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This chapter examines the role that the Mediterranean Sea came to play in Israel’s national identity from the 1990s onwards. Through a reading of Amos Oz’s The Same Sea (1999), it counters claims that a turn to the Mediterranean offered a ‘post-ideological’ identity appropriate to the era of the Oslo Accords. It shows instead that the phenomenon of ‘Mediterraneanism’, or Yam Tikhoniut, was continuous with earlier Zionist goals, notably in reaffirming Israel’s affiliation with Europe and its distance from the ‘Orient’. Oz’s novel is further identified as depicting the arrival of global capitalism in Israel through its portrayals of tourism, and through its use of liquid metaphors and formal techniques that connect economic growth at home to underdevelopment abroad.

Large cetaceans have been regulated at the global level by the International Whaling Commission since the late 1940s. In the case of small cetaceans, however, it was not until the mid-1970s that concerns about their well-being began to be voiced by scientists and environmental organizations. This chapter focuses on European waters, where populations of cetaceans are believed to have declined significantly over the last two or three decades. Small cetaceans in these waters are the subject of two recent agreements: the Agreement on the Conservation of Small Cetaceans of the Baltic and North Seas (the Ascobans Agreement), which was signed on 17 March 1992 and entered into force on 29 March 1994; and the Agreement on the Conservation of Cetaceans of the Black Sea, Mediterranean Sea, and Contiguous Atlantic Area (the Accobams Agreement), signed on 24 November 1996. This chapter analyzes these Agreements and evaluates their contribution to the conservation of cetaceans. It begins by examining the scientific background to the Agreements, in particular the population status of small cetaceans in the waters to which the Agreements apply and the threats to their well-being. It then briefly discusses the general international law background against which the Agreements are set before turning to the Agreements themselves.

This chapter argues that Luís de Camões’s Os Lusíadas, typically framed as the first global epic, operates instead within the cartographic framework of the late fifteenth century (contemporaneous with Vasco da Gama). Camões’s poem describes the Indian Ocean as a transposition of the Mediterranean Sea: both were imagined, in different poetic and cartographic traditions (ranging from Ptolemy to Islamic cartography), as enclosed oceans. In Os Lusíadas, then, Camões paints his protagonist Vasco da Gama as a new Hercules, who masterfully opens up the Indian Ocean by passing the Cape of Good Hope (in the shape of Adamastor’s monstrous rock), just as Hercules had opened up the Mediterranean Sea to the Atlantic Ocean (according to ancient geographic traditions). By modeling the Indian Ocean after the Mediterranean Sea, Os Lusíadas proudly exports the idea of an autonomous and hegemonic Europe across the continents, thereby conflating globalization and Europeanization.

This chapter investigates the process through which the map of a nation comes into being. The relevant examples derive from the Hebrew Bible and the context of antiquity, yet similar processes also determine the nature of maps from subsequent eras. Biblical maps display how the emblematic representation of the nation relies on intersecting mythic and political standards. The question of why there are two different maps of Israel's land is the main point of the analysis here. One set of maps spans from the Mediterranean Sea in the west to the Jordan River in the east, while a second set reaches from the Sea to the River Euphrates. It is argued here that the paradox of conflicting versions of national territory illustrates how maps reconcile the idea of the nation with pervading mythic conceptions as well as how the nation borrows the means of self-presentation from empire.

This chapter examines the eighteenth-century movement of timber from Anatolian forests to the Egyptian Red Sea port of Suez to build ships to move the province’s surplus grain. Although Egypt was the largest producer of foodstuffs in the Ottoman Empire, it was sorely lacking in forests and hence also in lumber, a vital resource for shipbuilding and infrastructural projects. The empire thus regularly undertook extremely complex and costly projects of timber harvest to provision wood to Egypt and elsewhere. This movement of timber from Anatolia across the Mediterranean to Egypt elucidates how demand for certain natural resources in one part of the empire resulted in massive environmental manipulation elsewhere. Moreover, because the demand for enormous quantities of a natural resource such as wood could only be met by the state’s interventionist forest policies, the story of the Ottoman Empire’s management of wood and grain exposes some of the limits of market forces in the early modern Ottoman Mediterranean.

The author embarks for Genoa and describes the Mediterranean Sea. He arrives at Genoa and is hospitably entertained by the American Consul. He describes the city and expresses his admiration of Italian music. The author embarks for Leghorn, with an intention of visiting Rome, and narrates how he was almost assassinated. He cultivates an acquaintance with some Armenians and narrates the arrival of the L'Heureuse ship of war at Leghorn with a tender. The British Consul promises the author a passage in the latter but the Master refuses to take him. He applies to the Captain of the L'Heureuse, who consents to receive him on board. The author then leaves Leghorn.

