Globalising Migration History Studies in Global Social History

VOLUME 15 Studies in Global Migration History

Editor Dirk Hoerder, Arizona State University, Phoenix, AZ, USA

Editorial Board Bridget Anderson, University of Oxford Dennis Cordell, Southern Methodist University, Dallas TX Adam Hanieh, SOAS, University of London Immanuel Ness, City University of New York Jose Moya, Barnard College, Columbia University Brenda Yeoh, National University of Singapore Vazira Fazila-Yacoobaliis Zamindar, Brown University Min Zhou, Nanyang Technological University, Singapore

VOLUME 3

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/sgsh Globalising Migration History

The Eurasian Experience (16th–21st Centuries)

Edited by

Jan Lucassen and Leo Lucassen

LEIDEN | BOSTON Cover illustration: clockwise Chinese funeral in Batavia, ca. 1935 Source: KITLV, Leiden, Album 1368, Image code 169622 (illustration 3 in the book), Poster of a female Chinese tractor driver, published in October 1964 and designed by Jin Meisheng and Jin Peigeng Source: IISH, Amsterdam, Call number: IISG BG E13/880 (illustration 4), Russian soldiers encamped in a village, ca. 1918 Source: IISH, Amsterdam, Call Number: IISG BG A62/186 (illustration 1) and Ghati coolies, probably in Bombay, ca. 1865 Source: KITLV, Leiden, Album 653, Image code 87154 (illustration 2).

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Globalising migration history : the Eurasian experience (16th–21st centuries) / edited by Jan Lucassen and Leo Lucassen. p. cm. — (Studies in global social history, ISSN 1874-6705 ; volume 15) Includes bibliographical references and indexes. ISBN 978-90-04-27135-7 (hardback : acid-free paper) — ISBN 978-90-04-27136-4 (e-book) 1. Eurasia— Emigration and immigration—History. 2. Eurasians—Migrations—History. 3. Immigrants— Eurasia—History. 4. Globalization—Social aspects—Eurasia—History. 5. Russia—Emigration and immigration—History. 6. Asia—Emigration and immigration—History. 7. Social change—Eurasia— History. 8. Acculturation—Eurasia—History. 9. Eurasia—Ethnic relations. I. Lucassen, Jan. II. Lucassen, Leo, 1959–

JV8490.G57 2014 304.8095—dc23

2014002470

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual ‘Brill’ typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, ipa, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 1874-6705 isbn 978 90 0427135 7 (hardback) isbn 978 90 0427136 4 (e-book)

Copyright 2014 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Global Oriental and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change.

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Contents

Acknowledgements vii Jan Lucassen & Leo Lucassen About the Authors viii List of Tables, Figures, Maps and Illustrations xi List of Abbreviations xix

SECTION ONE: Europe and Siberia

Measuring and Quantifying Cross-Cultural Migrations: An Introduction 3 Jan Lucassen & Leo Lucassen Catherine’s Dilemma: Resettlement and Power in Russia, 1500s–1914 55 Willard Sunderland Measuring Migration in Russia: A Perspective of Empire, 1500–1900 71 Gijs Kessler

Section TWO: South Asia

Mapping Migrations of South Indian Weavers before, during and after the Vijayanagar Period: Thirteenth to Eighteenth Centuries 91 Vijaya Ramaswamy South Indian Migration, c. 1800–1950 122 Sunil S. Amrith

Section THREE: South East Asia

Migration and Colonial Enterprise in Nineteenth Century Java 151 Ulbe Bosma Toward Cities, Seas, and Jungles: Migration in the Malay Archipelago, c. 1750–1850 180 Atsushi Ota The Art of (not) Looking Back: Reconsidering Lisu Migrations and “Zomia” 215 Mireille Mazard vi contents

Migration in an Age of Change: The Migration Effect of Decolonization and Industrialization in Indonesia, c. 1900–2000 247 Jelle van Lottum

Section FOUR: East Asia

A Different Transition: Human Mobility in China, 1600–1900 279 Adam McKeown Han Chinese Immigrants in Manchuria, 1850–1931 307 Yuki Umeno From Mao to the Present: Migration in China since the Second World War 335 Jianfa Shen Cross-Cultural Migrations in Japan in a Comparative Perspective, 1600–2000 362 Leo Lucassen, Osamu Saito, and Ryuto Shimada

Section FIVE: Conclusion

Summary and Concluding Remarks 413 Jan Lucassen & Leo Lucassen

References 429

Name Index 482 Geographical Index 485 Subject Index 494 Acknowledgements

This book is the result of the conference ‘Migration and Mobility in a Global Historical Perspective’, held at the National Taiwan University (NTU) in Taipei in August 2010. We are very grateful to the International Institute for Asian Studies (IIAS), based in Leiden, and the National Science Council (NSC) of Taiwan for their generous financial support. More in particular we thank Martina van den Haak for her excellent logistical and organizational skills and professor Nora Chiang from NTU for her generous hospitality. Finally, we thank the participants in the conference, but especially the two anonymous referees, who carefully read the manuscript, for their valuable comments. This volume is the third in a series on Global Migration History, which started with Migration History in World History (edited by Jan Lucassen, Leo Lucassen & Patrick Manning, Brill 2010) and was recently followed by Migration and membership regimes in global and historical perspective (edited by Ulbe Bosma, Gijs Kessler and Leo Lucassen, Brill 2013). These publications fit in the Global Migration History Programme of the International Institute of Social History (IISH) in Amsterdam and in the Leiden University Interdisciplinary Research Profile Global Interactions (LGI).

Jan Lucassen and Leo Lucassen (Amsterdam and Leiden, December 2013) About the Authors

Sunil Amrith (PhD University of Cambridge, 2004) is Reader in Modern Asian History at Birkbeck College, University of London. His research is concentrates on the connections between South and Southeast Asia in the modern period, with a particular focus on migration. http://www.bbk.ac.uk/history/our-staff/ full-time-academic-staff/sunilamrith.

Ulbe Bosma (PhD University of Leiden, 1995) is Senior Researcher at the International Institute of Social History in Amsterdam and professor in international and comparative social history at VU University. His fields of interest are colonial migration circuits and global commodity production and he is co-editor of Migration and membership regimes in global and historical perspective: an introduction (Brill 2013). http://socialhistory.org/en/staff/ulbe-bosma

Gijs Kessler (PhD European University Institute Florence, 2001) is Senior Researcher at the International Institute of Social History in Amsterdam and based in Moscow. He is a specialist on the social history of Russia and the Soviet Union and co-editor of Migration and membership regimes in global and historical perspective: an introduction (Brill 2013). http://socialhistory.org/en/staff/ gijs-kessler

Jelle van Lottum (PhD University of Utrecht, 2007) is a Birmingham Fellow at the University of Birmingham, where he leads the ESRC funded project ‘Migration, human capital and labour productivity: the international maritime labour market in Europe, c. 1650–1815’. His work focuses on the link between economic performance and labour migration worldwide (1600–present). http://www.birmingham.ac.uk/staff/profiles/history/van-lottum-jelle.aspx

Jan Lucassen (PhD University of Utrecht, 1984) is Emeritus Professor of Social History of the Free University in Amsterdam and as Honorary Fellow attached to the International Institute of Social History. His research focusses on labour migration and the history of work. http://socialhistory.org/en/staff/ jan-lucassen. about the authors ix

Leo Lucassen (PhD University of Leiden, 1990) is Professor of Social and Economic History at the Institute for History of Leiden University. His work concentrates on global migration history, urban studies and social engineering. http://hum. leiden.edu/history/staff/lucassen.html.

Mireille Mazard (PhD University of Cambridge, 2011) is a socio-cultural anthropologist whose research explores political and religious transformations in East and Southeast Asia. For her PhD, she conducted extensive fieldwork among the Nusu people of Yunnan, China, on their tumultuous adaptation to life at the margins of the Chinese state. She has taught anthropology and gender studies at the University of Regina, in Canada; Paññasastra University, in Cambodia; and Yunnan Nationalities University, in China. Her current research examines the ethics of violence in transnational Taiwanese Buddhism.

Adam McKeown (PhD University of Chicago, 1997) has taught world history at Northeastern University and Columbia University. He has researched and published on the histories of Chinese and global migration, including Melancholy Order: Asian Migration and The Globalization of Borders (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008) on the history of migration control.

Atsushi Ota (PhD University of Leiden, 2005) is an Associate Professor at the Graduate School of Letters, Hiroshima University. His research concentrates on social and economic history of maritime Asia, with a focus on trade, migration, and maritime violence. http://www.hiroshima-u.ac.jp/bungaku/staff/p_wd3wyb. html.

Vijaya Ramaswamy (PhD Jawaharlal Nehru University, 1981) is Professor of History at the Centre for Historical Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi in India. She is a ‘Textile Historian’ who has looked at the history of textile through the prism of everyday lives of the weavers—migration patterns, folk songs and social rituals reflective of community memories. http://www.jnu.ac.in/Faculty/ vramaswamy. x about the authors

Osamu Saito (DEcon Keio University 1987) is Emeritus Professor in Economic History at Hitotsubashi University, Japan. His main research field is Japan, c.1600–1940, but his interests also lie in comparative studies with Europe and other parts of Asia. He was visiting Leverhulme professor, at the Cambridge Group for the History of Population and Social Structure, University of Cambridge.

Jianfa Shen (PhD London School of Economics, 1994) is Professor and Head of Graduate Division at the Department of Geography and Resource Management, and Director of the Research Centre for Urban and Regional Development, The Chinese University of Hong Kong. His work concentrates on migration, urbanization, urban and regional development in China. http://www.grm. cuhk.edu.hk/eng/people/ppl/fac_ShenJF.html.

Ryuto Shimada (PhD University of Leiden, 2005) is Associate Professor in Asian History at the Graduate school of Humanities and Sociology of the University of Tokyo, and works on Asian economic history, especially on the history of maritime trade in the early modern period. He is the author of The Intra-Asian Trade in Japanese Copper by the Dutch East India Company during the Eighteenth Century (Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers, 2006). http://www.u-tokyo.ac.jp/ en/people/graduate-school-of-humanities-and-sociology/shimada-ryuto

Willard Sunderland (PhD Indiana University, 1997) is Professor of Russian and World History at the University of Cincinnati. His research focuses on questions related to the history of the Russian empire during the tsarist era. His most recent book is The Baron’s Cloak: A History of the Russian Empire in War and Revolution (Cornell, 2014). http://www.artsci.uc.edu/faculty-staff/listing/by_dept/history. html?eid=sunderwd

Yuki Umeno PhD student in economic history at the Graduate School of Economics of Hitotsubashi University. His main research field is Chinese historical demography. List of Tables, Figures, Maps and Illustrations table caption

Lucassen & Lucassen (Introduction) 1 Conventional binary oppositions between migrants and movers 6 2 CCMRs in Europe (including European Russia), 1501–1900 including tramping artisans and domestics (research results 2010 and 2012) 18 3 The relationship between three major historical processes and types of migration 20 4 Life expectancy (at birth) in different parts of Eurasia, 1820–2000 21 5 Life expectancy adjustments (multipliers) for 50-year sub-periods, Eurasia, 1501–2000 21 6 CCMs in Europe (including European Russia), 1501–2000 (adjusted for life expectancy) (000s) 22 7 Origin of migrants to cities in Europe (including European Russia), 1901–2000 (millions) 24 8 Urbanization levels in 1800 and 1890 (cities > 10,000) 38 9 Urbanization levels in Europe 1600–1800 in percentages (cities > 10,000) 39 10 Intra-generational transmission of property and marriage patterns in Eurasia, sixteenth to twentieth centuries 53

Sunderland 1 Number of male legal immigrants by region of settlement, 1678–1915 63

Kessler 1 Total population of Russia, 1500–1900 (000s) 73 2 Average total population of Russia per fifty-year interval, 1501–1900 (000s) 73 3 Migration by category in Russia, 1501–1900 (000s) 74 4 CCMRs in Russia, corrected for life expectancy, 1501–1900 75

Ramaswamy 1 Caste census figures for Madurai, 1871 102 2 An overview of South Indian weavers with indications of points of departure and destination 116 xii list of tables, figures, maps and illustrations

Amrith 1 Population of the Madras Presidency, 1801–1951 124 2 Population of ‘South Madras’, 1901–1951 142 3 Population of Madras City, 1800–1951 145 4 Madras Presidency: population in towns over 10,000 inhabitants, 1901–1951 145

Bosma 1 Reconstruction of annual average net migration, 1867–1894 (indigenous Javanese population). Arranged from relatively low to high net natural growth (NNG) 160 2 Population growth of the largest cities of Java, 1810–1930 175 3 Lifetime immigrants per Residency in 1930 176

Ota 1 Population of Melaka Town, c. 1511–1688 182 2 Population of Melaka Town and its suburbs, 1750–1860 184 3 The slave population of Melaka Town and its suburbs, 1824–1827 185 4 Population of Penang and its hinterland, 1786–1860 186 5 Population of Province Wellesley, 1786–1860 189 6 Population of Singapore, 1819–1860 190 7 Population of Batavia and the Ommelanden, 1673–1797 196 8 Population of the Province of Batavia, 1812–1850 201 9 Size of the Chinese population and Chinese miners in Bangka, 1803–1852 202 10 Chinese migrants related to gold mining in West Kalimantan, 1810–1905 204 11 Maritime migrants in the Sultanate of Matan, West Kalimantan, 1810 and 1822 207 van Lottum 1 Migrant stock and migrant stock rate for the four CCM categories, in 1930, 1960 and 2000 253 2 Percentage of indigenous immigrants in cities of 10,000 or more in Indonesia, 1930 260 3 Foreign born immigrants in Indonesia in 1930 264 4 Estimated beta-coefficient and ranking of determinants of internal migration in Indonesia 271 list of tables, figures, maps and illustrations xiii

McKeown 1 Colonizing migrants in China and Europe, 1601–1900 (millions) 286 2 Estimates for Chinese migration to cities over 10,000, 1601–1900 (millions) 291 3 Number of Chinese and European cities in the global urban top 75, 1600–1900 293 4 Green standard army troops, 1686–1887 (000s) 296

Umeno 1 Estimated population and migrant flows between North China and Manchuria, 1891–1942 314 2 Estimated migrations from North China to Manchuria, 1850–1940 316 3 Sectorial composition of migrants to and from Manchuria in the fiscal year of 1939 (April to March 1940) (000s) 317 4 Estimated composition of migrant types in the fiscal year 1939 (000s) 318 5 The ethnic composition of migrants in Manchuria (puppet state of Manchukuo) in 1940 (000s) 319 6 Reasons for immigration to Manchuria (retrospective), surveyed in 1931 321 7 A summary of the statistics of six sampled farm villages in Manchuria, 1935 325 8 Estimated determinants of migration and occupational change on a yearly basis, within southern Manchuria, 1891–1931 330 9 Detailed estimates of determinants of migration and occupational change on a yearly basis, within southern Manchuria, 1891–1931 333

Shen 1 Urban population, rural population and rural to urban migration in China, 1953–2010 (millions) 337 2 Annual migration rates based on hukou and census migration data, 1986–2005 348 3 The temporary population in China, 1982–2005 353 4 Number of migrants by types of migration and hukou status in 1995–2000 (0.095% sample data) 354 5 Annual migration in China, 1985–2005 (millions) 355 6 Reasons for inter-provincial migration by hukou categories and migration types, 1995–2000 355 7 CCMs (in millions) and CCMRs in China, 1951–2000 359 xiv list of tables, figures, maps and illustrations

Lucassen, Saito & Shimada 1 Estimates of Japanese settlers in Southeast Asia in the early seventeenth century 366 2 The origins of state-sponsored emigrants from Japan by prefecture (1899–1941) 376 3 Registered foreign residents in Japan, 1985–2008 (000s) 378 4 Immigration to Japan, 1851–2000 (000s) 380 5 Japanese emigration, 1880–1942 382 6 Emigration from Japan, 1601–2000 (000s) 383 7 The number of Ainu and Japanese colonists in Hokkaidō, 1807–1936 384 8 Urbanization in Japan, 1550–2000 386 9 Rural to urban migrants in Japan, 1601–2000 (000s) 387 10 Soldiers as cross-cultural migrants in Japan, 1851–1950 (000s) 388 11 Total number of temporal multi-annual migrants, 1601–2000 (000s) 389 12 CCMs and CCMRs in Japan, 1601–2000 (000s) 392 13 CCMRs (% of the population) and 50-year increase (%) in Europe (without Russia), China, Japan and Russia, 1801–2000 394

A.1 Estimates of the annual average of alternate-attendance travellers by period (000s) 398 A.2 Castle town projects carried out under the ‘service for the realm’ schemes, 1601–1636 400 A.3 Phase-specific kokudaka information for daimyo involved in the second wave of castle construction, 1618–1636 402 B.1 Interwar dekasegi migrants: Home Ministry data, 1928–1936 (000s) 405 B.2 Postwar seasonal migrants: Ministry of Agriculture data, 1958–1980 (000s) 405 B.3 Dekasegi migrants by sector they worked for: 1928/34 and 1958/60 (000s) 405 B.4 Estimated seasonal migrants for benchmark years and sub-periods, 1825–2000 (000s) 406 B.5 Seasonal migrants by half-century, 1601–2000 (000s) 407 list of tables, figures, maps and illustrations xv figure caption

Lucassen & Lucassen (Introduction) 1 Cross-cultural migration rate (CCMR) method for a given territory and time period 15 2 CCMRs for Europe (including European Russia), 1501–1900 (not adjusted for life expectancy) (%) 17 3 CCMRs for Europe (including European Russia), 1501–2000 (adjusted for life expectancy) (%) 23 4 CCMRs for Europe (including European Russia), 1501–2000 (adjusted for life expectancy) (%), excluding internal migrants moving to cities within European states after 1900 25 5 CCMRs for Europe (without Russia), Russia, China and Japan, 1601–1800 (adjusted for life expectancy) (%) 31 6 CCMRs for Europe (without Russia), (European and Asiatic) Russia, China and Japan, 1801–2000 (adjusted for life expectancy)(%) 33 7 Shares of migration types for China, 1601–2000 34 8 Shares of migration types for Europe (excluding European Russia), 1501–2000 35

Kessler 1 Shares of migration types for Russia, 1501–1900 76 2 CCMRs for Russia, Europe and China, 1501–1900 (% of total population) 83 3 Shares of migration types for Europe (including European Russia), 1501–1900 85 4 Shares of migration types for China, 1601–1900 86

Amrith 1 Indian arrivals into and departures from the Straits Settlements, 1794–1870 129 2 Indian arrivals into and departures from Ceylon, 1843–1870 130 3 Total migration to Malaya, Burma and Ceylon, 1897–1914 134 4 Arrivals, departures and net immigration: Malaya, 1790–1941 135 5 Arrivals, departures and net immigration: Ceylon, 1843–1941 135 6 Arrivals, departures and net immigration: Burma, 1901–1938 136 7 Chinese migration to and from Southeast Asia, 1869–1940 136 8 Indian migration to Ceylon and Malaya, 1920–1939 137 9 Indian migration to Burma, 1929–1935 138 10 Fresh and repeat migration to Malaya, 1926–1938 139 xvi list of tables, figures, maps and illustrations

11 Fresh and repeat migration to Ceylon, 1926–1938 139 12 Rates of mobility for South India, 1921–1931 144

Bosma 1 Pilgrims leaving for Mecca from the Indonesian archipelago, 1850–1930 172

Van Lottum 1 Migrant Stock Rate for four CCM migration categories, in 1930, 1960 and 2000 254 2 Share of four CCM categories in total migrant population in 1930, 1960 and 2000 254

McKeown 1 Populations of China and Europe, 1600–1900 283 2 Colonization rates (% of the population) in various empires and continental Europe, 1601–1900 287 3 Emigration rates (% of the population) from China and Europe, 1601–1900 288 4 Total colonization and emigration (% of the population) from China and Europe, 1601–1900 289 5 Urban migration rates (% of the population) for China and Europe, 1601–1900 292 6 Military migration rates for China and Europe, 1601–1900 298 7 CCMRs for China and Europe, 1601–1900 301 8 Shares of migration types for China, 1601–1900 301 9 Shares of migration types for Europe (including Russia), 1601–1900 302

Umeno 1 Net number of migrants to Manchuria, 1891–1942 315 2 Migrations between North China and Manchuria, 1891–1942 315 3 The distribution of the Han population of Manchuria (puppet state of Manchukuo) by 5-year age bracket and sex, 1940 321 4 Province of origin of the six sampled farm villages of Manchuria, 1935 324 5 Occupational status (multiple answers) in the six sampled farm villages of Manchuria, 1935 328 6 Occupational status (multiple answers) by province of origin in the six sampled farm villages of Manchuria, 1935 328 list of tables, figures, maps and illustrationss xvii

Shen 1 Annual migration rates based on the hukou system and census data, 1954–2005 350 2 In-migration rate in provincial units of the eastern region of China, 1985–2005 (%) 357 3 Out-migration rate in provincial units of the central region of China, 1985–2005 (%) 358 4 Out-migration rate in provincial units of the western region of China, 1985–2005 (%) 358 5 Shares of migration types for China, 1951–2000 360 6 Shares of migration types for China, 1601-2000 361

Lucassen, Saito & Shimada 1 Japanese population, 1600–2000 369 2 Annual number of Japanese emigrants to foreign countries, 1881–1945 381 3 Cross-cultural migrations (CCMs) in Japan, 1601–2000 392 4 Shares of migration types for Japan, 1601–2000 394

Lucassen & Lucassen (Conclusion) 1 Types of migration and degrees of compulsion to migrate: examples from Eurasia, 1500–2000 422

map caption

Ramaswamy 1 Weaving centers in medieval South India 92 2 The Vijayanagara Empire 95 3 Weaver migration patterns in medieval South India 118

