I’ve just returned from two weeks in the US with my colleague Dr May Tan-Mullins. Each day we read reports of the passage of the beleaguered Olympic torch on its inappropriately named ‘journey of harmony’. And even as I write this, protestors have clashed with the authorities in Seoul. In cities across the globe we saw diversions, protests, and heavy-handed ‘torch guards’ man-handling people out of the way. In my last blog I was talking about China’s role in Sudan and Darfur. The issue now is Tibet, although it’s often wrapped up together with China’s broader human rights record at home and abroad. 

The Tibet issue is complex, but is seen as an internal issue with many Chinese supportive of their state’s stance on Tibet. When I was in the US various head of state pulled out of the Games’ opening ceremony. Hardly outright condemnation, but a symbolic gesture nonetheless. Others have called for a boycott of the Olympics to shed light on China’s occupation of Tibet.

Darfur protests in Washington. Photo: May Tan-Mullins

The call for a boycott is coming from a wide range of groups, including US Senators, Hollywood actors, international journalists, Tibetans in exile, Burmese activists, and Taiwanese political parties. They all use China’s human rights abuses domestically and internationally as the reason and believe a boycott would highlight these and shame China into reform as well as hurting China economically through lost revenue. But would a boycott work?

First, we need to look at the interests and agendas of some of these groups. For some in the US, while the headline is human rights abuses, there is list of other misdemeanours which go beyond human rights and are about US strategic interests (e.g. China’s support of Venezuela’s left-wing President Hugo Chavez, China’s blocking of sanctions against Iran in the UN Security Council, and the fact that China has allegedly been ‘spying’ on the US). And some sections of the Taiwanese Olympic boycott lobby have deeper political roots going back to China’s ‘One China’ policy and its denial of the legitimacy of Taiwan. So, in looking at a potential boycott let’s also look at the geoeconomic and geopolitical motives behind the proponents.

Second, history suggests that Olympic boycotts (in 1956, 1976, 1980 and 1984) haven’t achieved much, and often don’t achieve what they set out to do. If the issue is human rights abuses then how can anyone know that a boycott will lead to democracy in China and more ethical foreign policy? In the Tibet case an international boycott might only strengthen the Chinese peoples’ stance on Tibet, so more international dialogue might be better of the kind advocated by the Dalai Lama. Overseas, China’s role in the world is mediated bilaterally and multilaterally so how would a boycott of a sporting event work alongside these other, more lasting political institutions and relationships? A boycott might be a useful tactical device at a time of international attention on China, but if it is not part of a wider strategy then it’s unlikely to work.

Third, there is also an argument that beyond the high level state agendas and lack of apparent reforms that the Olympics have in fact led to a political and cultural shift in urban China, with a blossoming of civil society organisations that have been critical of the state. So, if we look at the actual political changes, as opposed to those represented in Western media, it may be that China is changing as a result of the Olympics.

Finally, there is the hypocrisy of scapegoating China to serve western agendas. If we are serious about boycotting China then similar public actions need to be taken against all rights abusers and not just China. Once again, singling out China in this manner serves to reinforce the spurious democratic credentials of many western governments. Moreover, the western firms who are heavily involved in the Olympics (e.g. GEC, Visa) are wary about upsetting a lucrative market and so would not support a boycott.

About the author

Giles Mohan is a senior lecturer in development studies. He teaches on the Open University’s development studies programme as well as in geography. Giles’ research examines politics in Africa, particularly ways in which rural communities access the government as well the role of diasporas in national politics.

For our May 2008 book, Stephanie Forward introduces a novel set in the days of the Eisenhower presidency.

Revolutionary Road was published in 1961, to critical acclaim. Richard Yates was hailed for producing a penetrating anti-suburban, anti-marriage novel, although he has denied that this was his intention.

Rather, he saw his book as an indictment of American life generally in the nineteen-fifties. He has explained that he was disturbed by the desire for conformity, and wanted to voice his feelings about the Eisenhower administration and McCarthyism.

When Yates had the idea for Revolutionary Road, the first part that came to mind was actually the ending. He had to construct the novel to lead up to the striking denouement he had envisaged.

The book begins with a performance by a local drama society, which seems appropriate because it sets the scene for the role play that takes place throughout.

Frank and April Wheeler appear to be a model couple, raising their two youngsters in Connecticut. In truth, however, they are both frustrated by their circumstances. Frank feels stifled in his career, and April is a dissatisfied housewife. She suggests a solution: a new life awaits them in Europe, so she urges Frank to move to Paris.

Whilst Yates was writing the book, the character of John Givings occurred to him. John is a patient in a mental hospital, but his observations about the Wheelers hit home. The reader witnesses their descent, as their plans crumble away. In an interview, Yates said that his novel was supposed to be about "a series of abortions, of all kinds".

The forthcoming film of Revolutionary Road will star Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.

