadth of these new policies. All of these and many others are now strictly off limits!

While banning photos, the SCA does permit the use of “[d]iagrams of generic skeletons, bones, teeth, or other body tissues.” Additionally, at their conferences, “[a] caution symbol will be placed next to all presentations discussing human remains in the program and on signage outside the door of the session so that those who wish to avoid this subject matter can easily do so.” Is education truly about avoiding uncomfortable information and materials?

The AAA’s Commission on the Ethical Treatment of Human Remains has ruled that images and digital materials must be treated as parts of bodies—and, thus, not published in any public spaces, including on social media. They state:

The use of images and any other digital materials (e.g. maps or GIS) derived from human tissues or Ancestral remains should be considered as part of the respectful treatment of those whose actual remains are used. This treatment acknowledges that their use should be restricted to defined (and consented) purposes, and that such use should remain confined to a protected, nonpublic space (and should never be displayed on social media or other non-password protected internet sites, including educational sites, and museums).

In other words, even maps constructed with DNA information are now subject to restriction!

They also plan to require members to take an “ethics pledge” to join or renew their membership. This is to ensure that no one goes rogue and shows a human bone in a place where someone might actually see it.

Journals that once served as valuable resources for understanding bone pathology (or disease) are now discarding the most important tool of all—images. Bioarchaeology International now demands “explicit recent permission” from descendants for the use of photos or images of human remains, even if the image were taken before these requirements and had been previously published (often on multiple occasions). These are referred to as “legacy images.” The journal further states that “if no permissions are forthcoming, the manuscripts are not considered for review.” Bioarchaeology International is not alone in censoring the use of legacy images; nearly all peer-reviewed anthropology and archaeology journals now enforce a similar policy.

One exception is the American Association of Biological Anthropology, which publishes the prestigious American Journal of Biological Anthropology. This organization specifies that the requirement to obtain permission for images and data of human remains applies only to new data; “legacy data is not included.” One wonders how long these comparatively ‘courageous’ holdouts will last before caving in. Currently, they have a committee developing a policy on human remains.

The International Journal of Paleopathology specializes in case studies of rare pathologies, where photos are essential to conveying information. The editorial board acknowledges the usefulness of photos, but they also state that:

While careful description of pathological lesions is essential to research in paleopathology, authors are encouraged to consider whether photographs of human remains are critical to the presentation of the research. If not essential, out of respect for descendent communities, they should be replaced with drawings or included as supplementary material. Authors may wish to consult the editor regarding these issues.

Can a line drawing really do justice to the complex and intricate changes that occur on skeletons due to diseases like osteomyelitis (bone infections), osteoarthritis, cribra orbitalia (a sign of anemia), or the various forms of dental disease seen sometimes in a single individual?

Beyond this censorship, institutions are also toeing the ideological line to exclude images of human remains. In September 2023, Penn Museum decided that its inventory would not include such images. And, the renowned Mütter Museum of the College of Physicians of Philadelphia, which aims to educate the public about anatomical medicine and health, has removed all images of human remains from its online database. This includes the image of Carol Orzel, who had specifically wished that her body be displayed to educate others about fibrodysplasia ossificans progressive, the painful, debilitating, and fatal bone and cartilage disease she suffered from.

The Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History issues a warning to anyone who might find human remains: “Never take photos of human remains in our region; that is culturally inappropriate here.” But Santa Barbara is a region that encompasses many cultures, including some Central Mexican communities who do not view photographing human remains as inappropriate, as they celebrate their ancestral past by displaying the dead. For example, Lisa Holtzover and Juan R. Argueta note in their 2017 article that in the central Mexican town of Xaltocan, indigenous residents support archaeological research and the exhibition of ancient human remains. Yet, North American academics often criticize their cultural preferences, even while they claim to be decolonizing the field. In their blind adherence to wokeism, academics’ patronizing “we know best” approach towards indigenous peoples who deviate from their narrative exemplifies a white savior complex. Ironically, those who claim to oppose racism in their quest for wokeism are themselves perpetuating it. What next? Should we give Egyptian mummies a Christian burial in the name of decolonization?

Universities, especially in California, have also imposed complete moratoria on the use of human remains images. For example, on August 30, 2023, California State University Bakersfield’s president issued a moratorium that stated:

[T]he university is placing a moratorium on the research, teaching, display, imaging, and circulation of human remains and cultural items (including archival material, notes, movies, and data) that are potentially subject to NAGPRA and CalNAGPRA.

Similarly, on March 26, 2024, the president of California Polytechnic Pomona issued a memorandum stating:

Cal Poly Pomona will consult with Tribes prior to access, use, distribution or display of potentially sensitive or proprietary information. This includes but is not limited to images, renderings, and reproductions of ancestral remains and cultural items that are or have been in a university’s collection.

The universities are dressing up their actions as compliance with national and state reburial laws, yet these laws do not yet ban the use of images. And, from the look of anthropologists’ self-censoriousness and the acts of university presidents, new laws are likely not even necessary to restrict scientific research and educational efforts.