Bosma 1 Cultural zones and residencies of Java 154

Ota 1 Larger Malay Archipelago 181 2 South China, indicating approximate areas of origin of Chinese in the Malay Archipelago 183 xviii list of tables, figures, maps and illustrations

Mazard 1 Lisu migrations in South East Asia 216

Umeno 1 Location of the sites under study: North China (Hebei and Shandong), Manchuria, and six sampled villages (1935) 308

Shen 1 Three regions and provinces in China 351

Illustrations

1 Russian soldiers encamped in a village, ca. 1918 2 2 Ghati coolies, probably in Bombay, ca. 1865 90 3 Chinese funeral in Batavia, ca. 1935 150 4 Poster of a female Chinese tractor driver, published in October 1964 and designed by Jin Meisheng and Jin Peigeng Populations of China and Europe, 1600–1900 278 5 Arrival of the family of an Italian guest worker at Amsterdam Central Station, 1961 412 List of Abbreviations

AP Average Population BISNC British India Steam Navigation Company CCM Cross Cultural Migration CCMR Cross Cultural Migration Rate Colo Colonization EIC East India Company Emi Emigration GDP Gross Domestic Product GDR German Democratic Republic HVA Amsterdam Trading Society Immi Immigration KNIL Colonial Dutch Army (East Indies) KPM Dutch Royal Shipping Company MSR Migrant Stock Rate NAI National Archives of India PALE Population Averaged for Life Expectancy PLA People’s Liberation Army Seas Seasonal TMA Temporary multi-annual VOC Dutch East India Company

section ONE Europe and Siberia

∵ illustration 1 Russian soldiers encamped in a village, ca. 1918 Source: IISH, Amsterdam, Call Number: IISG BG A62/186 Measuring and Quantifying Cross-Cultural Migrations: An Introduction1

Jan Lucassen & Leo Lucassen

1 A General Approach for Migration History

1.1 Introduction Migration history has become a booming field in the last three decades and more recently it has increasingly become global.2 Instead of privileging mass migrations in the Atlantic, scholars have started to study similar movements in other parts of the world, especially in Asia.3 Others have pushed back the temporal boundaries and compared human mobilities and interactions long before the onset of what has become known as the ‘modern mass migrations’ between the mid-nineteenth and mid-twentieth centuries.4 So far, however, historians have failed to come up with generally accepted definitions and typologies to measure and qualify migrations, which makes structured comparisons through space and time difficult, if not impossible. We therefore have great trouble in assessing the rate of migrations in different societies and time periods. As a consequence, questions as to whether some societies are more mobile than others, or whether in the current world we have indeed reached the zenith of spatial mobility, as many assume, cannot be answered satisfac- torily. Moreover, this lack of clarity is responsible for the virtual absence of migration (and ethnic diversity) in larger debates about economic growth, inequality, labor relations, and social change. Although economic and social historians have reached agreement about a number of crucial benchmarks to enable global comparisons, such as gross domestic product (GDP), productivity

1 We are grateful to Patrick Manning and Adam McKeown for their inspiring contributions to our thinking. Furthermore our thanks goes to Ulbe Bosma, Joseph Ehmer, Gijs Kessler, Jelle van Lottum, Leslie Moch, Damian Pargas and the participants of the Global Migration History Conferences in Taipé (September 2009) and Rabat (2012). For a background see: http://socialhistory.org/nl/projects/global-migration-history-programme. 2 Moch 1992; Lucassen & Lucassen 1997; Hoerder 2002; Eltis 2002; Bade 2003; Manning 2005; Manning 2013; McKeown 2008; Lucassen, Lucassen & Manning 2010; Gabaccia & Hoerder 2011; Gabaccia 2012; Oltmer 2012; Livi-Bacci 2012a and 2012b. 3 Gottschang & Lary 2000; McKeown 2004; Gabaccia & Hoerder 2011; Amrith 2011a. 4 Hoerder 2002; Manning 2005; Lucassen, Lucassen & Manning 2010. For East Asia, see Sanchez-Mazas et al. 2008.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��4 | doi 10.1163/9789004271364_002 4 lucassen and lucassen per capita and indicators or proxies for human capital (numeracy, literacy), inequality, gender differences (‘girl power index’), and family systems,5 with regard to migration they are even divided about such fundamental questions as to what constitutes a migratory step, let alone what impact such steps have on both migrants and the societies where they settle. The result is that there is no agreement on key questions such as whether early modern societies were indeed less mobile than modern ones; whether we can compare current illegal African migrants in Spain to Bretons moving to Paris in the nineteenth century; and whether the mass migrations to Manchuria after 1860 are principally different from the Atlantic mass migrations to North America.6 Or do our own times surpass all previous periods when it comes to the volume and impact of cross-cultural migrations?7 Although many students have suggested definitions, typologies, and methods, historians and social scientists cherish their own idiosyncratic and often heavily politically loaded approaches. This is partly explained by different research agendas and questions,8 levels of analysis, and various forms of methodological nationalism and presentism,9 but it is also nourished by an unwill- ingness and an understandable fear regarding too broad generalizations. These objections have not restrained migration historians from publishing all kinds of wide-ranging and even global overviews, with mostly implicit (but mutually inconsistent) definitions of migration. We think that many of the fears of and aversion to a uniform definition of migration are unwarranted and that they need not necessarily lead to reduc- tionism and meaningless levels of aggregation. Instead of harking back to a naive and outdated form of structuralism, following Nancy Green we propose a ‘poststructural structuralism’,10 which combines explicit research designs and definitions with nuanced, layered, contextual, and culturally embedded historical research. In this chapter we lay out a method and typology that helps us to make sense of the varied historical experience and that allows us to compare migra-

5 Allen et al. 2011; Lucas 2002; De Moor & Van Zanden 2008; A’Hearn et al. 2009; Van Lottum et al. 2011; Kok 2010. 6 For North America see Taylor 2002. 7 Moch 2012; McKeown 2004. 8 Postcolonial migrants for example, like the 6.5 million hikiagesha who returned to Japan after World War II (Cohen 2012), are often not considered as migrants, but as expats. Furthermore, forced migrants, especially slaves, or ex-pats (Green 2009; Smith & Favell 2006), are often excluded. 9 Wimmer & Glick Schiller 2003. 10 Green 1997. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 5 tions on a global and historical scale, building on our work in this area that started in 2008.11 Although it was developed on the basis of migrations in Europe between 1500 and 1900 (and later extended to the year 2000), we think it can be applied on a global scale, starting with Eurasia, the subject of this volume. The aim is not only to contribute to discussions about levels of migration and mobility in different parts of the world before and after the industrial revolution, but more importantly to understand much better the effect of different forms of migrations on social, cultural, and economic change. As such it will also help to clarify unresolved debates about the relation between ethnic diversity and economic growth or social trust.12

1.2 Migration and Mobility: Definitions and Concepts The main reason for the wide range of migration definitions is the reliance on sources produced by states which stem from their interest in certain types of migration. Thus France in the early nineteenth century created an administrative system that enabled bureaucrats to follow the residential moves of draftees until their mid-forties, so that they could be mobilized if necessary.13 Empires like Russia (before and after 1917), Tokugawa Japan, and Maoist China, or Apartheid South Africa also monitored internal migrations, for both eco- nomical and political reasons.14 With the rise of the nation state, crossing national boundaries and the wish to distinguish between citizens and aliens became by far the most dominant criteria when it comes to migration.15 The idea that one’s own citizens should enjoy preferential social, economic, and political rights, but also that citizens abroad should be protected against unfair treatment,16 explains the rise of what Gerard Noiriel so succinctly called ‘la tyrannie du national.’17 The gaze of the state has proved hugely influential in the way scholars have studied migration and has privileged some definitions over others. States

11 Lucassen & Lucassen 2008, followed by idem 2009, 2010, 2011 and 2012. 12 Alesina & Ferrara 2005; Putterman & Weil 2010; Putnam 2007. 13 Farcy & Faure 2003; Lucassen 1987. 14 Light 2012. In contrast, the US did not systematically monitor internal migration. There are presumably ways to quantify these migration waves, however. Historians have analysed ship manifests and slave trader’s records to quantify the domestic slave migration from 1790–1860, for example. US Census records allow us to track migration into the western territories (although we don’t always know where these migrants originated from). Migration to the cities is also mostly tracked through census records. 15 Torpey 2000; Caplan & Torpey 2001; Fahrmeir 2007; McKeown 2008. 16 Gabaccia 2012; Green & Weil 2007. 17 Noiriel 1991. 6 lucassen and lucassen

Table 1 Conventional binary oppositions between migrants and movers

Real migrants (Migration) Other movers (Mobility)

Distance Long Short (geographical) Border crossing International/intercontinental Internal (municipal, regional, provincial, federal state) Intention Final stay at destination Return to origin in short or long run (sojourners) Time Long term Short term (seasonal, multi- annual labor migrants) New social ties High (at least in the long run) Low (social and cultural isolation in gated communities) Class Low High (e.g. expats) and Low (e.g. gypsies) Power Migrants who join and follow Migrants who come as invaders the rules. and take over. Migrants set the rules. Agency Free Coerced (slaves) or prescribed (expats)

defined ‘migration,’ subsequently counted ‘migrants,’ and the resulting statistical data have determined the categories used by historians and social scientists. At the same time scholars were lured away from basic questions regarding the distance traveled, the type of borders people crossed, the intention of the move, and the time spent away from home. Because state definitions loom heavily, ‘real’ migration is often distinguished from ‘only’ spatial mobility, assuming that ‘real’ migrants travel over long distances, cross international (or even intercontinental) boundaries, and have the aim to stay away for good, or at least for many years, leading to standard distinctions as shown in Table 1. Yet, within the field of migration history, there is no communis opinio about these binary oppositions. When it comes to distance, for example, many migration scholars prefer national (or even continental) boundaries over local ones. And this explains the neglect of most internal migrations, both in Europe and Asia, as is demonstrated by the invisibility of tens of millions of intra-Asian migrants in studies on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.18

18 See the chapter by McKeown. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 7

Secondly, little attention is paid to temporary movements, such as seasonal labor, the migration of domestics from villages to cities, or that of tramping artisans.19 Consequently, in most mainstream overviews of migration, temporary and small-scale moves are conspicuously lacking and often left to geographers and demographers.20 The underlying assumption is that ‘real’ migrants move with the aim to settle somewhere else for good, preferably in a faraway country. The, often implicit, assumption seems to be that migration, in contrast to mobility, has a much larger cultural impact on both the migrants and the societies in which they settle, leading to conflicts, integration problems, or, more positively, to social and cultural change. This explains why nowadays in Western Europe, many scholars study the migration and settlement process of Moroccans, Turks, and postcolonial migrants, but ignore people coming from neighboring countries.21 Germans in the Netherlands or French in the United Kingdom in our current era are normally not considered as ‘real’ migrants, because their culture is assumed to be more or less similar to that of the natives. Added to these considerations are policy definitions which tend to privilege lower class migrants who would cause social problems over highly educated ones, defined as ‘expats.’22 Next, there is a strong tendency to exclude unfree migrations, which resulted in leaving out of the mainstream Atlantic migration story the 12 million African slaves who were forcefully shipped to the New World.23 Furthermore, Asian migrants—if noticed at all—are often assumed to move in some form of bondage, whether as laborers or through trafficking. The same is true for prisoners of war and inmates of concentration camps. There is an implicit assumption that migrants have less power than the people they join and therefore have to adapt or assimilate. This explains why Europeans who ventured into Asia and Africa from the fifteenth century onwards, or the Spaniards who conquered Latin America, are often not considered as migrants. Finally, it is remarkable that migrants who display extremely mobile behavior, not with the aim of staying but as a consequence of their profession, such

19 Lucassen 1987; Moch 1992; Moch 2007; Ehmer 2011. 20 Lee 1966; Lawton 1968; Zelinsky 1971; Grigg 1977; Oshiro 1984; Chang 1996; Fan & Huang 1998; Pooley & Turnbull 1998; Van Poppel, Oris & Lee 2004; Kok 2007. 21 See e.g. Crul & Mollenkopf 2012. 22 On expats as migrants, see: Hanerz 1990; Sassen 1991; Salt 1992; Smith & Favell 2006; Favell 2008; Green 2009; Bickers 2010; Blower 2011; Bade et al. 2011; Fechter & Walsh 2012; Van Bochove 2012. 23 See for example Klein 2000. Some American historians are starting to combine research on African-Americans’ international forced migrations with research on their internal migrations within America. See for example Berlin 2010. 8 lucassen and lucassen as travelling artisans, seasonal workers, sailors, and soldiers, are frequently also excluded from migration histories, as they do not fit the ‘from A to B and then stay’ format. However, their geographical mobility could be of great significance, as well as the impact they have on others and which others have on them. Take the example of John Smith from Lincolnshire. Born at the end of the sixteenth century, he first fought in the Netherlands, after which he joined Austrian forces fighting in Hungary against the armies of the Ottoman empire. When he was taken prisoner in Romania he made it to Austria, after which he left for Virginia in the Fall of 1607.24 However, few historians, including those from whom we borrowed this petite histoire, would class John Smith as a migrant. This mix of state preoccupations and other culturally and ideologically determined associations with the term ‘migrant’ has produced a number of binary oppositions between what we would call (real) ‘migrants’ and ‘other movers’ (Table 1), which have divided and fragmented the field dramatically and stand in the way of a more fundamental understanding of human migrations. These oppositions are the result of highly stylized post hoc and teleologi- cal constructions of much more intricate human spatial and social behavior. Two major difficulties stand out. First, the difference between intention and result: migrants may have the intention to leave for good, but for all kinds of reasons return after shorter or longer periods. The opposite is also true; some move multiple times and return—if at all—after decades.25 And in the case of sojourners it may even take generations.26 A good example of the often considerable disparity between intention and result is that of migrants who moved within colonial circuits, such as the Dutch or English empires,27 but also informal empires like the American empire since the late nineteenth century and the Japanese empire in the first half of the twentieth.28 Migrants in colonial circuits travelled thousands of miles, but mostly with the ultimate aim to return home. While many died en route, and others stayed away for good, a substantial number did indeed return, but not after having been exposed to

24 Acemoglu & Robinson 2012: 21. 25 Brettell 1986; Cinel 1991; Morawska 1991; Wyman 1993; Wyman 2001; Reeder 2003 and Alexander 2005. 26 The term ‘sojourner’ was initially reserved for Chinese outside China (Siu 1952), but has become a general category (Manning 2005), and is also applied to American artists in Paris for example (Blower 2011) or colonial expats (Bickers 2010). 27 Bosma 2007a and 2007b; Feldman 2007; Harper & Constantine 2010; Bickers 2010. 28 Gabaccia 2012; Young 1998; Uchida 2011; see also Lucassen, Saito & Shimada in this volume. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 9 very different cultures and ways of life. Europeans who stayed in the colonies often married indigenous partners, whereas their descendants at some point in time returned from the (ex-)colonies to their ‘fatherland.’ Although these ‘retornados’ often exercised a considerable economic, social, cultural, and political impact on the communities they returned to, this has attracted only limited attention.29 Secondly, with respect to geographical distance, it is important to note that short distance moves may also bring migrants into culturally and socially very distinct worlds, and force them to build new social ties. As Leslie Page Moch and others have convincingly argued,30 the temporary move of a young French girl in the nineteenth century to a nearby town or city where she is employed as a domestic by a bourgeois family, would probably have had more influence on her life than the travel from one expat community to another had on a highly skilled migrant. Or, as the geographer Wilbur Zelinsky put it:

Genuine migration obviously means a perceptible and simultaneous shift in both spatial and social locus, so that the student cannot realisti- cally measure one kind of movement while he ignores the other. Which family is more migratory, the one transferred 3000 miles across the continent by an employer to be plugged into a suburb almost duplicating its former neighbourhood, or the black family that moves a city block into a previously white district? Ideally, we should observe shifts in both varieties of space in tandem, but given the dearth of techniques and data for handling purely social movement, we are forced to rely almost solely on territorial movements as a clumsy surrogate for total mobility.31

This means that three conceptual units of analysis that are basic to migration history have to be questioned seriously before we can start making meaningful comparisons between different parts of Eurasia: the state, the household, and cultural units.

(Nation) States and Their Subsections Since the nineteenth century national states have produced a wealth of statistics on ‘immigration’ and ‘emigration.’32 As a result, most historians, for both

29 Smith 2003; Bosma, Lucassen & Oostindie 2012a. 30 Moch 1992 and 2012. 31 Zelinsky 1971: 224. 32 Well known and famous examples provide the two volume study by Imre Ferenczi (of the International Labour Office in Geneva) and Walter F. Willcox (of the National Bureau of 10 lucassen and lucassen practical and substantive reasons, define migration as the permanent moves over national boundaries, notwithstanding the arbitrariness of such a choice. It means, for example, that Belgians in the French-speaking southern provinces who choose to settle on the other side of the border in France, moving 10–20 kilometers, are considered international migrants, whereas the prerevolutionary Russian trader who leaves Vladivostok to build a new life in Kiev, traveling almost 7,000 kilometres, is considered an internal migrant. Within the nation state paradigm he will remain below the radar of the mainstream migration historian. Another well-known example is the often temporary and circulatory migration of skilled British workers who crossed the Atlantic from the 1870s onward to earn higher wages on the east coast of the United States. Through such urban to urban moves an integrated North Atlantic migration field emerged in which a move from Birmingham to Liverpool was not fundamentally different from an ocean crossing to Pittsburgh.33 Nevertheless most studies stick to a fundamental distinction between internal and international migrations. Our myopic view on migration is not only explained by implicit ideas on what constitutes a ‘real’ spatial move, but also by the available sources, which fail to register most local and temporary migrations. Such limitations, however, need not be an insoluble problem. Alongside the nation state paradigm demographers already in the late nineteenth century developed sophisticated methods to measure and map local and internal migrations by using local registers.34 At the aggregate level national censuses often provide information about international as well as internal migrations that have been used to detect patterns and regularities. The most famous contribution in this respect was made by Ernst Georg Ravenstein, a German-born fellow of the Royal Geographical Society in London,35 who in 1885 published his ‘Laws of migration’, based on the British 1871 and 1881 censuses, with additional information

Economic Research) (Ferenczi & Willcox 1929; Willcox 1931). See also DeWind 2003: 74. For the more recent period see Foner & Lucassen 2012. 33 Berthoff 1953; Thomas 1954; Baines 1985; Blewett 2011. 34 See for France Moch 1983 and Sewell 1985, for Germany Hochstadt 1999, for the Netherlands Kok 2004, for the U.K. Pooley & Turnbull 1998, and for Sweden Dribe & Lund 2005. In East Asia Japan (Wilkinson 1965; White 1978; Hayami 2001a) and Taiwan (Wolf & Engelen 2008) developed similar administrative systems, and thus opened possibilities for historians to study small-scale migrations. See also the chapter by Umeno in this volume. 35 Born in 1834 in Frankfurt am Main, he moved to London in 1852, where a became a natu- ralized British subject. He subsequently worked for the Topographical Department of the War Office (1855–72) before joining the Royal Statistical Society (Baigent 2013). measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 11 about the birthplaces of those counted.36 This enabled him to measure flows at the county level in the British Isles (including Ireland) on the basis of which he formulated seven ‘laws’ of migration. The most important of these were that short distance migrations occurred much more frequently than long distance moves, that each current of migration produces a compensating counter- current, and that women are more migratory than men.37

Individuals and Households Scholars such as Ravenstein who study migration through the lense of censuses, show a marked predilection for the individual migrant, a preference which fitted the concept of the heroic male migrant who dared to break away from tradition and ventured into an unknown promised land.38 With the rise of professional social and economic history in the 1960s this methodological (and gendered) individualism has been abandoned by most scholars. Their focus on individuals as members of larger social units (families and households) made visible a plethora of moves that had considerable consequences for people’s lives, and showed how family strategies had a big influence on who was to move and how. When we look at how family members made decisions about who was to leave and who was to stay, we can go beyond abstract macro ‘push’ and ‘pull’ models and understand much better the reasons behind human migrations at the micro (individual) and meso (household) levels. This approach has generated a wealth of detailed studies that show how mobile people have been long before the Industrial Revolution.39 But it also showed the path to structured (and often unexpected) comparisons over time. A good example are Italian seasonal migrants from the Apennines and the Abruzzi mountains. From the early modern period onward they worked year in, year out in large numbers in the central Italian coastal plains to harvest grain.40 From the mid-nineteenth century onward, with the introduction of steamships, many of them decided to trade the Campagna Romana for the Argentine Pampas, which from a nation state perspective immediately made them not only international but even intercontinental labor migrants.41 Notwithstanding the spectacular increase in the distance traveled, however, the primary reason for moving,

36 Ravenstein 1876, 1885 and 1889. See also Grigg 1977. 37 Tobler 1995. 38 As in Handlin 1951. 39 Kok 2010. 40 Lucassen 1987: 117–118. 41 Frid de Silberstein 2001. 12 lucassen and lucassen nor the function of their migrations for the family economy, changed fundamentally. In both cases men left their wives and children behind on the small (peasant) family plot with the aim of earning high wages, overseas or (until the mid-nineteenth century) in the plains in central Italy. In both instances they hoped to prevent the forced sale of their land and thereby full-scale proletarianization.42 From this and many other examples we can conclude that migration can be studied more fruitfully from the perspective of household members who cross temporary or permanent borders, irrespective of whether they are national, regional, or local. At the least, this is the case when we want to understand the impact of migration on labor markets and economic development, as well as on household dynamics and individual life cycle developments. Studying migration from a household perspective meant a great leap forward in historical migration research, but it also has its disadvantages because it focuses predominantly on free migrations. Forced migrations, by the state or other third parties, and therefore not primarily resulting from family strategies, are almost always ignored. This is unjustified, however, because coerced forms of migration can also be determined by family decisions, at least to some extent. Think for example of households (in debt) that sold children or other family members to outsiders in order to survive, as was the case during the Ming dynasty in China in the sixteenth century,43 or Christian families in the Ottoman empire who had to hand over one of their (young) sons to be enlisted in the (elite) Jannisary corps.44 Furthermore we can think of indentured labor and selective refugee migrations (often primarily young men, much less so the elderly or children).45 The freedom for families to decide who is to move, however, is indeed reduced to near insignificance in the case of slave migrations, forced remov- als of entire populations, and genocidal forms of replacement to sites of mass murder, as in the case of Jews and kulaks (and other ‘enemies’ of the Soviet state) in Europe between 1933 and 1945, especially in Poland and the Ukraine,46 or the Armenians in Turkey. But even in these atrocious cases, agency was not entirely lacking. Some families anticipated persecutions and left, or sent certain family members (e.g. children) away. Others, who had this option, could decide to hide, or choose some of their members, again often children, to go into hiding.