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Recently, I visited two rather intriguing places – I promise that this is not going to turn into a chatty travelogue – both of which might easily be overlooked by the casual eye. The first was possibly the most unusual theme park on the planet: Singapore’s Haw Par Villa. Created by the brothers responsible for the gift of Tiger Balm to the world, this is a collection of the most astonishingly gaudy and surreal statutes seemingly thrown down higgledy-piggledy on a hill (the UK’s nearest equivalent is Blackgang Chine on the Isle of Wight, but even that is a thin analogy). The second, more familiar to British audiences, was the seafront at Clacton-On-Sea. Now, the connection between these two sites is, I freely admit, not obvious. One link is that each is in a state of fading glory – or ghastly disrepair, if you prefer. My edition of the Lonely Planet Singapore guide describes Haw Par Villa as "depressingly run down" – which, aside from the depressingly familiar insertion of ‘depressingly’ in front of the phrase ‘run down’, is a fair enough description. Something very similar could doubtless be said of Clacton’s pier and promenade: although visiting it on a viciously cold March day probably didn’t help much.

I didn’t, however, find these places depressing. I thought them fascinating, beautiful even. For shabby and unrestored areas offer to the historian a quite unique glimpse into the past. Let me explain: both Clacton and Haw Par Villa are examples of the development of a modern leisure industry in the early twentieth century, albeit in wildly different parts of the globe. The one is typical of the seaside towns created by the expansion of British working class leisure time and holidays in the handful of decades either side of Queen Victoria’s death – the inter-war entrance to its pier, with its sly little Deco windows, is testament to that. The other, meanwhile, is really not typical of anything at all, but was nonetheless enormously popular when it opened in the 1930s and much of its subject matter (which includes vast concrete tableaux of Buddhist legends and morality tales) is of intrinsic interest to anyone wishing to see how Chinese culture has been transmitted around the world by its nationals.

And it is precisely its decayed state that makes each so valuable for historians. Buildings are no less informative than textual sources in the study of history (it depends on what you want to know!) and can similarly be analysed by historians’ techniques. So these would be, of course, primary sources no matter what condition they were in. Because they are largely unrenovated, though, then with a little imagination and background knowledge we can gain a more genuine idea of what such places were like in their heyday. We can gauge the types of amusements that drew masses of working people from East London to the Essex coast to take their holidays in the middle years of the twentieth century. Or we can imagine the influence of Chinese cultural values on Haw Par Villa’s visitors juxtaposed with those of the ruling British imperial élite in the years before World War Two. Renovation and even restoration – if not done with extreme care – can add often impenetrable layers of extra meaning to properties. It was invigorating, therefore, to see things that are much closer to raw history.

Such faded marvels also allow the historian to pose questions about changes in fashion and practice in the years since they were first constructed. I found myself reflecting on why these places had avoided the ubiquitous momentum of modernisation. In Clacton, I saw practical manifestation of the annual seaside holiday’s decline in Britain: but what had replaced it? And why was our cab driver so surprised when we told him that we were going to Haw Par Villa?

I should, nonetheless, finish on a note of caution – because historical interpretation is rarely easy (that’s what keeps historians in their jobs). Although Haw Par Villa and Clacton’s waterfront both have many things to tell us about the times at which they were built, and though they come quite close to the concrete, unrefined form of the past, neither has been left entirely untouched since the 1930s. Things will have been damaged, moved, re-painted. The odd nod to a new fad will have been added here and there. In the case of Clacton, indeed, it is very much the case that more contemporary advertisements, slogans, and diversions co-exist with far older ones. Even these examples, wonderful though they are, are not preserved in aspic. They require filleting before we can make sound historical judgements on them: but at least these run down, untouched, decayed spectacles can give historians a decent head start.

Taking it further

If the above blog has intrigued you, you may also find the following resources from the Open University to be of interest:

High Street History
Explore the hidden corners of your high street and see how history is buried in the everyday environment with our interactive high street history feature.

Heritage, whose heritage?
Who decides what should be preserved from the past as our heritage? Who is this heritage for and how should it be presented and explained? How can I engage actively with my heritage and have an impact on it? This course endeavours to answer these questions and to engage with current debates on the preservation of the past.

Cities and technology: from Babylon to Singapore
This very wide-ranging course uncovers the interactions between technological development and the growth of urban living from the ancient world through to the present day. It scrutinizes in detail the applications of major technologies – in particular building construction, transport systems, energy sources, and communications. It is designed to develop critical skills such as comparative analysis and the use of historical models of urban development.

About the author

Dr Stuart Mitchell has spent fifteen years teaching history in higher education - the last thirteen of which have been with the Open University, amongst other institutions. Currently, he's a tutor on Exploring History: Medieval to Modern (A200) and Total War and Social Change (AA312). He also serves as the university's academic consultant on the BBC television programme, Timewatch. His first book, The Brief and Turbulent Life of Modernising Conservatism, was published in 2006.