Through close-readings of two video installations, Chapter 6 addresses the problematics of the increasing securitisation of nation-state borders in ‘Fortress Europe’ and beyond, which restricts the movements of people who are forced to migrate by war, destitution, persecution or environmental reasons. Ursula Biemann’s video-essay Sahara Chronicle (2006-7) is used to unpack the general question of how artistic productions can respond to discourses on complex political issues such as forced migration, European border policies, and the risk of reducing migrants to ‘bare life’ (Agamben) in the politico-juridical order. Isaac Julien’s video installation Western Union: Small Boats (2007) is used to examine how the enforcement of European borders against irregular migration surfaces in the artistic-cinematic imaginary. Chapter 6 explores the tensional interpenetration of politics, ethics and aesthetics in Julien’s installation. Using a concept coined by Mieke Bal, it proposes that Isaac Julien’s installation could be conceived of as an instance of ‘migratory aesthetics’. However, the sheer beauty of his cinematic representation of the real-life tragedies of migrants makes it necessary to move beyond the question of aesthetics and consider the issue of aestheticisation and the ethical relation of the artist to his subject matter.

This chapter is a review of how the challenges to the interchange between the Mediterranean and Red Seas were met during Antiquity. Over the centuries, the need to overcome the logistical problems posed by navigating the Red Sea, crossing the desert, and sailing the Nile in order to link the Mediterranean and Red Seas resulted in a series of different strategies for each stage of the journey. The fact that each combination could be deemed more suitable to a particular kind of business explains why, over time, one was chosen over another or why several were practised simultaneously. When the texts of the Muziris papyrus were written, Roman trade in the Indian Ocean was evolving from its Early Imperial forms to those of Late Antiquity. As in all transitional periods, there was a mix of old and new, of past and future. The past forms are attested by the Muziris papyrus itself, which still envisages a commercial enterprise involving a direct sea route to Muziris and a connection to the Mediterranean that comprises a limited Red Sea sailing, a desert crossing to Coptos, and a voyage down the Nile to Alexandria. The future forms were heralded by the opening of Trajan’s Canal.

The author leaves the Cape and embarks on board the Britannia. He describes the ship and the character of its captain; discovers St Helena and describes the island, town, and fortifications, as well as the hospitable and friendly conduct of the Governor. He leaves St Helena, passes the Ascension Island, recrosses the equinoctial line, sees the polar star, passes a fleet of outward-bound Indiamen, passes the Canaries and the entrance to the Mediterranean Sea, and arrives at the mouth of the English Channel. The captain decides to enter the Cove of Cork.

This chapter examines literary and cinematic representations of unauthorized migrations across the Mediterranean Sea. Illiterature encompasses the body of work that tackles clandestine crossings and strives to document the undocumented. Of the three general characteristics of illiterature, which include a male-dominated sub-genre (il-literature) and the depiction of Europe as a Fortress (île-literature), the present essay focuses on the symbolism of sickness (ill-literature). It addresses the responsibility of smugglers and Islamist networks in leave-taking. Hakim Abderrezak scrutinizes nicknames and naming in illiterature and Mediterranean cinema. Paying close attention to the handling of trans-Mediterranean crossings by mass media, conservative political discourse and anti-immigration policies, to which these fictions often seek to provide an alternative narrative, the chapter explores two novels, Ben Jelloun’s Leaving Tangier and Mohamed Teriah’s Les “Harragas” ou Les Barques de la mort, and two cinematic works, Merzak Allouache’s Harragas and Mohsen Melliti’s Io, l’altro. The analysis investigates the ongoing ex-centricity of migrations to Europe, suggesting that the Mediterranean Sea has been transformed into a mass grave --a seametery -- and that the post-9/11 hegemonic discourse, isolationist politics and the widespread conflation of migration and terrorism all participate in this genocide.

This chapter discusses the importance of museum specimens and samples. Natural history collections are archives of biodiversity, snapshots that provide a way to physically retrieve an individual specimen and through it track changes in populations and species across repeatable surveys in time and space. Growing international awareness of the potential effects on humanity due to the loss of biodiversity and the ensuing erosion of ecosystem services has reinforced the value of natural history collections, museums, and herbaria worldwide. The chapter summarizes the strengths and weaknesses of natural history collections for repeated surveys and other historical studies that require replication. Through a case study of the historical surveys and resurveys of the taxonomic exploration of the marine biota of the eastern Mediterranean Sea, it highlights the relevance of collections for ecology and conservation. Finally, it discusses prospects for future uses of natural history collections in the context of replicated research.