42 Lucassen 1987. 43 Hofmeester & Moll-Murata 2011. 44 Agoston 2005. 45 For North America see Jordan & Walsh 2007 and Morgan 2001. 46 Snyder 2010. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 13

Cross-Cultural Boundaries A major advantage of the household approach is the framework it offers to compare permanent and temporal, local, international and intercontinental migrants. However, it tells us little about the nature of the boundary that migrants cross and thereby about the social, political, and cultural effects of their moves, both on themselves and on the society they enter. Some may travel far, but stay within a well-known ambience, linguistically and culturally, whereas others travel over short distances, but nevertheless plunge into a new world with different values, technologies, religions, and political systems or rules about social behavior. To overcome the manifold unproductive binary oppositions between migration and mobility (Table 1), we propose a more recent paradigm that offers a typology that looks in principle at all moves, but that distinguishes between migrations within a similar cultural space (‘home community migration’) and migrations that cross a cultural boundary.47 The core assumption behind this sociocultural paradigm is that, unlike people moving within their relatively culturally homogeneous ‘community’ (which may be a language group, a region, but also a state), cross-cultural migrations have different and more far-reaching transformative effects.48 The peaceful or violent confrontation of people with different cultural baggage has the potential for cultural and social change, at the personal, organizational, and societal level. As migrants and non-migrants learn from each other, this may generate new ideas which in turn can lead to all kinds of innovation. Although, in cases where migrants are invaders (Vikings, colonial expansion, Chinese troops in Tibet), it may also culminate in massive violence and the wiping out or marginalization of the ‘natives,’ as the aborigi- nal population of the Americas and Oceania experienced from the sixteenth century onward. But even in these cases there are ample indications that cultural encounters, violent and one-sided as they often were, also changed the migrants. In most cases however, cross-cultural migrations were less destructive and resulted in more peaceful and extensive sociocultural changes.49 We use this idea, formulated by Patrick Manning, as the starting point for a new and global method that enables us to measure and compare in a rigorous

47 Manning 2005; and Manning 2013. 48 Manning defines ‘cross community migrants’ as people who cross cultural (in practice linguistic) boundaries and usually speaks of ‘cross community migrations’. We, however, define cultural more broadly and not necessarily between specific groups (as in the case of rural to urban moves, or migration to land). Throughout this study we therefore prefer to use the term ‘cross-cultural migrations’. In earlier texts (Lucassen & Lucassen 2009) we have used cross-cultural and cross community interchangeably. 49 Hoerder 2002. 14 lucassen and lucassen and systematic way the rate (and different manifestations) of cross-cultural migrations within a given territory.50 The value of such a standardized method is not only that it produces standardized benchmarks for the extent of migrations, but also for their impact, both on the sending and receiving areas, and of course on the migrants themselves. Differences in the share of cross-cultural migrants in the total population (the migration rate) between areas raises important questions about the vitality and dynamics of a society and its potential for economic growth, to mention just a few.

2 Towards a Generally Applicable Method to Measure Cross-Cultural Migrations

2.1 The CCMR-method These considerations have led us to develop the cross-cultural migration rate (CCMR) method, which calculates the chance for an individual to experience at least one cross-cultural migration in his or her life, and which can be expressed as the share of the population in a certain territory (from a city to an empire or continent). In the original formulation we used the following six categories that encompass all cross-cultural movements within a given territory (T) (irrespective of scale), measured in fifty-year periods:51

1) Immigration (people moving into T) 2) Emigration (people moving out of T) 3) To cities (within T, generally from rural areas) 4) Colonization (moving to rural areas within T) 5) Seasonal (within T, generally between peasant and farmer regions) 6) Temporal multi-annual (soldiers, sailors, and artisans within T).

This migration typology harbors two different organizing principles. One is the differentiation between four forms of migration within a chosen geographical unit of analysis: to cities, to land/rural centers (colonization), seasonal, and multi-annual (soldiers, sailors, and artisans). The other consists of two logical categories that are necessary to calculate total migration rates: people leaving (emigration) or entering (immigration) that same geographical unit of analysis. For a full understanding of the causes and effects of cross-cultural migrations within a given area, immigration and emigration therefore have to be

50 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009. 51 Ibidem. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 15

Figure 1 Cross-cultural migration rate (CCMR) method for a given territory and time period

‘unpacked.’ Only then do we know how many of the immigrants or emigrants went to (or came from) cities or rural areas, and moved as soldiers, sailors, or seasonal workers. The relationships between the six categories is visualized in Figure 1. 16 lucassen and lucassen

In relation to the population size of a given territory in a given time period, the total impact of cross-cultural migration may be expressed in the following formula:52 ∑+perm mult ++seas imme+ mi pi()MMiiMMiiM Ep() = × i Ppi () N ii ()p Lp

Note: Pi ( p) denotes the probability of a person living in period p and geographical unit i migrating in a lifetime. Miperm , Mimult , and Miseas denote permanent (to cities and to rural areas), multi-annual (labor migration), and seasonal cross-cultural, often long-distance, movements inside unit i, respectively. Miimm is the number of immigrants to unit i from outside and Miemi the number of emigrants from unit i to elsewhere. The notation Σp indicates that these migration numbers are summed over period p. Ni ( p) is the average population in geographical unit i in period p. To compensate for over counting in the migration numbers, the expression needs to be corrected by the second factor, in which Ei ( p) denotes the average life expectancy in period p and Lp is the length of the period.

2.2 Testing the CCMR Method for Europe (including European Russia) in 1500–190053 Over the last few years we have applied the CCMR tool to Europe (including European Russia and the European part of present-day Turkey), first for the period 1500–1800, then up to 1900, and in the next paragraph we present our first results for the twentieth century, thus covering the entire second half of the past millennium. In this process we have improved our data and refined our approach.54

Applying the CCMR method to Europe 1500–1900 Our first results showed that the idea of a mobility transition in the second half of the nineteenth century, with a drastic shift from very low to very high mobility levels, should be rejected. Although the CCM rate went up significantly, levels were already substantive from the sixteenth century onward;55 furthermore, an important increase is visible already in the first half of the nineteenth century, so before the advent of railways and steamships. It also brings sharply into focus that what was perceived as the mobility transition in Europe was predominantly caused by a spectacular increase in

52 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009. 53 This paragraph is largely based on Lucassen & Lucassen 2011a. 54 See our joint publications from 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011a and 2012 and Lucassen et al. 2014. 55 The start of our observations. It is very well possible that this also holds for the Middle Ages, but this awaits new historical research (Jaritz & Müller 1988; Postel 2004). measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 17

0 1501‒50 1551‒00 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒501751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 Emigration Immigration Colonization To cities Seasonal Temporal multi-annual

Figure 2 CCMRs for Europe (including European Russia), 1501–1900 (not adjusted for life expectancy) (%) Source: Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 105. Reproduced in Lucassen & Lucassen 2012: 968. only two of the six forms of migration that we have distinguished: emigration (people leaving Europe)56 and migration to cities (within Europe). As Figure 2 makes clear, what Zelinsky (the founding father of the ‘mobility transition’ paradigm)57 and others missed out was the importance of ‘temporal multi- annual’ (soldiers and sailors) and, to a lesser extent, seasonal migrants and colonists. Instead their myopic view only made visible international emigration and rural to urban moves.58

Fine-tuning the CCMR method Our initial aim was to come up with categories that would enable us to measure total migration rates for Europe as a whole, with as little overlap as possible.

56 The overwhelming majority settled in American cities, which underlines the dramatic increase of urbanization in Europe and the Americas. 57 Zelinsky 1971. 58 These aggregate calculations for Europe as a whole can be broken down at country level by using the data in our 2010 research paper, which enables intra European comparisons (Lucassen & Lucassen 2010). 18 lucassen and lucassen

So far, reactions to our typology have been largely positive and our critics have only suggested minor modifications, such as adding nomadism and transhumance. These forms of migration do not concern very large numbers, whether in Europe or beyond,59 and moreover fit our seasonal category.60 A more fundamental critique regarded our measurement and definition of temporal migrations that lasted longer than one year. Joseph Ehmer rightly remarked that by concentrating on soldiers and sailors alone, we neglected micro and repetitive moves by domestics, journeymen, and the like.61 Leaving them out, unless they settled in cities, indeed underestimates high levels of mobility in early modern Europe and if we do include their migrations, the jump in Europe’s CCMRs during the second half of the nineteenth century diminishes considerably.62 Although it is difficult to collect good and systematic data about these tramping artisans and servants (most of whom did not settle down in cities), ideally they should be included and subsumed under the heading of temporal multi-annual migrants. The results of these considerations and debates since 2012 are summarized in Table 2, which—it goes without saying—deserve further fine-tuning. By definition this is work in progress.

Table 2 CCMRs in Europe (including European Russia), 1501–1900 including tramping artisans and domestics (research results 2010 and 2012)63

Total average Total CCMR 2010 Revised total Revised CCMR 2012 population migrations (%)64 migration (%) (including (millions) (millions) (millions) 2012 additional 2010 (including temporal additional migrations) temporal migrations)

1501–50 76 9.8 12.9 9.8 12.9 1551–00 89 13.2 14.8 13.2 14.8 1601–50 95 18.9 19.9 18.9 19.9 (Continued)

59 Sunderland 2004. 60 Lucassen & Lucassen 2011b. 61 Ehmer 2011. 62 Lucassen & Lucassen 2012. 63 Unadjusted for life expectancy variations over time. 64 The reason for the changes in the percentages, as explained in the 2010 research paper, are predominantly caused by the addition of the army train (women and children migration measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 19

Table 2 (Continued)

Total average Total CCMR 2010 Revised total Revised CCMR 2012 population migrations (%) migration (%) (including (millions) (millions) (millions) 2012 additional 2010 (including temporal additional migrations) temporal migrations)

1651–00 101 18.7 18.5 18.7 18.5 1701–50 116 20.3 17.5 20.6 17.7 1751–00 151 26.2 17.3 26.8 17.7 1801–50 214 48.5 22.7 51 23.8 1851–00 326 100.5 30.8 102.5 31.4

Source: Lucassen & Lucassen 2012.

Modernization and Human Capital The previous discussion about the high mobility of tramping artisans and domestics has broader implications for the nature of Europe’s society and economy in the early modern period, especially when we take on board more explicitly the human capital of migrants.65 The neo-institutional approach highlights the ‘modern’ features of northwestern European societies— especially in the Dutch Republic—long before the nineteenth century. Think of free wage labor by men and women, relatively high levels of social mobility and urbanization, the dominance of the nuclear family and neo-local marriages, well-functioning credit markets, and the protection of property rights.66 That geographical mobility for both men and women was the norm in this highly commercialized, urbanized, and proletarianized part of Europe, was crucial for the effective allocation of labor and human capital in the economy. This perspective calls for comparisons with China where wage and seasonal labor were less widespread, also in the more commercialized parts of the

along with armies in early modern Europe) and by lowering the original estimates for the number of seasonal workers in the nineteenth century. 65 Van Lottum et al. 2011. 66 Davids & Lucassen 1995. Van Zanden 2009; Kok, 2010; Stasavage 2011. 20 lucassen and lucassen

Table 3 The relationship between three major historical processes and types of migration

Historical process Type of migration

Commercialization and proletarianization Migration to cities Seasonal migrations Intra-urban tramping artisans and domestics Globalization Sailors Emigration Immigration State formation Soldiers Colonizers

empire.67 This difference would support the argument that northwestern, or more broadly western, Europe profited from in-built institutional advantages, which is also mirrored in different and more intense migratory behaviour. In the end, migrations in Europe were triggered by a combination of three inter- linked political and economic processes that worked out at the micro, meso, and macro levels, and which are summarized in Table 3.

2.3 European Migrations in the Twentieth Century Our preliminary reconstruction of cross-cultural migration rates between 1500 and 1900 leaves us wondering what then happened in the twentieth century. Does our own time indeed constitute the apogee of migration, as so many social and political scientists assume? Or did the growth that we witnessed in the second half of the nineteenth century level off, due to the ample possibilities to commute to work,68 and the decrease in colonization, and seasonal and maritime migrations? Or is it that the two world wars, decolonization, the guest worker system, and global refugee streams made up for the shrinking of these forms of migration? To answer these questions we have harvested the necessary data following the CCMR method.69

67 See Moll-Murata: https://collab.iisg.nl/c/document_library/get_file?p_l_id=273223&fold erId=283123&name=DLFE-77737.pdf and https://collab.iisg.nl/c/document_library/get_ file?p_l_id=273223&folderId=283123&name=DLFE-77736.pdf. 68 Hochstadt 1999. 69 Lucassen et al. 2014. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 21

Table 4 Life expectancy (at birth) in different parts of Eurasia, 1820–2000

The Netherlands Russia China Japan

1820 32 28 35 33 1850 37 27 35 38 1900 52 32 24 44 1950 72 65 44 61 2000 78 67 71 81

Source: Maddison 2007: 32; Riley 2001; Wang & Mason 2008: 138–159; Livi-Bacci 2012a: 122; Hanley 1997: 183; Lee & Feng 1999. Note: As it seems improbable that the life expectancy for Russia in the period 1820–1850 differs so much from those in China and Japan, we decided to apply 0.7 for all three regions in Table 5.

Table 5 Life expectancy adjustments (multipliers) for 50-year sub-periods, Eurasia, 1501–2000

Europe Western Europe Russia China Japan

1501–00 0.7 35/50 = 0.7 35/50 = 0.7 35/50 = 0.7 35/50 = 0.7 1801–50 0.7 35/50 = 0.7 35/50 = 0.7 35/50 = 0.7 35/50 = 0.8 1851–00 0.85 40/50 = 0.8 45/50 = 0.9 35/50 = 0.7 45/50 = 0.9 1901–50 1.1 60/50 = 1.2 50/50 = 1.0 40/50 = 0.8 45/50 = 0.9 1951–00 1.35 75/50 = 1.5 60/50 = 1.2 57/50 = 1,14 70/50 = 1.4

Source: see Table 4.

Before discussing the results, however, we first have to solve an important methodological issue: the substantive growth of average life expectancies over time. We introduced this factor into our equation because the higher the life expectancy, the lower the number of individuals who lived in a certain period, compared with the mean number of inhabitants. As the upper half of the first term of the equation counts individuals, this matters a great deal. Until now we could afford to ignore this second term of our formula, because for the period up to 1850 and more or less until the end of the century life expectancy did not vary enough to influence our comparisons through time.70 Progressing into the twentieth century, however, we can no longer afford to ignore life expectancy, and as Table 4 shows this also applies to other parts of Eurasia.

70 By fixing the life expectancy at 50 years, this equals the length of our periods, and thus results in the value 1 for the last term of our equation. 22 lucassen and lucassen

Table 6 CCMs in Europe (including European Russia), 1501–2000 (adjusted for life expectancy) (000s)

Emi Immi Coloni To cities Seasonal Temporal Total PALE CCMR multi- (millions) (%) annual

1501–50 849 250 2940 5840 9879 111 8.9 1551–00 824 200 3942 8235 13201 131 10.1 1601–50 1440 395 127 4599 444 12025 19030 140 13.6 1651–00 1635 125 1761 2209 974 12136 18840 150 12.5 1701–50 1243 50 1628 3203 1640 12664 20428 174 11.9 1751–00 1162 20 3025 4622 1940 15389 26158 231 11.6 1801–50 4378 3006 17774 3164 20156 48478 322 15.8 1851–00 26609 2924 43105 12250 15510 100398 437 23.5 1901–50 40650 3671 12237 100328 16960 93840 267686 405 66.1 1951–00 17198 18921 216 113078 6360 57028 212801 432 49.2

Source: Lucassen & Lucassen 2012; Lucassen et al. 2014; Kessler, Lucassen & Lucassen 2014. Note: PALE= Population Averaged for Life Expectancy (average population in each 50-year period divided by the average life expectancy)

For a balanced comparison between earlier and later periods we therefore have to multiply the migration data in the first term of our equation with the life expectancy factors listed in Table 5. The main effect is that the mobility rates of the later periods, and especially of the twentieth century, will go up, whereas the numbers before 1900 decrease. After this correction our previous critical remarks about the mobility transition after 1850 still stand, while our calculations for the twentieth century show a remarkable and unexpected result: an all-time high in the first half of the century and a considerable decrease after the Second World War. Although the migration rate in the postwar period is higher than a century earlier, the difference is caused not so much by immigrants from other continents, but by the continuing (partly internal) drift to cities. The dominant idea that we now live in an unprecedented migratory age should therefore be nuanced and qualified. For the first half of the twentieth century, apart from millions of internal and intra-European city dwellers, the two world wars generated an unprecedented number of cross-cultural migrations by soldiers, predominantly measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 23

0 1501‒50 1551‒00 1601‒50 1651‒001701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 1901‒50 1951‒00 Emigration Immigration Colonization To cities Seasonal Temporal multi-annual

Figure 3 CCMRs for Europe (including European Russia), 1501–2000 (adjusted for life expectancy) (%) Source: Lucassen & Lucassen 2011a for the period 1500–1900. For the twentieth century see Lucassen et al. 2014.

within Europe but also from other continents (troops from North America, Canada, Australia, and furthermore from French and British colonies). Apart from soldiers, the wars caused enormous flows of refugees, like the 14 million Germans who were resettled immediately after the armistice in 1945, constituting according to R.M. Douglas the “largest forced population transfer—and perhaps the greatest single movement of peoples—in human history.”71 Most of them had initially moved to the new ‘Lebensraum’ in the East (especially Poland) from 1939 onward, whereas others had lived for generations in countries like Hungary and Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia and Romania. In the CCMR method most of them are captured in the category ‘to cities,’ in the same way as many other war-induced refugees who remained in Europe.72 Other refugees

71 Douglas 2012: 1. A serious ‘competitor’ would be the ‘Partition’ between India and Pakistan (estimated at twelve million forced migrants): Khan 2007: 6. 72 See for World War I: Tucker & Wood 1996: 86, 258, 294, 313, 373, 525, 610; Aldrich & Hilliard 2010: 525–526; Busch 2003: x; Brooking 2004: 103; Rutherford Young 2005: 508; Pati 1996: 37; Marshall 2001: vii–viii; Sharp et al. 2002: 285. See for World War II: Vego 2009: 37; and Kennet 1997: 4. 24 lucassen and lucassen

Table 7 Origin of migrants to cities in Europe (including European Russia), 1901–2000 (millions)

Increase urban Of which increase From other From other From population (total by net migration continents European within of natural growth (overall/total) (immigration) countries national and net migration) states

1901–1950 156 104 3.7 28.7 100 1951–2000 264 132 19 34.4 113

Source: Lucassen et al. 2014. Note: We applied the same method as in our calculations for the period 1500–1900, taking urban growth as point of departure. The only difference being that we estimated that in the first half of the twentieth century two- thirds and in the second half only 50 percent of the increase was caused by migrants. Finally we deduced immigrants from other continents in order to avoid double counting. left the old continent as emigrants heading for overseas destinations, including Israel. Among these emigrants were also ten thousand Nazis, for example Adolf Eichmann.73 In the second half of the twentieth century army-related migrations decreased considerably but remained an important phenomenon. This is explained first of all by the huge numbers of American (15 million) and Russian (10 million) soldiers and their families who were stationed at bases in West and East Germany during the Cold War.74 Furthermore, there were smaller numbers of Europeans fighting colonial wars in Indonesia (Dutch), Vietnam (French), Algeria (French),75 and various African countries (Portuguese, French, and Belgians). These millions of soldiers, however, did not counterbalance the unprecedented mobilization of armies in the period 1940–1945, which largely explains the dropping off of the overall migration rate. After the Second World War people moving to cities (both internally and intra-European) remained by far the most important form of cross-cultural migration and eclipsed ‘immigration’, which is often privileged in standard migration overviews.76 The share of migrants from other continents, like guest workers from Northern Africa and Turkey, intercontinental refugees, or former colonial subjects, did indeed soar, but on the whole constituted at 11 percent

73 Cesarini 2006. 74 Müller 2012; Höhn 2003; Höhn & Moon 2010. 75 In Algeria two million French soldiers have been active (Aldrich 1996: 297). 76 See for example Castles & Miller 2003 and Goldin et al. 2011. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 25

0 1501‒50 1551‒00 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 1901‒50 1951‒00 Emigration Immigration Colonization To cities Seasonal Temporal multi-annual Figure 4 CCMRs for Europe (including European Russia), 1501–2000 (adjusted for life expectancy) (%), excluding internal migrants moving to cities within European states after 1900 Note: From 1900 onwards internal migrants to cities within Europe were not counted, except for European Russia, where the cultural difference between the countryside and cities remained large. only a small part of the total cross-cultural migration rate.77 The bulk of the cross-cultural migrations, as in the first half of the century, is the result of the ongoing urbanization process that drew people to large cities, as Table 7 shows. At this point some readers might object to the decision to continue to regard people who move from the countryside to cities within a European state as cross-cultural migrants. Given the increasing (national) homogenization of states in the twentieth century, one could argue that since 1850, or at least since 1900, internal migrants in national states by definition did no longer cross cultural boundaries. This is in contrast to internal migrants in (former) multicultural and vast empires such as Russia and China. On the other hand, also in (new) nation states the evolution of peasants into national citizens was far from uniform and straightforward, as the example of Italy shows. More importantly, however, is that keeping onboard internal migrants in the twentieth century allows us to make structural comparisons through time (and space) of cityward migrations. We therefore decided to retain our original (early modern) definitions for the modern period. Scholars who disagree on this point can simply leave internal migrants out and use Figure 4.