But this isn’t just a US problem. For instance, Uppsala University in Sweden advises that “photographs of human remains from indigenous ethnic groups are not normally to be published.” Similarly, the National Museum of Scotland has put out a statement that “All images of human remains except those that are wrapped have been removed from our online collections database.” At the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, this policy resulted in the absurd covering up of a mummy that was wrapped because of the photo behind the mummy contained images of skulls from a forensic collection.

One may wonder what has led to such vast censorship. Progressive anthropologists have decided that images—and, in some cases, data—from human remains and funerary objects cause harm to indigenous peoples. They adopt the narrative from indigenous activists that these images are dangerous, rather than explaining the importance of research and dispelling the notion that societal ills like alcoholism, missing women and children, and poverty stem from evil spirits roaming the earth and wreaking havoc on their lives.

For instance, in a 2020 book chapter on digitizing anthropological collections, Laure Spake and colleagues, citing the Smithsonian’s collaboration with the Tlingit, stated, “the disturbance of Ancestors and their belongings can result in physical danger for the living.” Ironically, the authors used this argument to advocate for 3D scanning and creating replicas to allow for the rapid reburial of human remains as quickly as possible—a viewpoint that is now considered outdated!

At a Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act meeting on January 5, 2023, there was a discussion on the deletion of digital data. Even non-fungible tokens (NFTs) were discussed, although those discussing them didn’t even know what they were. During the meeting, Hawaiian Native activists argued that it’s possible to “entice the spirit of someone to inhabit” photos, digital data, and replicas, which they assert can be harmful. Consequently, the tribe opposes making scans and casts.

Larry Zimmerman and Margaret Conkey, in their 2024 article for the SAA Record, argue that control over photos and data should belong to Indigenous communities because it is “respectful” to believe their feelings of harm. In their words, “when someone tells you that what you are saying or doing hurts them and you truly respect them, you will make every effort you can to eliminate or at least to understand the cause of the hurt.”

Furthermore, in the 2024 AAA Ethical Commission on Human Remains, Sabrina Agarwal and her colleagues repeatedly imply that harm will come to descendent communities from research. The term “harm” actually was mentioned 44 times, including in the statement:

As an ethical approach to ethical solutions, the Commission chose to meet with representatives of those most affected by anthropological work with ancestral remains to learn their assessments of how they might be harmed or protected from harm when research and education is considered.

In a 2020 article in Sapiens, Chip Colwell wrote that “photographs of human are problematic because of specific cultural beliefs.” He elaborates that the Navajo, for instance, believe encountering spirits of the dead can sicken those who see them. He helpfully then adds that photos are more harmful than line drawings, 3D scans, or casts.

Also in 2020, Deborah Thomas, then the editor-in-chief of American Anthropologist, selected a photo of Margaret Mead with skulls for an issue featuring a special section on the anthropology of global white supremacy, complete with a republished conversation between Mead and James Baldwin. The image sparked a social media uproar and was said to be violent, racist, and harmful to indigenous and black communities. Thomas, agreeing that the image produced trauma, changed the cover and issued a groveling apology, which included the statement that “We know the role that anthropology has played in the erasure of Indigenous peoples in the Americas through its salvage/savage ethnography project and its continued use of human remains for ‘research’ purposes.”

Unfortunately, by leaving anthropology and archaeology devoid of images of human remains and funerary objects, we will learn less about the past. Legacy data will not be allowed for comparative research, and our next generation of forensic anthropologists will be poorly trained. More troubling is that non-scientists who attribute normal human variation to supernatural or alien influences will continue to captivate young minds with sensational images, drawing them towards pseudoscience instead of a genuine scientific understanding of the world.

Moreover, we should not expect censorship in anthropology and archaeology will be limited to new publications featuring human remains. I have no doubt that woke academics and publishers will start to remove previously-published materials. For example, the University of Florida Press deleted the images from my blog post, “Human Variation: More Than Skin Deep!”—which was intended to promote my book Reading the Bones—two years after its initial publication on their blog.

What is the solution for anthropologists? Woke anthropologists suggest a different mindset is needed. Zimmerman and Conkey argue that archaeologists will be required to abandon “cherished ideas like academic freedom” and “relinquishing complete control, ownership, or even stewardship of excavated materials” to continue working in the field. Additionally, the AAA Commission on the Ethical Treatment of Human Remains would also like to curtail our desire for academic freedom. They write, in a scolding tone, that “Academic freedom is not synonymous with ‘unrestricted access.’ Scholars, educators and museum curators must be responsible to descendants’ concerns for the dignified treatment of their dead.”

Once academic freedom is relinquished and the data—images and all—are in the hands of activist descendant communities, don’t expect new scientific discoveries. Instead, expect woke fairy tales arising out of victim narratives.

Censorship (and self-censorship) of images should not be seen as an isolated issue. It’s symptomatic of a wider pathology afflicting the field. Anthropology is dying. But when it’s finally dead, don’t expect to see a picture of the body!

--

About the Author

Professor Emeritus of Anthropology at San Jose State University and National Association of Scholars Board Member. Author of On the Warpath: My Battles with Indians, Pretendians, and Woke Warriors.

==

This is unabashed corruption.

Any organization or institution which implements policies like this must be stripped of all government (i.e. taxpayer) funding. You don't get to implement ideological dogma when the taxpayer is paying for it.