This chapter examines the importance of sound in films that narrate migrants’ and refugees’ failed crossings of the Mediterranean Sea, and the space that sound occupies in these narratives. It lays down questions aimed to help build a theoretical apparatus to think about clandestine migration in cinema through one of its main components: the aural material that composes its fabric. The treatment of sound that “tracks” is essential in analyses of films depicting death and documenting harragas’ lack of voice—figuratively and literally speaking. It invites us to think about how to treat the subject without falling prey to excessive pathos, especially in the works of directors who acknowledge their objective of soliciting empathy in their audience.

This chapter describes ships, navigation, and mapping in the sixteenth century. Despite the poor pay and all the hazards, sailors felt bonded to life at sea. Eric Newby told of both the dangers and the thrill of sailing when he wrote of his experience as a young crewman aboard a big square rigged ship in 1938. Among ships sailing the oceans in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the caravel and the carrack were the most often used. European sailors developed skills for navigation in the Mediterranean Sea when Greek and Phoenician sailors began to observe the stars and note their risings, crossings of the zenith, and descents in the west. The marine chronometer received strong support when Captain James Cook used a copy of Harrison's clock on his second and third voyages to the Pacific and raved about the advantage of having such a clock on board.

I joined the Intelligence Corps in autumn 1941. At that time few people were allowed into the Mansion at Bletchley Park, the nerve centre. I was fortunate enough to work in the Mansion and was one of the four founder members of the Testery, set up in October 1941 to break ‘Double Playfair’ cipher messages. Then in July 1942 the Testery was switched to breaking Tunny traffic. Before reminiscing about the breaking of the Tunny code I should like to recall Alan Turing himself. If it had not been for him everything would have been very different, and I am eternally grateful to him that I did not have to bring up my children under the Nazis. We would have entered a dark age of many years—once the Nazis had got you down, they did not let up. Here is just one example of what life was like under the Nazis. After the war I met a brave Belgian lady called Madame Jeanty. Her family was one of those who kept a safe house for Allied airmen, shot down over Europe and trying to make their way back to Britain to fly again. Helen Jeanty and her husband had a hidey-hole in their house, and had an airman in there one day when the Gestapo came calling, at the usual time of 6 a.m. They searched the house up and down but did not find him, and went away. Everybody was delighted and relieved—claps on the back or whatever the Belgians do. But the Gestapo came back again to find this celebration in progress. Her husband was arrested and taken away and she never saw him again. That sort of thing would have happened time and time again here in Britain if the Nazis had managed to invade. One reason Britain did not fall to the Nazis is that in 1941 Turing broke U-boat Enigma. The decisive effect he had on the Battle of the Atlantic can be seen from the tonnages sunk. The tonnages lost to sinkings dropped by 77% after Turing broke into U-boat Enigma in June 1941, from approximately 282,000 tonnes of shipping lost per month during the early part of 1941, to 64,000 tonnes per month by November. If Turing had not managed that, it is almost certain that Britain would have been starved into defeat.

I joined the Intelligence Corps in autumn 1941. At that time few people were allowed into the Mansion at Bletchley Park, the nerve centre. I was fortunate enough to work in the Mansion and was one of the four founder members of the Testery, set up in October 1941 to break ‘Double Playfair’ cipher messages. Then in July 1942 the Testery was switched to breaking Tunny traffic. Before reminiscing about the breaking of the Tunny code I should like to recall Alan Turing himself. If it had not been for him everything would have been very different, and I am eternally grateful to him that I did not have to bring up my children under the Nazis. We would have entered a dark age of many years—once the Nazis had got you down, they did not let up. Here is just one example of what life was like under the Nazis. After the war I met a brave Belgian lady called Madame Jeanty. Her family was one of those who kept a safe house for Allied airmen, shot down over Europe and trying to make their way back to Britain to fly again. Helen Jeanty and her husband had a hidey-hole in their house, and had an airman in there one day when the Gestapo came calling, at the usual time of 6 a.m. They searched the house up and down but did not find him, and went away. Everybody was delighted and relieved—claps on the back or whatever the Belgians do. But the Gestapo came back again to find this celebration in progress. Her husband was arrested and taken away and she never saw him again. That sort of thing would have happened time and time again here in Britain if the Nazis had managed to invade. One reason Britain did not fall to the Nazis is that in 1941 Turing broke U-boat Enigma. The decisive effect he had on the Battle of the Atlantic can be seen from the tonnages sunk. The tonnages lost to sinkings dropped by 77% after Turing broke into U-boat Enigma in June 1941, from approximately 282,000 tonnes of shipping lost per month during the early part of 1941, to 64,000 tonnes per month by November. If Turing had not managed that, it is almost certain that Britain would have been starved into defeat.