77 ‘Immigration’ was good for a migration rate of 4,1% in the second half of the twentieth century and thus constituted 11% of the total CCMR (37,7%). 26 lucassen and lucassen

Double Counts As we explained above, our CCMR method aims to quantify individuals who experienced at least one cross-cultural move in their live. They may have more experiences, but these are not included here. Nevertheless, because we treat the different migration types separately, all kinds of double counts are possible, and the obvious ones, like Japanese emigrants to Latin America (nikkeijin) who in the latter part of the 20th century returned to Japan, have already been dealt with. There is one overlap that we have not corrected systematically, however, and that concerns male (drafted) soldiers in the 19th and especially 20th century, who before or after being drafted already had other migration experiences, most likely as seasonal workers, as colonists or as migrants to cities. For most larger units of analysis (Japan, China, Europe) this influenced the total rates only marginally. In the case of Western Europe and Japan we have only included conscripts who had to follow the flag into foreign countries , but not the other draftees as countries had become homogenous in a cultural sense. In China only a limited part of the male population was recruited (11% in the second half of the 20th century). The only outlier is Russia, where in the 20th century more than half of the males were drafted and due to the multicultural nature of the empire and the considerable cultural difference between the countryside and cities, the army experience as such, also in periods of international peace, should be characterized as cross-cultural.78 We did calculate the percentage of Russian soldiers who also were active as seasonal workers or as migrants to cities and concluded that excluding these double counts would lower the overall Russian rates by some 11% in the 20th century.79 The rates used in this chapter, as presented in Figure 6, have nevertheless not yet been adjusted for the double counts of soldiers, because we still lack systematic and robust calculations for all Eurasian regions. For the interpretations of differences between the four large units (Europe without Russia, Russia, China and Japan), as presented in Figure 6, however, we will take the Russian surplus into consideration.

3 Extending the European Method to Eurasia

3.1 Methodological Remarks Having fine-tuned the CCMR approach for Europe in the period 1500–2000, by also taking into account shifting life expectancies, we now turn to the main

78 Sanborn 2005. Moch & Siegelbaum 2014 (forthcoming). 79 See Kessler, Lucassen & Lucassen 2014. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 27 theme of this book, which is to find out to what extent our methodology has a wider applicability, extending its empirical basis to Asia and thus covering Eurasia as a whole. The chapters in this volume offer an excellent starting point for such an exercise. Although they do not cover the totality of Asia, for China, Japan, Russia, and especially Siberia and Java, the authors in this volume have been able to present overall quantitative results covering several centuries or even half a millennium. For other parts of the world, especially South Asia (and Southeast Asia before 1800) as well as the Middle East, we are confronted with massive gaps in our knowledge.80 Nevertheless, important building blocks for the migration history of India, Singapore, Malaya, and the border regions of Laos, Thailand, China, and Cambodia are offered in this book.81 The reasons for this lack of research are twofold. On the one hand—as in Europe only a few decades ago—migration historians heavily concentrate on the most spectacular international movements. Whereas European migration history for more than a century has been dominated by transatlantic studies, with an emphasis on the receiving American side, Indian migration history deals mainly with indentured laborers who ended up in the Western hemisphere, in particular in Fiji, Mauritius, the Guyanas, and the Caribbean.82 Another parallel is that a lot of migration history is isolated in specialist branches like maritime (the Lashkars) and military history (heavily concentrated on Sikhs and Gurkhas).83 However, specific reasons also have to be mentioned. Whereas the general registration of births, deaths, and marriages in Europe started in the sixteenth century for religious reasons, and in Northeast Asia (China, Korea, and Japan) on military and religious grounds,84 in the rest of Asia this only became practice under late colonial rule (with the obvious exception of places like Goa). Such

80 Implicitly this also becomes clear from Amrith 2011, which deals with the period after 1850. 81 See the chapters by Ramaswamy, Amrith, Mazard & Ota. 82 McKeown 2004; Lal 2000 and 2004; Mohapatra 2007; Bhagwanbali 1996. 83 Balachandran 2002 and 2011; Kolff 1990 and Kaushik 1997. 84 China has by far the earliest population registers, introduced under the Han Dynasty in the second century BCE (Poston & Bouvier 2010: 26). Population registers and family registers in Japan go back to the 8th century. After an interruption between 1000 and 1600, Japan resumed both population (Ninbetsu Aratame Cho) and religious registrations (Shumon Aratame Cho) during the Edo/Tokugawa period in the mid seventeenth century (Hayami 1997: 21–25). For China there are also the ‘Population Registers of the Eight Banner Han Chinese Army’ (1774–1873) which registered every person at three year intervals (Lee 1997: 16). 28 lucassen and lucassen registrations are the basis of many types of migration reconstructions, more in particular for the disentanglement of net urban natural growth and net migrations to cities.85 Other phenomena, far less important for Europe after 1500 than for Asia, are nomadism, nomadic invasions, and the combination of the two. In Eurasia deserts, arid zones, and steppes are rare in the west, but abundant in the east. Nomadic pastoralists entertained complementary relations with the sedentary arable farmers. Occasionally however, for example in times of severe drought, tensions could rise and emigrating pastoralist societies, perceived as invaders by sedentary agriculturalists, constituted major migration movements. Khazanov has explained these mechanisms in general, while Jos Gommans has elaborated these types of migrations from Central to South Asia in more detail for the early modern period.86 For Russia and China these migrations, and the countervailing encroachment of agriculturalists on pastoralists’ lands, have been analyzed in this volume, but for the more southern and western parts, quantification of this phenomenon is still waiting.87 Our attempt to make comparisons between different parts of Eurasia follows two earlier attempts by Adam McKeown. In 2004 he demonstrated the emergence of a North Asian (Manchuria, Korea, Japan) and a Southeast Asian (Malaya, Burma, Indonesia) system, which not only drew numbers of migrants comparable to the Atlantic system (40 to 50 million) between 1850 and 1940, but also followed roughly the same business cycle, thus stripping the transatlantic migration experience of its so long cherished uniqueness. In addition, he was the first to systematically put the CCMR method to the test for China.88 In the remainder of this chapter we will use these new insights from European and Asian migration history to put the rich content of the detailed chapters in this volume into perspective. When we draw up the balance sheet we can distinguish three major improvements: conceptual, methodological, and statistical. Conceptual gains have been made by further elaborat- ing Manning’s cross-cultural typology and more particularly questioning his assumption that whole-community migrants do not cross cultural boundaries. Methodological enrichments of certain types of migrations are obtained by explicitly including pilgrimage, shifting agriculture, and caste-bound artisanal migrations. Finally, we are now able to sketch in a more quantitative way the

85 On the other hand, excellent registrations of migrants are known from Russia, from the late nineteenth century from Japan (and its colonies, like e.g. Taiwan), and from the People’s Republic of China. 86 Khazanov 1984; Gommans 1998 and 2007. 87 For the Ottoman empire see Kasaba (2009: 37), who gives a number of 220,000 nomads in the Anatolian provinces at the end of the sixteenth century. 88 McKeown 2011. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 29 similarities and differences in the main migration movements in Eurasia from 1500 onward.

Extending the Method The comparison of Europe with Asia proves that the CCMR aproach indeed has a wider applicability, while at the same time it highlights features that are largely lacking in Europe, such as the phenomenon of nomadism. In the post- medieval period nomadism is defined as regular moves of people who habitu- ally alternate between different regions and who migrate as a group with their cattle in an annual cycle. This moving of entire communities among alternat- ing ecologies was rare in Europe. In (Central) Asia, however, nomadism— albeit small in terms of numbers—was widespread.89 Although one might follow Manning by arguing that this form of ‘whole community migration’ does not qualify as cross-cultural, the work of Willard Sunderland shows that there were ample contacts between nomads and sedentary polities, which were often forged by marriages. This tallies well with Khazanov’s assertion that pastoral nomads and agriculturalists were mutually highly dependent.90 A second form of cross-cultural migration that is lacking in Europe in the past millennium can also be subsumed under the heading of ‘whole- community migration.’ This concerns agricultural communities who move within the same ecological zone, often at elevated heights, interacting (peacefully as well as violently) with other linguistic and cultural groups and often crossing state borders. This type of migration is analyzed in the chapter by Mireille Mazard and builds on the ‘Zomia’ concept of Willem van Schendel. This concept, popularized by James Scott,91 refers to the highlands of South and Southeast Asia, extending from Afghanistan in the west to Vietnam in the east, which were difficult to control by lowland states. Also, for those who find Scott’s state versus non-state binary too schematic and ideological, the observation that people involved in the culture of swiddening are motivated by looking for new farmland, combined with escaping unfavorable socio-political surroundings, is crucial for migration history. In a way, the seafaring communities discussed by Atsushi Ota in this volume can be considered the maritime variant of this type of migration. Apart from the typological problems posed by these cases, which will be discussed below, the most important conclusion is that, at least in pre-modern and modern Eurasia, whole-community migrations as distinguished by Patrick

89 Khazanov 1984; Rao 1987; Ginat & Khazanov 1998; Chatty 2006; and Gommans 2007. 90 Barfield 1989 and 2001; Cosmo 2002; Sunderland 2004 and his chapter in this volume. 91 Van Schendel 2002. See also Scott 2009 who applied this idea for his argument that Zomia was a kind of stateless terrain where people settled who wanted to escape the state. 30 lucassen and lucassen

Manning have hardly occurred.92 In this part of the world they pre-date the period under consideration, that is 1500–2000.

Enriching the Method As discussed above, the inclusion of nomadic migrations in our approach does not pose severe problems: as far as it happens within the chosen geographical unit of analysis, it fits best in the category of temporal migrations of less than a year, dubbed as ‘seasonal.’ Where such pastoral groups join settled societies permanently, such moves are of course to be analyzed as one-off immigration, possibly of the colonist type. Another phenomenon, encountered in Asia but so far hardly studied in Europe in the framework of migration history, are pilgrimages. At first sight pilgrims do not qualify as migrants and are more similar to tourists who may travel long distances, but without building new social ties and without a major break with the region they come from and return to. Studies on African and Asian pilgrimages to Mecca and Medina, however, show that many pilgrims resemble ‘normal’ migrants much more than one might assume. Ulbe Bosma, in his chapter, illustrates that until the 1870s only half of the pilgrims from Indonesia returned. The others died of diseases or ended up as debt slaves in Mecca or in other places in the Arabian Peninsula. Some stayed more or less out of free will, so that in 1885 about 10,000 former Javanese pilgrims lived and worked in Mecca. Many of them had debts to sheikhs in Java who had procured advanced loans to enable their travel. These balance dues often increased as they had to borrow even more in Mecca where many ran out of money before they could return home. The solution was to redeem the money they owed by working for at least two years in the rubber plantations in the Malaya Peninsula, owned by the same firm that financed their return ticket in the first place. Another cross-cultural dimension of pilgrimages in the nineteenth century is to be found in the Hajj from West Africa. Studies show not only the considerable size of this mobility, but also demonstrate that the cross-cultural impact could be considerable, especially before the onset of fast transport. Pilgrims sometimes stayed away for years and returned with new (more orthodox) ideas about Islam; furthermore, they were touched by various other influences they experienced along their routes. Others would never return or settle at different nodes between West Africa and the Middle East.93 The implication of this new

92 It is only fair to quote Manning where he envisages such overlaps: “cross-community migration may encourage whole-community migration, for instance by building connections between nomadic and settled populations.” (Manning 2013: 6). 93 Al-Naqar 1972; Works 1976; Back 2012. See also Bosma in this volume. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 31 form of cross-cultural migration is that we need to identify and quantify similar forms in other parts of the world as well, including Europe. Conceptually, pilgrimages fit best in our category of temporal migrations of less than one year; the decisive factor is the intention of the pilgrim to return home. The fact that there may also be a big gap here between intention and outcome is insuffi- cient reason to opt for another taxonomical solution; as we have seen, this gap also manifests itself with other temporal migrants, such as soldiers and sailors. Finally, the migrating swidden agriculturalists in the border areas of China and its southern neighbors fit best our colonization category. Let’s not forget that settlement in rural areas is also often motivated by political and religious conflicts at home, as we have seen with the many German colonists in Eastern Europe, who were religious dissenters in the sending region.

3.2 Different Mobility Patterns within Eurasia As Gijs Kessler has revealed in his chapter on Russia, the levels and trends in mobility in different parts of Eurasia showed important differences early on (Figure 5).

0 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00

Europe China Japan Russia Figure 5 CCMRs for Europe (without Russia), Russia, China, and Japan, 1601–1800 (adjusted for life expectancy) (%) Source: Lucassen & Lucassen 2010; and the chapters of McKeown, Kessler, and Lucassen, Saito & Shimada in this volume. Note that we have adjusted all rates to life expectancy. 32 lucassen and lucassen

Whereas Europe’s cross-cultural migration ratios are stable at a high level and only show a slight decline in the second half of the seventeenth century, the rates in Japan, Russia, and China decline between the mid-seventeenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth, with especially low levels for East Asia in the second half of the eighteenth century. What is remarkable are the high and increasing levels for Russia and China in the second half of the seventeenth century, which are caused to a large extent by high levels of imperial colonization migrations. After 1800, initially the levels of the three regions diverge (with Europe and Russia towering over East Asia), but the proportions stay the same. All four show a clear upward trend until the mid-twentieth century. China’s growth then continues and takes over, as its cross-cultural migrations almost double. In Japan, Russia, and Europe that jump was even more spectacular, but occurred half a century earlier. The most remarkable difference within Eurasia, however, is that after 1950 the European (and European Russian) ratios go down considerably, while those for both China and Japan keep growing, leading to a convergence that resembles the start of the period we analyzed in this volume. For Europe the increase was initially caused by urbanization and emigration (to American cities) and, on top of that, large-scale soldier migrations during the two world wars. Russia also urbanized massively, and on top of that forced millions of citizens to relocate, especially in the Asiatic part (‘colonization’). In the 20th century, the Russian rates are partly distorted by the double countings of soldiers, explained at the end of paragraph 2. When we subtract these double counts (11%), the levels of Europe94 and Russia fall much more in line. The decline after 1950 for Europe and Russia is explained by the absence of war, the slowing down of urbanization and the decline of emigration. Apart from the war in Afghanistan and soldiers based in the GDR, Soviet Russia also refrained from large-scale warfare. We see a similar overall trend in Japan in the period 1800–1950, albeit at a lower level, caused by migration to cities, empire building, and warfare, followed (in contrast to Europe) by an ongoing postwar growth. The latter was not so much the result of immigration, which remained very low until it picked up to some extent in the late 1970s, including some 300,000 so-called nikkeijin, descendants of erstwhile Japanese emigrants to Brazil and Peru.95 Nor can the ongoing growth be explained by soldier migrations, notwithstanding the

94 For Europe only in the first half of the twentieth century soldiers have been double counted (some 5%). 95 Tsuda 2003: 98–99. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 33

0 1801‒50 1851‒00 1901‒50 1951‒00

Europe Russia China Japan

Figure 6 CCMRs for Europe (without Russia), (European and Asiatic) Russia, China and Japan, 1801–2000 (adjusted for life expectancy) (%) Source: Lucassen et al. 2014, Lucassen, Lucassen & Kessler 2014, and the chapters of Lucassen, Saito & Shimada, Shen, Kessler, and McKeown in this volume. For the twentieth-century rates for Russia see Kessler, Lucassen & Lucassen 2014, which is based on Lorimer 1946; Lewis & Rowland 1976; Scott & Scott 1984; Garthoff 1990; Dunlop et al. 1993; Grau 1998: xiv, 18, 166–167; Kessler 2001; Spulber 2003; Sanborn 2003 and 2005; the World Urbanization prospect 2004: 48–50; Polian 2004: 327–333; Blinnikov 2011: 152; and Moch & Siegelbaum 2014 (forthcoming). Note: See Figure 5. For the 20th century we used for all regions the maximum numbers of migrants to cities, therefore including internal moves to cities.

1.4 million Americans on their Japanese bases. The bulk of the migration rate was made up by large-scale rural to urban migrations, which amounted to some 30 million migrants. China, finally, shows a slow increase in cross-cultural migration rates until the establishment of the People’s Republic in 1948, followed by a spectacular increase of mobility, due to massive (forced) relocations to the countryside and the frontier, and from the late 1970s onward resulting in the most spectacular urbanization process the world has ever witnessed. Overall, maybe the most remarkable result our comparisons demonstrate is the intitally diverging and finally converging development of all four big units over five centuries. From similar CCMR levels around 10% in the 17th century they ended up at equally similar 40% levels around the year 2000, whereas from 1800 onwards levels in Europe and Russia went up considerably until the mid 20th century, with China catching up in the latter part of that century. 34 lucassen and lucassen

100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1601‒50 1651‒001701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 1901‒50 1951‒00 Emigration Immigration Colonization To cities Seasonal Temporal multi-annual Figure 7 Shares of migration types for China, 1601–2000 Source: See the chapters of McKeown and Shen in this volume. Note that the reconstruction of the period 1900–1950 is a ‘guestimate.’96

The comparison of migration rates between China, Russia, Japan, and Europe shows that at least as important than differences in levels of mobility is the breakdown according to the six types of cross-cultural migrations (Figures 7 and 8). These reveal the different timing and different effects of military migrations and colonization.97 In order to draw conclusions for Eurasia as a whole, we will now first discuss systematically the similarities and differences at the country level for the

96 According to Adam Mckeown to whom we owe this reconstruction emigration from China was 13.6 million from 1900–1940. We estimate a minimum 2–3 million for the 1940s (emigration was very high 1946–9), leading to a total of 16 million. Migration to Manchuria in from 1900–1950 was around 24.5 million (although a lot of them are also urban migrants so there is overlap). Good numbers on colonization elsewhere are scarce, but we estimate another 5 million. Many of the WWII refugees to Southwest China for example ended up staying. Military migrants must have been huge because of nearly constant warfare that was only semi-professionalized (i.e. still with army trains). As a minimum we guess at least equal in number to 1850–1900, about 20 million. This was a very chaotic era so any accurate estimate would be very difficult. But 30 million seems to be a safer bet. As for migration to cities, we use the urban population figure of China of 61 million in 1950 (Orleans 1959) up from about 20 million in 1900, for an average of 40 million 1900–1950. As Chinese cities were still very unhealthy places we arrive at about 40 million urban migrants. 97 Lucassen & Lucassen 2011a; McKeown 2011. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 35

100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1501‒1550 1551‒1600 1601‒1650 1651‒1700 1701‒1750 1751‒1800 1801‒1850 1851‒1900 1901‒1950 1951‒2000 Emigration Immigration Colonization To cities Seasonal Temporal multi-annual Figure 8 Shares of migration types for Europe (excluding European Russia), 1501–2000 Source: Based on Lucassen & Lucassen 2010 and Lucassen et al. 2014. Note: We used the extensive cross-cultural migration definition (including people moving to cities within European states, also in the twentieth century).

six types of migration. In the discussion we draw special attention to the role played by colonialism.

Immigration and Emigration As a rule, from the perspective of the state level, emigration and immigration were considered as undesirable in most parts of Eurasia in the early modern period. Virtually all strong states, in both the western and the eastern parts of the continent, seem to have shared explicitly or implicitly a kind of mercantilist idea that the wealth of the state and its ruler depended on the number of its inhabitants and preferably on their conformity to the prevailing state ideology. This is true for states like France, Prussia, Austria, or England,98 as well as for Russia,99 but it applies even more to China, Korea, and Japan in their heydays.100 Japan’s splendid isolation politics between 1639 and 1854 is textbook knowledge,101 but this fits in a much wider East Asian pattern. The Japanese had strongly restricted contact zones with the outside world: Nagasaki’s Toyin

98 Kulikoff 2000: 189; Green & Weil 2007; see also Bade et al. 2011. 99 Hellie 2011. 100 Boot 2003: 62–65. 101 Lucassen, Saito & Shimada in this volume. 36 lucassen and lucassen

Yashiki for the Chinese; Deshima for the Dutch; the Lord of Satsuma’s office at his capital Kagoshima for the men from Ryūkyū; and Tsushima for the contact with Korea. Vice versa, Korea isolated and guarded the Japanese in the Waegwan or Japanese quarter at Pusan. The Chinese restricted the European nations to their respective ‘concessions’ at Canton, which were broken up by force during the Opium War, 1840–1842. Only under exceptional circumstances, when central authorities lost their grip or tried to seize control again, did mass movements from one state to another take place. In the western tip of Eurasia Spain’s expulsion of the Jews and the Moors in the sixteenth century and France’s expulsion of the Huguenots hundred years later are good examples, while at the other geographical extreme Japan did its utmost to root out Christianity. This caused the emigration of converted Japanese who refused to yield, to places like Batavia, Hoi An in Vietnam, and to the Philippines.102 Chinese migrations across imperial borders in the seventeenth century also mainly took place in times of change, such as during the long-protracted struggle between the Ming and the Manchus, followed by the prohibition of all maritime exchange with the outside world between 1644 and 1685. These Manchu restrictions may not have been as watertight as those of the Koreans or the Japanese, but their intentions were the same.103 Regime change as such could not only trigger emigration, it could also be caused by invading migrants. The Manchu conquest of China in the seventeenth century is a case in point, but no less the Mughal invasion of India one century earlier and similar conquests in South Asia.104 This is different for expanding empires that not only incorporate new populations but also move migrants to frontier areas through (internal) colonization. Sometimes such attempts at enlargement failed, for example the Japanese invasion of Korea in 1592–1598 with the aim to attack China. In their retreat the Japanese army took 100,000 Korean captives home.105 The enlargement of empires mostly went hand in hand with internal colonization (see the next paragraph). An exceptional case was Russia’s newly conquered territories from the Ottomans, as later on immigrants from abroad were also invited to settle. Many Germans followed that call in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. An exception to the rule of ‘mercantilist’ migration politics were small maritime republics, foremost the Dutch Republic and the Venetian Republic, which

102 Raben 1996, 82–86, 239; Blussé 1997, 31–57. 103 Boot 2003: 65. See also Raben 1996 and the chapter by Umeno in this volume. 104 Gommans 1998. 105 Walraven 2003. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 37 depended on the mass immigration of foreigners.106 For early modern Asia the Kingdom of the Ryūkyū Islands offers a similar case.107 Quickly expanding invader empires such as the Ottoman and the Mughal seem to have shared more immigrant-friendly policies with these relatively small maritime polities than with traditional nation states such as Spain, France, England, China, Japan, or Korea. Think of the welcome given to the large number of Jewish and Muslim refugees from the Iberian Peninsula in Northern Africa and the Ottoman empire in the sixteenth century.108 With the gradual farewell to mercantilist policies in Europe in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries international migrations became much more free and the Europeans enforced this attitude also upon Asian states, witness the ‘opening up’ of China in two Opium Wars in the 1840s and 1850s, of Japan in 1854, and of Korea in 1876 (by the Japanese). Where and when needed, European powers in their colonies also stimulated emigration to and immigration from other states. This triggered the international mass migrations in South and East Asia, recently identified and compared by Adam McKeown.109 These relatively liberal international migration politics, albeit segmented (and racist) in nature and largely excluding Asians from the North Atlantic and white settler colonies,110 were fundamentally reversed after the First and Second World Wars in the framework of new state formations. Russia’s isola- tionism after the October Revolution is the first example, while China thirty years later emulated it. Another example is state formation in South Asia, where most states adopted rather restrictive immigration policies. In both Europe (since the 1950s), and the Gulf states (since the 1970s) large- scale ‘guest worker’ systems emerged with the intention of creating a constant pool of multi-annual labor migrants, who were not supposed to settle indefi- nitely.111 This proved impossible for liberal democracies in Europe, because of the ‘embedded rights’ of migrants (both legal and social), but worked much better—at least in light of the aims of the system—in the Gulf region. These

106 Lucassen 1994 and 1995. 107 Smits 1999; Blussé 2003: 24. 108 Sundhausen 2011. 109 See also Amrith 2011: chapter 1. Important in this respect is Mohapatra (2007), who refers to Kingsley Davis, and stresses that of the 30 million Indians 24 million in the end returned in the period 1834–1937, which hints at the highly circulatory nature of the South East Asian migration regimes, and therefore could best be subsumed under our temporary multi-annual migration category, just like the return migrations in the Atlantic system (where, so far, only their emigration aspect has been counted). 110 McKeown 2008. 111 In the United States the Bracero Program served a smiliar aim. See Cohen 2013. 38 lucassen and lucassen authoritarian states recruited millions of Asians from (in order of magnitude) India, the Philippines, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Nepal, Vietnam, Bangladesh, Burma, Indonesia, and Vietnam, with barely any rights, let alone any prospect of citizenship.112

Table 8 Urbanization levels in 1800 and 1890 (cities > 10,000)

1800 1890

Japan 15 20 Middle East 12 15 Western Europe 10 30 Europe 9 15 Russia 3 13,4 Latin America 7 10 India 6 9 United States 3 32 China 3 5 Africa 2 4 World 6 13

Source: Malanima 2009: 242; idem 2010: 260; Champion & Hugo 2004: 44; Utvik 2003: 44. Lorimer 1946; De Vries 1984: 349; Kessler, Lucassen & Lucassen 2014; See also http://www .clio-infra.eu/index.php/Hubs.

To Cities With the notable exception of the Middle East and Japan, urbanization in Asia was much less widespread and developed much later than in the southern, western, and northern parts of Europe, which had witnessed high urbanization levels since the Middle Ages (Table 8). These very broad trends, however, hide important differences within these macro-regions with respect to economic growth, urbanization, and proletarianization. From the sixteenth century onward Northwest Europe, for example, developed into a highly urbanized and commercialized region, very different from most other parts of Europe. This ‘little divergence’ has its roots in the late Middle Ages and it explains the rise of the Dutch Republic in the seventeenth and that of England in the eighteenth century as world powers. As in

112 Oishi 2005; Moors & De Regt 2008; Gardner 2010; Fargues 2011. For the first phase of Asian migrations to the Middle East see Tetzlaff 2011. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 39

Table 9 Urbanization levels in Europe 1600–1800 in percentages (cities > 10,000)

1600 1700 1800

The Netherlands 24.3 33.6 28.8 Belgium 18.8 23.9 18.9 England and Wales 5.8 13.3 20.3 Italy 14.6 13.4 14.4 Spain 11.4 9 11.1 Scandinavia 1.4 4.0 4.6 Poland 0.4 0.5 2.5 Russia 3

Source: De Vries 1984: 39; Malanima 2009: 242. other continents, in most parts of Europe, especially the north and the east, the majority of the population lived in villages and had little urban experiences (Table 9). The high urbanization levels for the Middle East in Table 8 have their origins in the Middle Ages,113 but the Japanese achievement, as in Northwestern Europe, was reached in the seventeenth century.114 In the rest of Asia before 1800 urbanization was limited, but there were notable local exceptions. Everywhere towns and cities tried to attract skilled specialists. The chapter by Vijaya Ramaswamy about weavers’ groups in Southern India provides a fine example. But there are many more. A telling example is Masulipatnam in the Sultanate of Golconda on the east coast of India. This town was rather insignificant before the 1560s, but reached an estimated 100,000 inhabitants in the 1670s and 1680s. It was inhabited by shipowning Persians with their European clients, Pathan interpreters and brokers, as well as more local Muslims and a large number of Hindus. The European clients consisted of Portuguese, with their own Augustinian church, and a substantial number of Dutchmen, Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Danes. In their turn, the Dutch and the English entertained their own European and Rajput soldiers. In addition, the town bustled with Armenian and Jewish merchants, Mongols, Turks, Arabs, Chulia (Tamil) Muslims, Golconda Muslims, Telugus, Orissans, Tamils, Kannadas, Siamese (including a factor of the King of Siam at Ayutthaya), Arakanese,

113 Costello 1977: 8–9; for a critical discussion of the available sources to reconstruct urbanization in the Islamic World in the Middle Ages, see Shatzmiller 1994: 55–60. 114 See the chapter of Lucassen, Saito & Shimada in this volume. 40 lucassen and lucassen

Peguans, Acehnese, Malays, and Javanese. For business transactions in this port town, strongly connected to the Aceh and the Safavid kingdoms, both Persians and the local Telugu were necessary.115 These early modern migrations in the southern parts of Asia were partially unfree. After all, slavery in the Indian Ocean region was mainly a domestic phenomenon and many rich urban households had slaves.116 When European megacities started to grow, some of the European colonial capitals did so as well. Calcutta, for example, was still unimportant in 1690 when the East India Company chose this place as the center of its trade in Bengal. By 1778 it was reported that apart from the native Bengali, Sanskrit, Persian, Hindustani, and Urdu were also important languages there. This diver- sification of languages as such already indicates important migration streams, as does the high ratio of men to women (in 1837 there were 100 Hindu men to 62 Hindu women and 100 Muslim men to 51 Muslim women). In 1821 the city counted 120,000 inhabitants, 72 percent being Bengalis, 13 percent immigrants or their descendants from Bihar and North West India, 3 percent Europeans, 2 percent Eurasians, and 10 percent inhabitants from other parts of India and Asia, amongst whom were 636 Armenians, 362 Chinese, and 351 Arabs. In 1837, of 230,000 inhabitants, 78 percent were counted as Bengali speakers; in 1881, of 685,000 inhabitants, they formed only 60 percent.117 Similar stories could be told about Bombay, Madras, Colombo, Singapore, and Batavia.118 In the course of the twentieth century parts of Asia at large caught up with Europe; first Japan from the late nineteenth century onward, followed by a spectacular urbanization wave in Russia in the first half of the twentieth century, and South East Asia and China since the late 1970s.119 In earlier periods cities in China also received huge numbers of (partly transitory) migrants, albeit often temporarily. Think of the 100 million refugees in China between 1837 and 1945, no less than one quarter of the population.120

115 Arasaratnam & Ray 1994: 13–19 and 25–29. 116 Vink 2003; Ward 2009; and Eaton 2005: chapter 5. 117 Mukherjee 1993: 88–89 and 118–123. 118 See Raben 1996 for the early histories of Colombo and Batavia and Ota in this volume. 119 See the chapter by Shen in this volume and Forbes 1996. For Indonesia and India see Woods 2003; Amrith 2011: 156–160. For Indonesia see the contribution of Van Lottum in this volume. 120 Amrith 2011: 100. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 41

Colonization World history in very broad strokes may be defined as a movement of intensive land-using agriculturalists, pushing extensive hunter-gatherers and pastoralists to the edges. This process had already been completed by 1500 in the most western extremities of Europe. Colonization at the two extremes of the Eurasian landmass (Western Europe and Japan) took the form of land reclamation in river deltas and peat extraction from moors. Overseas colonization of this kind (strictly speaking belonging to ‘emigration’) of course is also part of European history, especially the South American lowlands of Argentina, Brazil, the Guyanas, and the North American prairies.121 In Russia, China, and to a lesser degree in other parts of Asia this process was still in full swing from the fifteenth to the nineteenth centuries. The chapters on Russia and China in this book testify to this, but so do the internal colonization of Java in the nineteenth century, and the colonization of Japan’s northern and southern frontiers after 1870. At the fringes migration movements of swiddening farmers, such as the ones described by Mazard, may be noted. At the beginning of the twentieth century the initial phase of colonization as defined here had more or less reached its full potential in Eurasia. Nevertheless, peculiar types recurred sometimes, most conspicuously during Mao’s and Pol Pot’s ruralization policies in the 1960s and 1970s when millions of town dwellers were forced to work in agriculture and thus were forced to adopt an ‘uncorrupted’ and truly communist way of life.122 In the case of Cambodia, some 2.2 million people did not survive this forced urban–rural migration and were killed by brute force or starvation and illness. These numbers pale in light of the 45 million death toll as a result of mass famine during the Great Leap Forward under Mao in the years 1958–1962, many of whom were city folk, or peasants who had temporarily taken refuge in cities.123

Seasonal The transformation from an agricultural to an industrial society did not hap- pen overnight, but was a gradual process that stretched between the late Middle Ages and the twentieth century. The image of the Industrial Revolution turning peasants into factory workers has been replaced by that of a long intermediate period of proto-industrialization and seasonal work of peasants. Proto-industrialization could take place both in towns and in the countryside, although the latter has received more attention in European historiography.

121 See among others Hine & Faragher 2001. 122 Kamm 1998: 137. 123 Dikötter 2010: 333. See also the chapter by Shen in this volume. 42 lucassen and lucassen

Without giving up their income from a small plot, weavers, spinners, and also nail and other utensil makers, working at home, combined incomes to make ends meet.124 This type of rural industrial production for regional, national, and international markets occurred not only in Europe, but also elsewhere in Eurasia (Japan), in particular in South Asia.125 It speaks for itself that proto- industrialization countered rather than fostered geographical mobility. That was certainly not the case with another alternative, ventured by peasants at the same time: seasonal work, often involving seasonal migration. Early modern economic growth, depending on economic specialization and subsequent productivity gains, involved not only industrial but also agricultural specialization. This caused certain regions to rely on monocrops, which demanded a lot of labor in certain seasons, and virtually none outside the seeding, planting, weeding, and harvesting peaks. It also caused in certain regions the elimination of small peasant farms which were replaced by larger, sometimes very large, farms and thus seasonal streams from peasant regions to nearby or distant monocrop regions with large farms that produced for a wider market. This process took place in several regions in Western Europe between the seventeenth and the nineteenth centuries, and in late tsarist Russia, and involved annually millions of seasonal harvesters. On a more modest scale, rural industries also attracted seasonal labor, such as brick making, linen bleaching, rural and urban construction, rafting, and colportage.126 For many parts of Asia a systematic development of this theme is still wanting, although specialized studies and ample anecdotal evidence are available. That seasonal migrations were significant, though, may be illustrated by the millions of seasonal brick makers in northern India in our own times.127 Another type of seasonal migration is the movement of nomadic cattle herders who, in a fixed rhythm, follow the seasons in order to feed their cattle properly, but also to arrive at the markets in time to sell their produce. Apart from the transhumance in mountainous regions this is far less important in the western than in the central parts of the Eurasian continent. Besides, in the twentieth century, its significance is dwindling very rapidly, beginning in Russia, and subsequently in China and the Middle East.128

124 Lucassen 2012b and Lucassen 2013. 125 Parthasarathi 2011. Lucassen 2012a. For China see Wong 2000: 37–42; for Japan the chapter by Lucassen, Saito & Shimada. 126 Lucassen 1987; Kessler in this volume; Kessler & Lucassen 2013. 127 Heierli & Maithel 2008: 22; Kessler & Lucassen 2013; Lucassen 2006. 128 Khazanov 1984. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 43

Short-term temporal migrations (less than one year) need not be seasonal because of the exigencies of nature, but may also be culturally determined. We have already mentioned pilgrimage as a case in point. Everywhere in Eurasia, whether monotheistic or polytheistic, shrines are visited, often at fixed days of the calendar, by devotees from nearby and far away. Those who traveled long distances were bound to cross cultural borders, even if worshippers stayed within the same religious boundaries. Important pilgrim destinations in Europe include Rome (in particular during the regularly held anno santo or Holy Year), Santiago de Compostella, and Lourdes, several places in the Central Black Earth region in Russia, Jerusalem and Mecca (also celebrating regular Holy Years, called Hajj al-Akbar) in the Middle East,129 other Muslim shrines in Asia such as Kerbala and Kandahar, as well as Hindu (Allahabad and Hardwar), Buddhist (e.g. Shikoku Island in Japan), and Jain shrines, to mention a few important places. As Ulbe Bosma demonstrates in his chapter, Hajj pilgrims from Indonesia regularly stayed away for sometimes more than a year, which in our system would put them rather in the multi-annual category.130 Numbers for the hajj between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries were already quite large and varied between 200,000 and 300,000 during the Pax Ottomanica. After a sharp decline in the mid-nineteenth century (50,000 only), numbers rose again after the Second World War to 1.6 million in 1977.131 A comparative study of the size and cross-cultural impact of pilgrimages in Eurasia is much needed.132 Of course, there may be a high degree of overlap with the other migration categories, but that can be settled after taking stock of all these pious migrants.

Temporal Multi-Annual Migrants who leave home for a longer period constitute an important, but unruly category. It consists, on the one hand, of migrations that were meant to last for only a couple of years, and on the other, of moves that were meant to last a shorter time (think of the hajj) or become permanent, but which turned out to be multi-annual, as in the case of return migrants. For Asia, this type

129 See the chapter by Sunderland in this volume and Greene 2012. Most Russian Orthodox pilgrims visited sites nearby which only took a few days of travel. For Lourdes see Harris 1999. 130 Davidson & Gitlitz 2002; and Ooms 1996: 96. 131 Pearson 1994; Amrith 2011: 65–72. 132 Wingens 1994, who describes the pilgrimage of Dutch Catholics in the seventeenth and eighteenth century, demonstrates that even “small” shrines could attract annually 10,000 of devotees. 44 lucassen and lucassen of migration is often associated with the phenomenon of ‘sojourning’, a term introduced by Siu in 1952 especially for Chinese overseas migrants, whose stay could stretch over generations. In particular the migration of Chinese who settled in South East Asia, and later on in other parts of the world, is often described as sojourning, because mentally they remained oriented towards the home community, thereby resisting full-scale assimilation. The length of the stay would depend on their success or failure in the host country. The explanation for this pattern is largely cultural, referring to the Chinese patrilineal kin group as an all-embracing social and religious unit with strong feelings of mutual support.133 More generally Asian indentured workers, such as circulating migrants working in the plantation economy of Burma, Malaysia, and Indonesia in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,134 and finally the present-day temporary Asian workforce in the Gulf states, would both fit this pattern of temporary but long-term, home-oriented migration. Apart from cultural factors, however, sojourning and circulatory migrations are also caused by the exclusion of these migrants from (urban) institutions on arrival, which makes permanent settlement difficult and forces them to spread risks between the region of origin and that of destination.135 To avoid typological chaos, however, we limit ourselves here to migrants whose aim is to work elsewhere only for a limited number of years, such as soldiers, sailors, tramping artisans, and sometimes also domestics. As the various chapters in this book show, migrating soldiers are an extremely important category in the history of human mobility. The proportion of soldiers to the total population is, however, unevenly spread across Eurasia, in both space and time. Differences in time are to be expected, as periods of relative peace and war alternate. The relatively peaceful nineteenth century, for example, contrasts dramatically with Hobsbawm’s ‘Age of extremes.’136 Spatial differences are less obvious, unless we take into account the variation in state sizes in Eurasia: extremely fragmented in the west versus large entities in the east; and a mixed pattern in South Asia of centralist periods (under the Mughals and the British Raj) and of decentralization in the period 1700–1850. To put it simply: the more states, the more borders, and the greater the chance for conflicts to arise. Of course, as the case of China in the seventeenth and nineteenth–twentieth centuries shows, empires may be torn apart in civil strife, mobilizing many

133 Siu 1952; Woon 1983: 689. 134 Mohapatra 2007. 135 Lucassen 2013. 136 Hobsbawm 1994. For a recent overview see Zürcher 2013. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 45 inhabitants for the competing armies. The internecine warfare within Western Europe, however, produced an above-normal number of soldiers being moved around inside Europe and later all over the world. Since the Second World War the relative share of soldiers in Eurasia as cross-cultural migrants has decreased considerably, due to the absence of war (with notable exceptions, such as the Korean War, Vietnam, and more recently Afghanistan, Yugoslavia, Iraq, and Syria), and the higher productivity of armies.137 The second important category of multi-annual migrants are sailors. Estimates are available for Western Europe, but for Asia a lot of work is still awaiting migration scholars. Only recently has the awareness taken root that the age of discoveries substantially depended on non-European sailors, especially in the waters of Asia,138 and also that the Asian oceans were plied by more Asian than European ships. From the nineteenth century onward Asian sailors become important in other parts of the world as well, starting with Chinese, Indians (Lashkars), Indonesians, Koreans, and since the 1980s Filipinos, who nowadays constitute almost 30 percent of all (1.2 million) international sailors.139 Quantification of tramping artisans or for that matter travelling merchants is more complicated. Some estimates are available for Europe, but for Asia specialized overviews of subgroups such as the Banians of Gujarat,140 the Armenians,141 and the gypsies,142 are abundant, although an overarching picture is still lacking. It may be a small consolation, though, that part of these groups will have been counted as urban immigrants.

4 The Overall Picture

This overview of cross-cultural migrations in Eurasia in the past four centuries has shown both similarities and differences between various regions. Here we focus predominantly on the differences and offer a preliminary explanation by concentrating on three major factors: state formation (both imperial and

137 Van Creveld 1991. 138 Van Rossum et al. 2010 and Van Rossum 2014 forthcoming. 139 Balachandran 2002; Van Rossum 2009; Fajardo 2011; Lane 2007. For current numbers see: Dimitrova & Blanpain 2010: 13 and 28–30; and Amante 2003: 1–4. 140 Markovits 2000. 141 Mkrtchyan 2005. 142 Grover 2001. 46 lucassen and lucassen colonization), the nature of labor markets (free and unfree), and the working of culturally and religiously embedded family systems.

State Formation The chapters in this book show that migration to land (colonization) within an empire, or as a function of its expansion, was much more important in Eastern Europe (the Russian empire), the Middle East (the Ottoman empire), and in China, where tens of millions of peasants-cum-soldiers were sent to settle in the northern and western frontiers of the Ming and Qing empires. The western part of Eurasia, with strong and competing territorial and city states, on the other hand, generated many more soldier migrations, which were only equalled by the continuous internal warfare in sixteenth-century Japan. If we consider Japan more as a territorial state (in the making) than a fully fledged empire, there seems to be a similar relationship between state formation at the western and at the eastern edges of Eurasia: in both regions the seventeenth century witnessed a spectacular increase in urbanization levels. However, in the western part the rapport is less clear cut, because also in the Middle East, which became part of the expanding Ottoman empire, urbanization levels were already quite high at the end of the Middle Ages. This may be explained partly as the heritage of earlier periods, but the tremendous growth of Istanbul in the early modern period as the Sublime Porte, along with other cities in the Ottoman empire, shows that empires and urbanization are not by definition at odds with one another. Furthermore, it is interesting to note that there is a similarity with respect to trade emporia in Northwestern Europe and in Southeast Asia in the early modern period, both generating vigorous maritime trading activity, and thereby multi-annual labor migrations of sailors and merchants. In the years 1840–1960, one particular type of state formation was colonialism, and this is discussed in the following section. Finally, as Kessler in his chapter on Russia has remarked, the importance of migration by soldiers and sailors in Europe contrasts sharply with China and Russia, where during the early modern period the stress was much more on colonization in frontier areas. In his view this led to a greater Malthusian pressure in these expanding empires, while postponing industrial developments. In contrast, in Western Europe constant fighting not only checked population growth until the nineteenth century, but also proved to be the catalyst for technological breakthroughs and (global) military power, as demonstrated by the gunboat diplomacy towards East Asia in the mid-nineteenth century. As a consequence there was also a considerable jump with respect to living standards and productivity; a gap which since the 1980s is only slowly being closed. As such, global migration history makes an important contribution to the ‘Great measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 47

Divergence’ debate on the different economic paths of China and Europe since the end of the eighteenth century.143

Colonialism This Great Divergence is closely linked to the phenomenon of colonialism, not to be confused with ‘colonization’ in our typology. Colonialism, defined as the political, military, and economic domination of other territories, ranging from outright annexation to indirect rule, could lead to various types of (coerced and free) migration: (1) labor migrations within and from the surrounding regions of the colonized territory to centers of capital (mines, mills, plantations); (2) colonization by settlers/soldiers from the colonizing state; (3) organizational migration of bureaucrats, soldiers, and highly skilled migrants from the colonizing state; (4) forms of forced displacement for reasons of social engineering; and finally (5) postcolonial migrations after the collapse of empires and the political reconfiguration of states. Although colonialism is understandably associated with European expansion in other parts of the world, such a depiction is somewhat misleading. It first of all overlooks the colonizing experiences within Europe, especially in expanding and contracting empires such as the Russian, Habsburg, and Ottoman, but also leaves out of the picture the effects of state formation more broadly. One only has to think of the expansion of the Swedish state in the seventeenth century in the Baltic Sea area or the Spanish Reconquista two centuries earlier, but also recent history offers ample examples of the migratory effects of colonialism. The most ambitious project was Hitler’s Third Reich. Although it came 988 years short of realizing its aim, 12 years of warfare and expansion were more than enough to cause massive migrations.144 Secondly, it was not only Europeans who colonized parts of Asia; Asian states themselves were also quite capable of doing so. Apart from Chinese imperial colonizations to the west, and Russian expansion to the east and the south, Hitler’s Germany had its equivalent in the authoritarian expansionist Imperial Japan, which started with the occupation of Taiwan in 1895 and Korea ten years later. A new phase then began with the conquering of Manchuria in 1931 and the outright attack on the rest of China in 1937, followed by a kind of blitzkrieg from early 1942 onward which led to the occupation of large parts of

143 See the chapter by Kessler. For the Great Divergence debate see Pomeranz 2000 and Allen et al. 2011. 144 Herbert 1997; Bade 2003; Bade et al. 2011; Oltmer 2012. 48 lucassen and lucassen

East and Southeast Asia (including French Indochina, British Malaya, and the Dutch East Indies).145 Then of course there were the European powers that from the eighteenth century onward were already involved in setting up plantation economies in South and Southeast Asia, which generated huge streams of labor migrations, characterized by relatively free migrants and coercive regimes at the plantations. What makes these massive migrations stand out, compared with the mass migrations in the North Atlantic in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, is their circulatory character.146 Plantations as such, as well as commercialized agriculture and the exploitation of mines, did not depend on Western initiatives, as is illustrated by the fast development of Manchuria from the mid-nineteenth century onward. As in Southeast Asia, this concentration of capital led to mass migrations with similar numbers of migrants to those traveling across the Atlantic.147 In the rest of Asia, Europeans were less successful in colonizing existing polities. China, Japan, and Thailand in particular, notwithstanding forced concessions from European and American powers, largely retained their territorial and political integrity, but also India and Indonesia, official colonies until the mid-twentieth century, were only gradually conquered and for the most part ruled in a rather indirect way.148 The best known migration streams that resulted from (post)colonial state formation were the huge population exchange of some 12 million people following the partitions of India and the birth of Pakistan in 1947 and the establishment of Bangladesh in 1971. A second long-term consequence of colonization are the postcolonial migrations. In Europe this concerns first of all migrations within and from former empires, for example Turkey (1910–1930), Germany (‘Aussiedler’ after 1945), and Russia after 1990. More conspicuous are the postcolonial migrations to the UK, France, Portugal, and the Netherlands, which received millions of migrants, including European settlers, mixed populations, and part of the native population.149 The United Kingdom in particular received a considerable number of colonial migrants (almost 1 million), especially from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and the West Indies in the 1950s–1970s.150 But in relative terms the Netherlands scored even higher with some 600,000 migrants in

145 Mark 2006. 146 Mohapatra 2007. 147 McKeown 2004. 148 Bayly & Kolff 1986. 149 Bosma, Lucassen & Oostindie 2012a. 150 Bosma, Lucassen & Oostindie 2012b: 5. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 49 the period 1945–2005, from the East Indies, Suriname, and the Antilles.151 An often overlooked country in this respect is Japan which received over 6 million postcolonial migrants from various parts of Asia immediately after the Second World War, most of them from China (1.5 million), Manchuria (1 million), Korea (918,000), Taiwan (479,000), and Siberia (470,000).152

Labor Markets By 1500 major parts of Eurasia had well-developed commodity and labor markets, with the independent labor of small farmers, peasants, herdsmen, and craftsmen, alongside wage labor, supplemented under certain conditions by unfree labor. By that time self-subsistence farming, let alone hunter-gathering, had become rare outside northern Siberia although small pockets remained in the tropical forests of South and Southeast Asia. The bulk of the production entered the market where monetary exchange dominated. Labor markets were also largely monetized in Europe, China, the Middle East, and India, and to a lesser degree in Southeast Asia.153 Slavery did occur, especially in the Ottoman empire, the Middle East,154 parts of the Mediterranean,155 and India, but predominantly in the domestic sphere, in contrast to the Americas and later Africa where chattel slavery became the dominant workforce on plantations until the second half of the nineteenth century. In Russia between 1600 and 1850 second serfdom increased its demand on the small peasant and severely restricted, although by no means totally limited, geographical mobility.156 Transportation (and thus migration) of slaves at the end of the Middle Ages was just switching from mainly northern catchment areas (Southern Russia) to the south since the Turks started to dominate the Eastern Mediterranean. At the same time Eastern Africa in particular also became of interest to sla- vers who transported their human cargo not only to the Middle East, but also to Western India, where the sultanates of Delhi, Ahmadnagar, and Bijapur employed them in their armies. In 1556 an annual outflow of 10,000 to 12,000 slaves was reported for Ethiopia. India acquired a substantive number of them in exchange for textiles.157 Locally, Rajputs, Mahrattas, and states in the Indo-Burmese borderlands turned war captives into slaves. Another source

151 Willems 2001; Oostindie 2012: 101. 152 Cohen 2012: 158. See also the chapter by Lucassen, Saito & Shimada in this volume. 153 Lucassen 2007; Lucassen 2012. 154 Lewis 1990. 155 Davis 2003. 156 See the chapters of Sunderland and Kessler in this volume. 157 Eaton 2005: 110; Chatterjee & Eaton 2006. 50 lucassen and lucassen of unfree labor was self-sale because of impoverishment, not only in South Asia but also in China. Although much unfree labor in Asia did not induce long-distance slave migrations, apart from the importation of Ethiopian slaves, two major exceptions should be mentioned: the sale overseas of Arakanese slaves through the Dutch East India Company,158 and the big Central Asian slave markets that drew part of their supply from India whose war captives and debt-slaves were exchanged for warhorses. The role of the Mughal empire is remarkable. Although its rulers and elites originated from Central Asia and kept domestic slaves, the Mughal state played a mitigating role with regard to the slave trade and slavery.159 In this respect it resembles much more the empires in East Asia than those in the west, such as the Ottoman empire where slavery played a much more important role, though diminishing after the seventeenth century.160 All over Eurasia free migrations therefore must have been much more important than unfree ones. People could move in groups as demonstrated in this volume with regard to Indian weavers,161 and as for example specialized merchants.162 Migratory craftsmen, well documented for early modern Europe, must have been important in the more eastern parts of the Eurasian landmass, although few details are known. For Japan Mary Louise Nagata concludes:

Japan entered the Tokugawa period with relatively small-scale craft production, but left the Tokugawa period with large businesses, major rural entrepreneurs, developing industries using casual labor organized in a factory style of production and the beginnings of mechanization.163

Here forced migrations from the countryside to new urban centers had led to proletarianization, and the ensuing labor market in its turn induced migration.164 For South Asia these developments have rarely been documented before about 1800, although the degree of deep monetization of the subcontinent suggests substantial functioning labor markets as well. For the nineteenth century there

158 At the height in the early 1640s 1000 annually: Eaton 2006, 12. See also Van Galen 2008. 159 Chatterjee & Eaton 2006: 11–14, 20–22. 160 Toledano 1998 and 2007; Zilfi 2010. 161 See the chapter by Ramaswamy. 162 Markovits 2000; see also Ota in this volume. 163 Nagata 2005: 131. 164 See Lucassen, Saito & Shimada. in this volume; for China see Moll-Murata 1998. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 51 and in Southeast and East Asia important labor migrations stand out.165 The big debate, however, is about the forced or free character of these migrations, mainly in the framework of imperialism; a dilemma which, according to Sunil Amrith, is not easy to solve:

there was a wide spectrum—from near slavery to relative freedom— within which Asian migrations took place. [. . .] Taking a broad view, only a minority of Asia’s migrants in the nineteenth century signed contracts of indenture. Nevertheless ‘free’ migration was, in its own way, highly constrained; it involved many kinds of coercion. Debt played a role almost everywhere.166

Whether solved or not, the essential contrast between free labor migrations in the Atlantic and unfree in Asia can no longer be maintained. Eurasia in the twentieth century is full of contrasts: on the one hand, the promulgation of the rights of free labor and free labor by international conventions, the League of Nations, the International Labor Organization (ILO), and finally the United Nations migrations, and on the other hand, serious and sometimes decades- long infringements of these norms by dictators from the west to the east of Eurasia. Besides, free labor markets notwithstanding, states apply very different access and membership regimes as we have explained in the section on state formation above.

Family Systems A third factor that may explain differences in migration dynamics within Eurasia are family systems, defined as a highly persistent “normative, preferred pattern of family practices.”167 Although family systems are crucial to understanding migration patterns, they easily lead to binary and Orientalist interpretations, as the interpretation of the Hajnal thesis on marriage patterns illustrates.168 The lesson learned is that we should not treat Europe and Asia as homogeneous units and, furthermore, that we have to distinguish between different effects of family systems, in terms of gender, the type of migration, and group formation.

165 See the chapters of Amrith, McKeown, and Bosma in this volume. 166 Amrith 2011: 55. 167 Kok 2010: 218. See also Liaw 2003. See also Fauve-Chamoux & Ochiai 1998 and the chapter of Umeno in this volume. 168 For a more nuanced evaluation see Lynch 2003; Engelen & Wolf 2005; Engelen et al. 2011. 52 lucassen and lucassen

What Europe and Asia had in common was the widespread practice of primogeniture in stem families that produced out-migration of members (especially men) who could not inherit and therefore left the village. In urbanizing societies, such as the Low Countries and Japan in the early modern period, many people—men and women—headed for cities.169 At the same time there were differences. Children, of whom it was not expected that they take care of their parents in the absolute nuclear family, for example, had much more freedom to migrate than when they were born into exogamous community family systems, where marriages are arranged by parents and women especially hold a weak position. Migration, except for the move to the household of her parents-in-law, was considered undesirable for women. These two extremes have been found in Northwestern Europe and China respectively since the late Middle Ages, and their persistence until the late twentieth century shows how family systems still influence migration patterns.170 It is not so easy, however, to make a clear-cut divide between Asia and Europe in this respect, because in some parts of Europe exogamous community systems also prevailed (the Balkans, Central Italy, Finland), whereas the absolute nuclear family was largely restricted to the northwest. For the moment we propose the scheme set out in Table 10, which maps the relationship between inheritance practices between the generations, on the one hand, and marriage patterns, on the other hand, in Eurasia from the early modern period well into the twentieth century and partly to the present day. Family systems not only influence the migration patterns of men and women, they also partly determine marriage practices. Some forms stimulate marrying outside the community, whereas endogamous community families, for example in the Arab world and in India displayed very low intermarriage rates. In South Asia endogamy was (and still is) the rule and requires an individual to remain within his or her own group (caste, clan, or religious group).171 The chapter about Indian weavers in this book illustrates the pervasive influence of this endogamous tradition and explains partly the resistance to assimilation, even linguistically. Endogamy was also fostered by the lineage structure of East Asian families, and in Japan intermarriage, which until the late twentieth century was regarded as a contravention of the traditional Japanese— and Korean—patriarchal family arranged marriage, has only recently become more accepted. It was not until 1985 that the offspring of Japanese women and

169 Skinner 1997: 79. 170 Moch 2007. 171 Singh 2005: 140. measuring and quantifying cross-cultural migrations 53

Table 10 Intra-generational transmission of property and marriage patterns in Eurasia, sixteenth to twentieth centuries

Intra-generational relations Partition of heritage Primogeniture Equal division

Partner choice endogamous India ? A B

exogamous China The Netherlands C D Westphalia Southern France

Note: A= one (often oldest) man stays, women move a short distance, other men in a family move a long distance or help out at home; B= this might be rural Russia; partible inheritance among male descendants, daughters move in with their husbands’ households, marriage strictly within own social group and usually in same or neighboring villages; C= one (often oldest) man stays, women migrate over longer distances, other men in a family move a long distance or help out at home; D = neolocal marriages, men and women may move over long distances, especially when they move to cities.

Korean fathers (konketsuji) were no longer regarded as illegitimate, following the Japanese patrilineal law.172 The situation in Southeast Asia was very different; here endogamy was cou- pled with neo-local residence and free partner choice. These traditions were much more open to intermarriages with immigrants and explain the openness of Southeast Asian societies to outsiders. The extreme religious diversity in this part of Eurasia could very well be closely connected with this openness and— apart from more political explanations, there being no strong empires after 1500 as in East Asia—might explain why so many Arab and European seafaring newcomers could relatively easily spread their genes and ideas, including Islam, Hinduism, Christianity, and Buddhism.173 These observations are in dire need of a more systematic study of the relationship between family systems and migration in Eurasia, not so much between its European and Asian part, but more at the regional level, and over a long time period. Only then will we be able to formulate more firmly to what extent inheritance systems, marriage practices, and lineages have structured migrations and influenced the rate and types of cross-cultural migrations.

172 Lie 2008: 88. 173 Nagata 2011. Adams & Gillogy 2011: 137–142. 54 lucassen and lucassen

5 Conclusion: A Eurasian Typology

In this introduction we have sketched the development of a historically informed global migration typology, meant to map cross-cultural migrations worldwide and through time. Specifically defined migration types, linked to general population developments yield cross-cultural migration rates (CCMR). Initially grounded in empirical data on European migrations, they have now been tested for Asia, and to some extent in Africa and the Middle East, since the sixteenth century. As a result our initial typology, based on European empirical data, has been refined and extended (whole community migrations, pilgrimages), but it needed no fundamental change. We may therefore conclude that there is no reason for European, Asian (or African) methodological exceptionalism in this regard: we now have a Eurasian typology that has proved to be rather robust. This plea for a common methodology has revealed important similarities and differences in levels and shifts of mobility between the different parts of Eurasia, as this introduction has shown. The long term trends in the rates of cross-cultural migrations in the four major parts of Eurasia (Europe without Russia, Russia, China and Japan, as presented in Figure 6) show a common start, a long divergence and a recent convergence. These are consistent with the idea of a ‘Great Divergence’ in economic development between Western Europe and China in the Early Modern period, but it also shows how the gap—at least where cross-cultural migrations are concerned—is closed in the second half of the twentieth century. Moreover, our fourfold comparison includes Russia, whose migration rates already in the nineteenth century started to converge with those of Europe, and Japan into the debate. In the latter country migration rates accelerated somewhat earlier than those in China, but overall, East Asia as a whole follows a similar trend over the last two hundred years. Finally, it is clear that in all cases urbanization and therefore shifting labor markets was the key determining factor. The mobilization of a military workforce points in the same direction as does colonization. Next to economic factors, the compulsory mass recruitment of soldiers since 1800, in particular in the Western half of the continent, demonstrates the importance of state formation. Catherine’s Dilemma: Resettlement and Power in Russia, 1500s–1914

Willard Sunderland

Catherine the Great had a problem. Her empire was vast and growing, but the numbers of her countrymen were not, or rather, not enough. Indeed, as she and her advisors saw it, the population of the great Russian state, while on the rise, was both too small for the size of the state and poorly distributed as well, concentrated overwhelmingly in the agricultural middle of the country— the heartland centre of European Russia—yet thin, even dangerously so, most everywhere else. The most glaring proof of the problem at the time lay approximately nine hundred miles to the south of the Winter Palace on the steppes north of the Black Sea where the empire was busily conquering an enormous territory roughly the size of France but with just a fraction of the population. Worse still, as the empress saw it, most of the residents of the region in question were “savage” nomads and “half-savage” Cossacks—that is, exactly the last people she felt she could turn to to build a prosperous colony. The solution, then, was clear: more people had to be found, foreigners from abroad but also peasants from the heartland where the empress’ officials were already talking of overpopulation. Yet this apparently simple notion of rebal- ancing the relationship between population and territory raised an inherent problem of its own because the basic structure of the state—and the legitimacy of the monarchy—depended on serfdom, that is, on a system that placed a greater value on rooting people in place than on moving them around. In fact, a number of people whom the state expected to stay rooted to their homes— runaway serfs—were already demonstrating the headaches that could be caused by uncontrolled mobility. The empress thus faced a double problem: of population in the first instance, but also of political order. Maintaining her empire seemed to require fixing people where they were, but improving it clearly depended on making at least some of them move, and not any way they wished either, but rather as the government thought best. In other words, what Catherine needed was a solution that allowed for mobility within immobility, an adjustment of the state’s political economy that would guarantee the orderly movement of the few, while maintaining the rootedness of the many. The question, of course, was how to do this.1

1 For more on questions of colonization and mobility in Catherinian Russia, see Sunderland 2004: esp. Chapter 2.

I am calling this conundrum Catherine’s dilemma, though one finds the outlines of the predicament in all modern states. Even states that tolerate high levels of geographic mobility attempt to restrict movement in various ways, introducing limits and regulations to serve their interests. And even the most formally immobile societies are, in fact, always moving—or at least this is the case with some if not many of their members. Mobility and immobility are thus unavoidably interrelated. It follows that as states attempt to manage the one, they invariably alter the other, which in turn leads to myriad complexities and contradictions.2 Tsarist Russia presents an interesting example of this phenomenon simply because its paradox of mobility-immobility proved to be so glaring. Casting a view across the long centuries of Russian history, one sees the outlines of a contradiction that never quite went away. On the one hand, people in the vast spaces claimed by the Russian state were almost always relocating in one direction or another, and the state was deeply involved in moving them around. Yet on the other, the tsarist government was arguably more determined than any other European state to do what it could to force its people to stay in place. The long history of serfdom in Russia is the best proof of this, but there were other modes of restriction besides. Indeed, for decades after serfdom was formally abolished in 1861, peasants continued to face legal obstacles in moving away from their homes, and even the decrees of 1904–1906 that established something close to freedom of movement did not do away with restrictions entirely.3 This essay explores the mobility-immobility relationship in Russia through the prism of rural resettlement (Russian: pereselenie), which is surely the oldest and most important of all the forms of long-distance mobility in the Russian past. Rural colonization was a constant in the lives of Eastern Slavs during the times of early Rus’ and the Muscovite centuries. And more of it followed in the imperial era (roughly 1700 to 1917), in particular, during the last two decades of the period, when over five million peasants resettled to Siberia and points east in the so-called Great Siberian Migration. Indeed, the flow of peasant settlers was so continuous over the centuries that Vasilii Kliuchevskii, one of the found- ers of modern Russian historiography, famously described colonization as the

2 On the regulation of mobility, in particular, migration, see Böcker et al. 1998; McKeown 2005; and Cresswell 2006. 3 On the 1904–1906 legislation reducing restrictions on movement, see Steinwedel 2007; Judge 1992: 89–90; Krasil’nikov 2010: 30–31; and Avrutin 2010: chapters 3 and 4. catherine’s dilemma 57

“basic fact of Russian history.”4 Not until the twentieth century did movement from the countryside to the cities become the predominant vector of migration in the country.5 Until then, Russian migration remained overwhelmingly a rural-to-rural affair. Yet, by and large, historians have done little to examine resettlement as part of the larger problem of mobility in the Russian past. This is not because the subject has been neglected—quite the opposite. Resettlement has a rich historiography going back to the late nineteenth century, and over recent decades, the field has arguably been as dynamic as ever, in particular in regards to the study of resettlement’s role in the history of Russian empire-building.6 But little of this work, past or present, has had much to say about the overall relationship between moving and staying put and still less about how average Russian subjects, the government, and the educated public understood movement as a social phenomenon. Only now are we beginning to appreciate the multiple “modes of mobility” that defined Russian life in different periods and to explore the state’s persistent challenge in addressing the mobility-immobility relationship.7 My goal here is to add to our understanding of the mobility-immobility dynamic by examining government approaches to resettlement from the late 1500s to 1914. My argument is essentially that this long period is best understood as consisting of two movement regimes—the first lasting from the late sixteenth century to the Catherinian period of the late 1700s, the second from Catherine’s time to 1914. Both these regimes, I argue, were premised on immobility and both presumed special prerogatives for the state in controlling and directing long-distance movement. Yet between them we see an important shift. The first period was devoted to the elaboration of a system of mass immobility centred on serfdom. The second witnessed this system’s gradual and incomplete dismantling. The age of Catherine the Great marks, in effect, a transition from one form of the movement/non-movement relationship to another. For clarification’s sake, by the term “movement regime” here, I mean the nexus of institutions, practices, and perceptions concerning movement/ non-movement that shaped state policy. In other words, I am not only talking

4 Kliuchevskii 1987: vol. 1, 50. Kliuchevskii’s famous lectures were first published in the early 1900s. 5 On this important development, see Gijs Kessler’s chapter in this volume. 6 For thoughts on this question, see Randolph & Avrutin 2012: 7–11. 7 For reflections on the growing historiography of mobility more generally, see Huber 2010. 58 sunderland about movement as it actually occurred but rather about how movement was interpreted and given meaning by state authorities. And by “shift,” I mean less a sudden jolt from one order to another than an awkward, ambivalent, and incomplete transition. The “new” was indeed new, but the old never went away. Indeed, in some respects, the old still goes on given that residency restrictions such as the propiska system continue to influence patterns of migration and settlement in Russia today.8 Presented in this way, my argument offers a Russian-centred contribution to the current discussion regarding the so-called “mobility transition” in Europe between 1500 and 1900. As Jan and Leo Lucassen have suggested, a transition in the scale and direction of movement did indeed occur—the overall mobility of Europeans by the end of this long period was undeniably greater than in earlier centuries, and, as scholars such as Wilbur Zelinsky argued some time ago, the key tipping point indeed occurred in the nineteenth century, in particular in the half-century between 1850 and 1900.9 But as the Lucassens (and others) have also shown quite convincingly, the transition is not a simple story of modernization and its effects. Instead, European mobility over the long term has been consistently quite pronounced, which means that the transition, such as it is, is not from low to high mobility as was once thought but rather from high to higher. And furthermore, what’s most interesting about the transition is not the overall shift in scale (though this is admittedly striking) but rather the shifts that take place in the relative weight of different forms of mobility. Military migration, for example, diminishes rapidly in the late nineteenth century, while long-distance “cross-community” emigration increases sharply, though it seems likely, that the increase in this case was not due to a deeper structural change in migration itself as much as to changes in transportation costs and other factors.10 Thus, when we survey the big picture from the sixteenth to the twentieth centuries, the vista is far more nuanced than the one we would have observed a few decades ago. Rather than a huge leap in European mobility in the nineteenth century explained by a fairly straightforward invocation of the modernization paradigm, we instead find a tableau of abiding continuities in movement, both in terms of types and rates, with key shifts in overall scale and

8 On the history of the Russian internal passport and the related issue of residency restrictions, see Chernukha 2007; Matthews 1993; Steinwedel 2001; Chernukha 2001; and Moon 2002. 9 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 370, note 4 and Zelinsky 1971. 10 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 373–374. catherine’s dilemma 59 form appearing only at the very end of the period. Russia’s place in this pan- European picture is largely consonant with the broader view.11 Certainly when it comes to resettlement within the empire—which is best seen as a conflation of the categories of “emigration” and “colonization” in the CCMR-model12—we see a clear correlation. Rural Russians (as well as other rural communities within the empire) have always been fairly mobile. At the same time, it’s equally true, in overall terms, that they also stayed in place. Thus if we want to understand how mobility “worked” in the Russian past the issue to explore is precisely the relationship between mobility and immobility, between staying and going. In this paper, I examine this relationship as an open question posed to the Russian state—Catherine’s dilemma—and explore its effects on the evolution of Russian governance.

The Uses of Immobility

Rus’ began with an act of migration. Or at least this is what the monks of Kiev tell us in their Primary Chronicle. According to the Chronicle, the earliest Slavs were migrants who moved up from plains around the Danube delta to the mixed forest-steppe of what is now central Ukraine. Once they reached their new lands, they then proceeded to plant crops, build towns, organize a state, and migrate further, eventually spreading themselves across all of what came to be called the “Rus’ land” from the Baltic and White seas in the north to the edges of the grassy steppe—or “wild field”—in the south.13 Movement, in fact, was endemic to early Russian history. Peasants created their farms by slashing and burning the forests and then, once the lands were

11 Lucassen & Lucassen 2010. 12 The Lucassens underscore the difficulty that sometimes arises in applying these terms to the Russian experience in their 2010 paper when they count migration to Siberia from European Russia as “emigration” but migration to the southern steppes within European Russia as “colonization” (i.e the movement of “peasants to the borderlands”). In reality, both of these “movements” involve peasants resettling “to the borderlands” and are thus probably best characterized as colonization, though “resettlement” (the term that I use here, but that is not used in the CCMR-model) could presumably include both peasants that moved to the borderlands and as well as those that simply relocated permanently to other parts of the Russian centre. See Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 15 (table 2.10) and 18 (table 4.1). Of course, the question of what exactly constitutes the centre and which regions are considered the periphery—and how and when these monikers shifted over time—is another complicated kettle of fish. 13 For the best recent overview of early Rus’ in English, see Franklin & Shepard 1996. 60 sunderland exhausted, moving on to new lands to repeat the cycle. No concept of land ownership existed to fix them in place, and the early Rus’ state (if this term even applies) was too weak to keep them from moving in any case. With the rise of Moscow in the fourteenth century, however, this began to change, for two basic reasons. First, the princes of Moscow were more savvy and persistent than their counterparts in old Kievan Rus’. They knew that to keep their lords in line, they had to guarantee their lands and provide them with peasant labor. At the same time, given the general dearth and instability of life in the woods, peasants themselves began to move onto noble and monastery lands where they could find at least a modicum of protection. As a result, both from above and, to a degree, from below, a “system of state-regulated migration control” gradually came into being. By the 1490s, the so-called St. George’s Day Law made it illegal for peasants to move from one lord’s domain to the next outside a narrow window of time every fall. A century later this limited freedom was repealed and by 1649 a new legal code stipulated that even prior runaways had to be returned to their masters. Serfdom had arrived.14 The new institution had an obvious impact on peasant mobility. One sees this clearly from the geography of Muscovite settlement. The borders of the Russian state expanded far more between the 1550s and the late 1600s than in any subsequent era, yet no migration rush followed the rush for land. The enormous Muscovite acquisitions of the Volga region, the Urals, and most of Siberia remained thinly settled until the second half of the nineteenth century. At the same time, population densities in the servile heartland of central Russia increased, suggesting, by and large, that serfs were not moving out. Indeed, beyond the old Muscovite core, the only peripheral areas to experience any significant rise in population during the Muscovite centuries were the Middle Volga and so-called left-bank Ukraine (the Hetmanate), though these regions were already relatively well populated at the time of their incorporation by Moscow so how much of the increase in population there can be attributed to migrants is unclear.15 The Muscovites’ concern with stability on the frontier also led them to keep Russian landlords from enserfing non-Russian peasants, in particular Muslims, which evolved into another check on the expansion of the institution in eastern areas.16

14 The quoted phrase is taken from Boeck 2007: 44. For authoritative general treatments of the development of serfdom in English, see Moon 1999; and Blum 1971. 15 On this, see Mironov 2000: vol. 1, 19. Mironov treats the complicated effects of serfdom on peasant migration more fully in the Russian version of his book (Mironov 1999: vol. 1, 25, 27–28). 16 On the ethno-confessional politics of enserfment in the Middle Volga region, see Romaniello 2012. catherine’s dilemma 61

At the same time, it is simplifying things too much to suggest that serfdom kept peasants from resettling altogether. Enterprising and/or desperate serfs frequently fled their masters and set up new homes for themselves in the borderlands, despite state prohibitions. In fact, the main drag on servile colonization in frontier areas had less to do with the peasants than with the lords. Muscovite serf owners, like their successors in the imperial period, were usually reluctant to resettle their charges over long distances. The venture was costly, but more to the point, there was still so much open land to exploit closer to home that there was little incentive to send peasants farther afield. One of the ironies of serfdom is thus that it often worked to keep landlords in place as much as serfs, though for different reasons. Yet perhaps the more important point to make about the institutionalization of serfdom is that it was not at bottom about eliminating mobility as much as clarifying who could control it. The decision to tie peasants to the lands of their lords was the result of a mutually beneficial arrangement between the court and the nobles. The tsar, in effect, handed the peasants over to the nobles, and the nobles in return gave their loyalty and service to the tsar. The real heavy in the equation was never in doubt. In fact, the arrival of serfdom only under- scored the obvious: it was the tsar who held ultimate authority over mobility in the realm—that of the peasants as well as their owners. In fact, we see two serfdoms arising in the Muscovite era: the first tying peasants to their lords and the other bonding the lords to the tsar. Sitting atop both relationships, the tsar had the power to move around anyone he liked, including his nobles, which he frequently did, despite their howls of protest. One sees this clearly, for example, in the case of the massive Muscovite military colonization of the southern steppe, which was surely the greatest official migration program to unfold in Russia before the late eighteenth century. At the heart of the program was the need to build a series of defensive lines against nomadic raiders. The lines, however, needed people, so the state was engaged from the start in both luring and forcibly relocating settlers, including noble servitors. The need for manpower in the south was so great that the state even allowed runaway serfs who had fled to the frontier to enrol as servitors and then promptly awarded them with serfs of their own.17 Peasants were explicitly immobilized by the new servile regime, nobles less so, but from the tsar’s point of view, both groups—in fact all of society— shared the same quality: no matter your station, you were potentially portable, available to be ordered into movement as the tsar required. Under Peter the Great, the sovereign’s interests were recast as the interests of the state, but the

17 On the politics of peopling the southern frontier, see Stevens 1996; Davies 2004 and 2007: 41–77; and Boeck: 2009: chapter 4. 62 sunderland practical effects were the same. Indeed, the great tsar himself made this perfectly clear when he set about dispatching just about everyone—nobles included—to his new capital of St. Petersburg in the early eighteenth century. The old boyars of Moscow fumed about being forced to move to a damp, uncomfortable town with an unpronounceable name, but they went all the same.18

The Attractions of Moving

To this point, I have discussed the rise of an immobility order in Russia. According to this system, the fixedness of the population served as the basic template for social and political life, though mobility remained an integral feature. Now I switch to discussing the broad transformation of this system into one that allowed for increased forms of mobility, and I argue that we see this shift begin in the late eighteenth century during the reign of Catherine the Great. To the extent that mobility and immobility represent a zero-sum game, one could argue that the shift towards greater mobility necessarily resulted in a corresponding decrease in immobility. And broadly speaking, this is true. Speaking just of agricultural resettlement, which is my focus here, we see practical barriers to this type of migration in Russia come down increasingly over the nineteenth century, at least with respect to parts of the peasant population, with the greatest single breakthrough coming with the Emancipation of the Serfs in 1861. Yet limitations on migration persisted, even after the formal end of the servile order. And perhaps the more important point is that the state retained its prerogative to direct mobility. Serfdom ended but the state’s presumption of its authority to structure and organize migration, if anything, increased.

18 On Peter’s decrees forcing nobles (and other groups) to resettle to the new capital, see Anisimov 2008: especially pp. 361–425. It’s important to stress, of course, that there was always an enormous gap between what the tsar decreed and the way people actually lived. The point that I am making here is not that Peter the Great—or any other Russian ruler, for that matter—could enforce either mobility or immobility in near absolute terms but rather simply that the prevailing ideology in Peter’s time presumed the ruler’s power to do this. Despite the limitations it faced in practice, this vision of immobility/mobility as a condition dictated from the throne continued to influence official Russian thinking well into the Soviet period and, to a lesser degree, still today. catherine’s dilemma 63

What defined the new mobility regime? For one, a new scale. Far more peasants resettled within the empire after the mid-eighteenth century than ever before. Though the data prior to the late nineteenth century is incomplete and inconsistent, state sources suggest that close to 13 million peasants resettled within the empire in the 1678–1915 period.19 Of these, a little over a third (somewhat less than 5 million people) resettled prior to 1858 and two-thirds (approximately 8 million) resettled thereafter, with by far the most intense period of resettlement coming in the last five and a half decades of the empire (1870–1915) when some 8 million “resettlers” moved to the borderlands.

Table 1 Number of male legal immigrants by region of settlement, 1678–1915

Region of 1678–1740 1740–82 1782–1858 1870–96 1897–1915 Total for Settlement 1678–1915

Central Black 260,000 370,000 Negligible negligible Negligible 630,000 Earth Russian 90,000 N/A 517,000 926,000 3,520,000 5,053,000 North, Siberia, and Kazakh Steppe Southern N/A 135,000 1,510,000 1,045,000 333,000 3,023,000 Steppe (New Russia) Volga and N/A 270,000 968,000 358,000 80,000 1,676,000 Urals North N/A N/A 565,000 1,687,000 296,000 2,448,000 Caucasus TOTAL 350,000 775,000 3,560,000 4,016,000 4,229,000 12,830,000

Source: Table reproduced with minor modifications from Mironov 2000: 19.

The figures in Table 1 reflect the number of male peasants since they alone were counted by the government. The table also only indicates “legal” migrants—that is, migrants who moved with the permission of the government or their landlords. Unapproved resettlement continued through to the

19 This is in line with Moon 1997: 867 who estimated 10 million peasant settlers between the 1670s and 1896. 64 sunderland very end of the old regime, so adding the number of “illegal” migrants to the mix would raise the total migrant count considerably. Some of these illegals during the servile era were serf runaways fleeing their masters. Many others, though, were otherwise compliant state peasants who made up their minds to resettle without formally petitioning the bureaucracy for permission before they left or who failed to register with the state once they arrived in their destinations. Since many of the same cumbersome bureaucratic steps remained in place even after the Emancipation, illegal movement remained common as well. One additional note: Though the empire took over much of Poland and the western Baltic region in the 1700s, Russian migration to these regions was negligible during the imperial area, hence the absence of these regions from the table. Part of the growth in the scale and intensity of resettlement in the post-1750s period was clearly a result of demographic and technological change. Prior to the late 1800s, the population of the agricultural heartland of European Russia, the traditional “donor” region for rural migrants within the empire, grew at a relatively slow pace. In the last decades of the empire, however, it began rising more markedly, not only in the centre but in some of the former settlement zones of the south as well. As a result, more people were available to join the country’s migration pool, while trains and steamboats were able to move them faster and in ever swelling numbers.20 Yet dating the onset of the new mobility regime to the mid-eighteenth century is not primarily a matter of scale, since the real leap in this regard did not occur until after the Emancipation more than a century later. Instead, the most meaningful change we see in the mid-1700s is the development of a new way of thinking about long-distance resettlement. Catherine’s government, in effect, invented resettlement as a state policy, establishing it as a special sphere of government knowledge and practice and introducing a new chapter in the evolving state-based view of mobility/immobility in the process. In part, the reason for this shift was created by practical circumstances: Catherine’s landlords and provincial governors (almost all of whom were themselves landlords) began to complain of increasing “crowdedness” (tesnota) in the empire’s central provinces—that is, they described failing farms and villages

20 For overviews of the empire’s demographic history, see Mironov 2000: vol. 1, 2–4; and Gatrell 1986. The expansion of the rail network was remarkable, exploding from just some 1,626 kilometers of track in 1860 to over 70,000 by 1913, with clear consequences for the overall mobility of the population, including short-term movement like pilgrimages. Conservative estimates are that some one million peasants in the Central Black Earth region alone were taking part in such pilgrimages every year by the end of the nineteenth century. See Greene 2012: 248. catherine’s dilemma 65 with too many mouths to feed—at the very time that vast “empty” steppes were being conquered and incorporated in the south at the expense of the Crimean Khans and their Ottoman patrons. The new lands had to be defended and developed, and the obvious way to do this, it seemed, was to fill them with people, preferably ones who would not be missed too much where they were. The brimming centre thus appeared at just the right time to come to the aid of the apparently people-less periphery, or at least this is how things looked to the government. To even perceive the terrain of the state in these terms, however, required looking at the world through the new spectacles of political economy, so in this sense the invention of resettlement as a state policy was not only a response to new circumstances but also the result of a mental shift. The initial turn in this direction had begun earlier in the century with the dramatic transformations of the age of Peter the Great (r.1696–1724), which helped to introduce “police science” to Russia and direct the work of government towards increasing the “common good” (obshchee blago) by maximizing the “usefulness” (pol’za) of every resource at its disposal. Peter’s officials thus took to measuring and counting whatever they could as well as studying the relationship between things, including the basic relationship between population and territory and recommending actions to keep the balance as productive as possible. Though in limited numbers, Peter moved people around as he saw fit. His immediate successors on the throne did so as well, and all to serve the state’s needs as seen from the centre’s perspective. By the second half of the century, these values and practices of statecraft were well-established such that all that Catherine the Great really did, in effect, was take Peter’s crude “police state” to the next level. As a devotée of the philosophes inspired by the “populationists” of her time as well as the ambitious resettlement programs of the Prussians and the Habsburgs, she knew that happy states were ones with large populations distributed in just the right way to make the most of available resources. “Empty” places—i.e. places without the appropriate concentration of farms, ports, or mines—were affronts to the useful productivity of Man, not to mention the state’s bottom line, since “emptiness” was hard to tax. Meanwhile “savages”—such as the nomadic pastoralists of the steppe, for example—were people with a “civilization” deficit. Resettlement and migration were thus reinvented as tools not just of the state’s practical interest but also of prosperity and general well-being, levers for a wise government to use in adjusting whatever awkward imbalances of population and territory it might see, while at the same time multiplying revenue and spreading general societal uplift. With the wide open steppe in front of them and this heady mix of popula- tionism, civilizing mission, and esprit géometrique in their cups, it did not take 66 sunderland long for Catherine and her lieutenants to drink up and get to work. One of the empress’ first initiatives was the creation of New Russia (Novorossiia), a sprawl- ing province carved out of steppe lands north of the Black Sea that quickly became the empire’s principal laboratory for rural migration and colonization. Peasants from the interior who lived on state lands (state peasants) were given incentives to move. Noble landlords received large land grants and faced various penalties if they didn’t resettle their serfs. Meanwhile, foreign colonists— Germans, Scots, Serbs, and Swiss, among others—were invited from beyond the empire, and peasants who arrived illegally—that is, as runaways—if they were found at all, were usually allowed to stay. New Russia was thus a vivid example of the useful synergy that now seemed to apply between the growth of the empire and the expansion of resettlement. New areas required new people, with the latter to be moved in by the state as circumstances allowed.21 These developments then set a precedent for the remainder of Catherine’s reign as one decree after another targeted different groups for relocation to the periphery. With the creation of central ministries in the early nineteenth century, the government’s involvement in resettlement grew all the more bureaucratic and coordinated, while also becoming linked to a growing concern with agrarian reform, which would endure as an abiding motif for the rest of the imperial era. By the mid-nineteenth century, things had developed enough that a bona fide resettlement system had come into being, in particular in regards to moving state peasants, who remained the government’s basic source of resettlement material because they were far easier to relocate than privately owned serfs.22 Yet, and this is the most important “yet” in the history of Russian resettlement, the new enthusiasm for making people move that had taken hold in government circles by the latter part of the eighteenth century did not extend to everyone, nor was it meant to undermine the general social order, which remained centred on immobility. Indeed, under Catherine, at the very same

21 On the politics of resettlement in the Catherinian period, see Sunderland 2004: 55–95. On the settlement of foreigners at this time, see Bartlett 1979. Some 30,000 foreigners, mostly Germans, resettled to the empire during the first decade or so of Catherine’s reign (1762–1775). See Hartley 1999: 12. 22 State peasants resided on state rather than privately owned lands and constituted more than half of the total peasant population of the empire on the eve of the Emancipation. In contrast to serfs, they were considered legally “free,” but, like serfs, they, too, were prohibited from moving as they pleased. Every act of migration, in fact, any movement beyond one’s district, was supposed to be approved by state authorities at various levels. On the state peasantry and the heterogeneity of the peasant population in the pre-Emancipation era, see Dixon 1999: 84–87; and Hartley 1999: 19–23. catherine’s dilemma 67 time that resettlement was growing as a sphere of government activity, we also see a rise in the overall serf population (due both to natural increase and to the enserfment of previously “free” peasants) and the emergence of an estate system (soslovie) that all but required every resident of the empire to be recorded in a particular locale, thus underscoring the state’s abiding concern with fixing its subjects in place.23 In other words, the new push for mobility, which, on the face of it, would seem to contradict the immobile status quo, was, in fact, intended to reinforce it. Mobility and immobility were two sides of the same coin, and control over both was considered the special prerogative of state power. Despite the fact that the government began to do more to promote and organize long-distance mobility during the Catherinian era, its commitment to regulating immobility remained as intense as ever. At the same time, there is no question that Catherine introduced a new tension to the mobility-immobility equation. On the one hand, under her lead the government remained dedicated to keeping most of its subjects in place. On the other, it now drew some of its legitimacy from an ideology that regarded mobility—in this case, long-distance resettlement—as a tool of positive governance, and it grew increasingly invested in the political architecture required to move people around. We see the tensions especially clearly in the politics of the Emancipation of 1861. On the one hand, the law that freed the serfs was very clearly not about giving them the freedom to move. Though the “Regulation Concerning Peasants Leaving Servile Dependency” put an immediate end to the serfs’ personal bondage to their masters, it required them to stay tied to their village communes (sel’skie obshchestva), which issued internal passports and effectively replaced the nobles as the state’s front-line ally against unchecked mobility in the countryside. The “Regulation” also had nothing to say about resettlement, and the state generally cut back on its resettlement program during the 1860s and 1870s at least in part to ensure that peasant workers continued to provide their former masters the labor they needed in the agricultural middle of the empire.24 On the other hand, however, it is hard to not to see the Emancipation as a fundamental blow against the immobility regime. Even with the burdens and controls placed upon them by their communes, the peasants’ latitude for legal movement increased markedly when they stopped being the personal

23 On the elaboration of a system of estates during the Catherinian period, see Dixon 2001: 124–128; and Madariaga 1981: 79–122. 24 The literature on the Emancipation is enormous. For the best short summary in English, see Moon 2001. 68 sunderland property of their noble owners. More to the point, state officials in the borderlands rallied to the Emancipation as the necessary turn in the lock that would bring them more migrants, and they repeatedly pleaded with their superiors in St. Petersburg to increase official migration levels.25 In fact, it was not long before two developments pushed the state to return to a more permissive view of resettlement: (1) a notable rise in the peasant population of central Russia and Ukraine, which put pressure on the rural economy and led to an increase in “independent resettlement” (samovol’ noepereselenie)—that is, resettlement outside the state’s legal channels; and (2) a new preoccupation in government circles with borderland development, in particular in Siberia and the Far East. In the 1890s, work on the Trans-Siberian began, and the number of legal “resettlers” quickly shot up as the government resumed trying to use resettlement as a way to address “overcrowding” in the interior, while at the same time raising economic productivity and the overall presence of the state on the periphery. During Catherine’s time, the great colonization laboratory had been the vast grasslands of the southern steppe. Now the proving grounds had shifted east “beyond the Urals” to “Asiatic Russia.” Indeed, the sense that the country had stepped into a new era of resettlement in the late 1800s proved strong enough that the government felt com- pelled to establish its first ever agency specifically dedicated to the work of colonization: the Resettlement Administration (Pereselencheskoe upravlenie), which opened in 1896 as a body within the Ministry of the Interior but then moved over to the Ministry of Agriculture, a relocation which itself seemed to underscore that borderland migration was no longer going to be prioritized as a police matter but rather as a tool for development.26 The final piece in the story of the liberalization of mobility are the two migration laws of 1904 and 1906 that together effectively stripped the commune of its power to keep peasants from leaving the village and limited the authority of state officials to determine where and when migrants could resettle. In fact, the only requirement that the law of 1906 demanded from would-be settlers was that they send a scout in advance to select and then register their allotted land, though even if they failed to do this, they could still resettle—they simply wouldn’t qualify for state support.27 Perhaps predictably, this loosening of procedure resulted in the largest surge in rural migration ever seen to that point in Russian history, a fact that seems to suggest that when you increase people’s freedom to move, an increase in actual movement is likely to follow. (This at

25 Sunderland 2004: 154. 26 On the Resettlement Administration, see Sunderland 2010 and Holquist 2010. 27 Krasil’nikov 2010: 31. catherine’s dilemma 69 least was the position taken by liberal Russian observers of the resettlement scene in the 1910s.) Yet even then, at a time when most restrictions on resettlement were being lifted, the state’s role in shaping the flow of migration and—just as importantly, the presumption that it should shape the flow—remained par- amount. This is neatly exemplified in the actions of Premier Petr Stolypin, the last great architect of resettlement policy in the tsarist era. Following the 1906 law, Siberian migration rates increased, as liberal champions of the law expected they would. But after 1907, they dipped unexpectedly. Having by then assumed the premiership, Stolypin responded to the downturn by expanding the state’s resettlement system in order to squeeze as many peasants as possible into the pipeline. Migration totals then climbed again. Was this unfree migration? No. Peasants were not being forced to move, or being told by the state exactly where they had to go. But it’s clear that this was not entirely free migration either.

Conclusion

All of the above suggests a few general conclusions: First, the autocratic system that took shape in Russia during the Muscovite period created a regime of immobility that served its purposes. The Russian state sprawled over an enormous territory with poor natural defenses and a small population surrounded on various sides by occasionally hostile neighbors. Fixing people in place was a practical response to this vulnerability. Secondly, serfdom, as a system of immobility, did not immobilize people entirely for it was, in fact, never meant to do so. Of course, movement unfolded outside the system—“illegal” migration was a longstanding phenomenon that never went away. It’s also true that serfdom limited movement overall by imposing a range of punishments and proscriptions. But the stranger truth is that movement also took place as a function of the system because serfdom’s most lasting effect was to underscore the tsar’s role as the ultimate enforcer of mobility rather than to eliminate mobility altogether. And this applied to everyone, not just serfs. Before serfdom set in, you were free to move. After serfdom was established, the tsar was free to move you. Clearly a significant change occurred, but movement remained a part of both scenarios. Thirdly, the shift away from emphasizing immobility to promoting mobility that began in the Catherinian era, if even in a restricted manner, was based on a recalculation of state power. Ensuring a certain degree of borderland colonization had always been a key state interest, but beginning in the late eighteenth 70 sunderland century, the scale and the point of the undertaking changed. From this time forward, borderland settlement—first on the steppe and then later in eastern Russia—became a way to address problems in the interior, while advancing a vision of government as a force for managing and developing the country’s political economy and promoting “civilization”. By late nineteenth century, the “transportation revolution” kicked in and the scale of long-distance borderland settlement increased all the more. But lastly, perhaps the most important point to take from an overview of Russia’s experience with resettlement is an appreciation for the role of the state in the process—and for the complexity of that role. The enduring legacy of serfdom was to establish the tsar and by extension the government as the ultimate arbiter of the relationship between geographic mobility and immobility. In looking at resettlement as one type of movement, the challenges the state faced in this role become clear. People had to be kept in place, but they also had to be moved and were often moving anyway according to their own concerns. Given these basic conditions, determining the optimum balance between stasis and movement and, more importantly, how to enforce that balance, proved to be a constant dilemma, for Catherine as well as other Russian rulers. Measuring Migration in Russia: A Perspective of Empire, 1500–1900

Gijs Kessler

Recent comparative work on migration has brought out quite distinctly that Russia, and to be more precise, the territory covered by the successive incarnations of Russian statehood, can rightfully claim its place among the major migration systems of the modern world, on a par with West and South European migration across the Atlantic, Chinese migration into South-East Asia, and more importantly so, with the Chinese colonization of thinly populated internal frontier areas.1 The Russo-Siberian system was one of overland colonization which brought Slavic settlers from Europe to the Amur River and the shores of the Pacific Ocean, meeting up with the great Chinese colonization movement from the South. In the process these Slavic settlers created one of the largest land empires in the world in terms of territory, although sparsely populated in many of its constituent parts. The dynamism underlying this colonization of a continent would appear to stand in stark contrast to long-established notions of Russia as an immobile society, as epitomized by the two hundred years of serfdom, the institution which legally tied rural populations to the land from the mid seventeenth to the late nineteenth century. In his contribution to this volume Willard Sunderland examines this co-existence of forces of mobility and immobility in Russia’s history, with particular respect to the state’s attempts at harnessing both to achieve its aims. This chapter looks at the quantitative side of this balancing act. As part of their recent endeavor to quantify and classify European migration over a five hundred-year period, Jan and Leo Lucassen have produced a first dataset on Russian historical migrations in as far as it involved the population of the European part of the country, i.e. West of the Urals and North of the Caucasus mountain ridge, over the period 1500–1900.2 In this chapter I engage with and expand on their pioneering work. Supplementing the Lucassen data-set with figures for the Asian parts of the country to arrive at an empire-wide perspective I analyze trends in Russian migration over time and compare them to

1 Hoerder 2002: 306–330; McKeown 2004: 156–157; Bosma 2009. 2 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009; Lucassen & Lucassen 2010.

Migration in Russia, 1500–1900

One of the largest challenges in charting and quantifying migration for Russia over a four-hundred year period lies in its constantly and rapidly expanding territory, from the equivalent of Spain in terms of territory and population around 1500 to an empire straddling two continents with a population of over 125 million people in 1897.3 The methodology developed by Jan and Leo Lucassen for the quantification and classification of historical migration relates the total number of movements for fifty-year intervals to population size to produce a cross-cultural migration rate (CCMR), comparable across time and space.4 For a fixed geographic entity, like Europe, which the Lucassens’ original article was concerned with, this is a more straightforward procedure than for a rapidly expanding territory. In the latter case, population figures are prone to greater fluctuations caused by the inclusion of newly conquered territories, and population movements on the edges of the expanding polity are more prone to distort the migration figures. For this chapter I started from the Lucassen data-set on migration in European Russia and supplemented and rearranged it according to an empire- perspective, i.e. inclusive of population and migration flows in the non- European parts of the country. In the process I drew in additional literature to revise some of the estimates and values from the original data-set, producing, in the end, what amounts to an essentially new version of the data-set, presented in the tables 1–3 below. The tables 1 and 2 present the population figures. As a spin-off from its interest in locating taxable subjects to finance the many wars of expansion it was engaged in, the Russian state started to gather population statistics from an early period on. Although for a long time only the male population was registered, historical demographers have, over the years, produced good time- series, which we have drawn on to produce estimates of total population size at start and mid-century for the period 1500–1900 (table 1).

3 Cf. Angus Maddison database, http://www.ggdc.net/maddison/Historical_Statistics/ [as consulted on 21 March 2013] (Spain 1500); Hellie 2002: 293 (Russia 1500); Troinitskii 1905: 56–59 (Russian Empire, 1897). 4 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 353–354. measuring migration in russia 73

Table 1 Total population of Russia, 1500–1900 (000s)

Year 1500 1550 1600 1650 1700 1750 1800 1850 1900

Population 5500 6500 7000 7000 12500 19200 39100 56900 132200 Increase 100 118 127 127 227 349 711 1035 2404 (1500=100)

Source: Calculated and estimated by author from: Hellie 2002: 293; Vodarskii 1973: 27; Kabuzan 1971: 52, 54, 56; Troinitskii 1905: 56–57.

Despite conquests like the Kazan and Astrakhan khanates in the second half of the sixteenth century and the annexation of most of Siberia up till the Amur river and the sea of Japan in the first half of the seventeenth century total population growth was fairly limited until the second half of the seventeenth century, when the Ukrainian lands east of the Dniepr were added to the territory of the Russian state. In the course of the eighteenth and nineteenth century further territorial gains, as well as natural population growth, caused a more rapid increase. In their reconstruction of historical migration Jan and Leo Lucassen relied on cumulative estimates for fifty-year periods, weighed against the average population at mid-period. Recalculated to fit these requirements the population data for Russia used in our further calculations are presented in table 2. Table 3, finally, lists the migration data and estimates for the six categories of the Lucassen taxonomy:

Table 2 Average total population of Russia per fifty-year interval, 1501–1900 (000s)

Period 1501– 1551– 1601– 1651– 1701– 1751– 1801– 1851– 1550 1600 1650 1700 1750 1800 1850 1900

Populationa 6000 6750 7000 9750 15850 29150 47990 94540 Increase 100 113 117 163 264 486 800 1576 (1500–1550=100) a Population at mid-period, defined as the average of the total population at the start and end of each fifty-year interval. Source: Calculated by author from: Hellie 2002: 293; Vodarskii 1973: 27; Kabuzan 1971: 52, 54, 56; Troinitskii 1905: 56–57. 74 kessler CCMR (%) CCMR 17.9 22.5 14.9 18.3 13.8 13.7 21.9 30.8 Population 6000 6750 7000 9750 15850 29150 47990 94540 Total 1071 1520 1043 1789 2193 3985 10526 29096 Colonization 0 135 140 98 530 1172 2914 4123 Seasonal 0 0 0 75 260 445 1300 8000 500 Temporal Temporal multi- annual 1000 500 1000 1010 1265 4055 5060 Emigration 500 350 320 260 200 450 100 1899 Immigration 0 0 0 270 0 0 124 2833 To towns To 71 35 83 86 193 653 2033 7182 Migration by category in Russia, 1501–1900 (000s) 1501–1900 in Russia, category by Migration Table 3 Table 1501–1550 publications: Lucassen & 2010: 20–22. the following author on the basis of and Leo Lucassen from : Compiled by Jan by Source data provided on http:// census 1897 as available Population 794; 1929: Willcox 107–108; 84, 1931: 142; Obolensky-Osinsky 2002: 307–308; Khodarkovsky 30–31; Hellie 2002: 137–140; Bushen 1858; Bruk & Kabuzan 1982: 55–56; 1988: & Chèvre Batou, Bairoch, on 9 April 2013]; [as consulted demoscope.ru/weekly/ssp/rus_gub_97.php 342–343. 92; Moon 2002: Grube 1904: 77–82; 1957: Luppov 290–293; 16, 20, 24, 273, Kahan & Hellie 1985: 863; Moon 1997: 1551–1600 1601–1650 1651–1700 1701–1750 1751–1800 1801–1850 1851–1900 measuring migration in russia 75

When we correct these rates for changes in life expectancy5 to make them comparable to the twentieth-century data in some of the other contributions to this volume we arrive at the following results:

Table 4 CCMRs in Russia, corrected for life expectancy, 1501–1900

Migration rate (%)

1501–1550 12.5 1551–1600 15.8 1601–1650 10.4 1651–1700 12.8 1701–1750 9.7 1751–1800 9.6 1801–1850 15.4 1851–1900 27.7

The taxonomy in table 3 and figure 1 has been set up in such a way as to provide a comprehensive coverage of longer-range cross-cultural population movements departing from, destined towards or within a given territory. Immigration and emigration cover the movements into and out of the territory, whereas the other four categories concern internal mobility. Migration to towns relates to towns of over ten thousand inhabitants, colonization concerns agricultural settlement, and seasonal migration relates to repetitive, usually annual movements between areas, mostly related to labor migration, but also, for example, pastoralism and nomadism. Temporal multi-annual migration, finally, relates to the movements of soldiers and sailors, in times of peace and war, as well as the army trains providing logistical support. The reasons for including this last category, which is often not considered as migration, have been put forward convincingly by Jan and Leo Lucassen.6 Figure 1 plots the relative contribution of these six categories of migration to total mobility.

5 Lucassen & Lucassen ‘Measuring’ (in this volume) table 6. Average life expectancy for Russia in 1500–1900 has been set at 35 years of age. 6 Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 41–42, 64–65. 76 kessler

Figure 1 Shares of migration types for Russia, 1501–1900 Source: Compiled by author on the basis of table 3.

Emigration and Immigration

Analyzing trends over time, the first thing which catches the eye, is the declining importance of emigration, which accounted for a significant part of total mobility until the mid-seventeenth century. This was the forced emigration of slaves to the Ottoman empire, and its decline is directly related to the territorial expansion of the Russian state, which put an end to the extensive slave-raiding among the Slavic population by the nomadic peoples inhabiting the southern and eastern steppes, who supplied the slave markets of the Ottoman empire.7 The gradual closure of the frontier brought an end to this depredation and the regular population drain associated with it. Indeed, in the second half of the seventeenth century Russia increased its population due to the immigration of 270.000 Kalmyks, nomads driven from their Central Asian pastures, who settled on the lower Volga and in 1655 pledged allegiance to the Russian tsar, even if the larger part of them left again for Dzungaria in 1771, which accounts for three quarters of emigration during the second half of the eighteenth century.8 Kalmyks excluded, during the eighteenth century and the first half of the nineteenth century Russia was essentially a closed migration system in which mobility was almost exclusively internal. Only during the second half of the

7 Hellie 2002: 307–309. 8 Kappeler 1992: 46–47; Hellie 2002: 307–308; Khodarkovsky 2002: 142. measuring migration in russia 77 nineteenth century emigration and immigration made their re-appearance. Emigration was related above all to the departure of part of the Jewish population from the Pale of Settlement in the Western parts of the Empire to German cities and beyond, eventually feeding into the North Atlantic Migration system and on to the Americas.9 Immigrants to the Russian Empire came from Germany and Austria in the West and Persia, Turkey and China in the East. After 1890 immigration from Asia started to outnumber immigration from the West. Particularly the sparsely populated Russian Far East and the port city of Vladivostok rapidly became a major pull area for Chinese and Korean labor migration in these years.10

Temporal Multi-Annual Migration

In terms of internal migration, three trends stand out. In the first place, and not surprisingly considering Russia’s territorial expansion and the many wars it waged, this is the importance of military migration or ‘temporal multi-annual migration’ as it is referred to in the CCMR typology. As can be seen from Figure 1, it is the single largest category of migration until the second half of the nineteenth century, when it is overtaken by both seasonal migration and migration to cities and towns.

Seasonal Migration

The second remarkable trend concerns the rise to importance of seasonal migration, which appears as a meaningful category in the late seventeenth century and grows to become the single largest category of migration by the latter half of the nineteenth century. Seasonal migration in Russia was peasant migration for off-farm earnings, a phenomenon so widespread that the Russian language has a special word for it—otkhod or otkhodnichestvo, a literal translation of which would read “going to the side”. Its historical importance notwithstanding, few specialized studies on the topic exist, and they relate almost entirely to the second half of the nineteenth century.11 Over a longer time-frame, there would appear to be two principal causes for the importance of seasonal migration in Russia. One of these is climate— due to the sharp difference in temperature between the warm summers

9 Kulischer 1948: 28. 10 Obolensky-Osinsky 1928: 107–108; Pozniak 2013. 11 The most important are: Grube 1904; Mints 1925; Burds 1998. 78 kessler and cold winters, production in many branches of economic activity has historically tended to be seasonal rather than year-round. In the very first place this of course concerns, like anywhere in the world, agriculture, which is strictly confined to the, rather short, growing season.12 In combination with the low fertility of soils in large parts of the Russian homeland this meant that non-agricultural side-activities during the off-farm season were an integral part of the peasant household economy in many regions. But not only agriculture was seasonal—many branches of industry, trade and services were equally seasonal in character, and often due to the same reasons. River transport, for example, came to a standstill when ice covered the water in winter, and the same goes for certain industries, like brick-making.13 Inversely, timber felling was essentially a winter-activity, when swampy forest soils froze over, allowing for the heavy logs to be transported to the river banks, from where they would be floated downstream in rafts when the rivers swelled in spring. Such a pronounced seasonality of production is something which is known to favor patterns of labor supply which rely on seasonal migration.14 But the widespread occurrence of seasonal migration in Russia was also related to the fact that the principal source of labor supply—the rural population—was administratively tied to the land in a variety of ways from the mid sixteenth to the early twentieth century. Serfdom, reintroduced between the mid-sixteenth and mid-seventeenth centuries, tied peasants to the land of the service-nobility, the crown and the monasteries. The eighteenth century saw serfdom evolve into a personal dependency for peasants living on land of the nobility (seigneurial serfs), whereas peasants living on state land (state peasants) were legally free, but collectively tied to the land and the village commune for purposes of taxation. Landholdings of the monasteries were largely transferred to the state in the late eighteenth century and the peasants living on these lands were incorporated into the category of state peasants. After the abolition of serfdom in 1861 peasants became legally free, but remained tied to the land, more precisely to the village commune, until the Stolypin reforms of 1906. Peasants’ legal attachment to the land affected their possibilities to engage in off-farm work away from the village in different ways, depending on their legal status. Seigneurial serfs were obliged to perform labor duties to their lords (barshchina), usually in working the land of the lord, in which case they had little options of leaving the village for more extended periods of time, but

12 Climatic constraints as a factor in explaining the course of Russian history have been emphasised by the late L.V. Milov (2001). 13 Kessler & Lucassen 2013. 14 Cf. Lucassen 1987. measuring migration in russia 79 increasingly they also were offered the possibility to buy off their labor duties by paying a quitrent (obrok) to the landlord, which in this case amounted to a tax on the income they earned in other pursuits. In fertile regions, with good prospects for agriculture, landlords would as a rule exact labor duties, whereas in less fertile regions they would content themselves with a quitrent. State peasants were not obliged to perform labor duties and therefore had ample possibilities to engage in work outside agriculture proper as long as they honored their fiscal obligations to the state. After the emancipation of the seigneurial serfs in 1861 all peasants faced the same restrictions and opportunities. Their movements were regulated by an internal passport system, which served to keep them accountable for taxation and the military draft at their place of rural residence.15 Rather than an overall dampening effect on migration, the limitations of serfdom and peasants’ administrative attachment to the land thus created a propensity to migrate on a temporary or seasonal, rather than a permanent basis, because peasants sooner or later had to report back to the village to perform labor duties to the lord, pay their quitrents or taxes, be drafted into the army or renew their passports.16 At the same time, this was not solely a matter of obligation. It has been argued convincingly for the later nineteenth and early twentieth centuries that peasant migrants also stood to benefit a great deal from retaining an active link to the land, because urban and industrial employment was unstable, and no provisions were in place for old age and dis- ability other than the family farm.17 Seasonal labor markets attracting peasant migrant labor to all evidence first emerged during the economic expansion of the late seventeenth century, and consolidated in the eighteenth century. During the first half of the century the construction of the new capital of St. Petersburg involved large numbers of peasant migrant laborers from across the country in a variety of building trades.18 Behold such extraordinary events the single largest source of seasonal employment (and wage employment in general) during the eighteenth century was river transportation.19 In the course of the nineteenth century seasonal employment emerged in many different branches, including agricultural wage labor, itinerant trade, construction and even industrial labor, both in strictly seasonal industries, like brick-making, and in year-round industries, in which

15 Moon 2002. 16 On the participation of serfs in (seasonal) labor markets, cf. Dennison 2011: 149–180. 17 Johnson 1979: 37, 42–49; Bradley 1985: 114; Burds 1998: 119–125. 18 Luppov 1957: 77–82. 19 Kahan & Hellie 1985: 290–293. 80 kessler case operations were sometimes suspended during the peak agricultural season so as not to interfere with the field work.20 Each of these peasant trades warrants an in-depth study of its own, which in most cases is sorely lacking, but relative to the general upsurge in migration rates of the second half of the nineteenth century two migration flows need to be singled out. In the first place this is labor migration for non-agricultural work to the industrial centers of St. Petersburg, Moscow, its hinterland and the smaller industrial towns of the adjacent Central Industrial Region. The regions of departure were the rural areas of the Central Industrial Region itself, as well as the adjacent provinces of the Non-Black Earth Region and, in as far as St. Petersburg was concerned, the North-West provinces. In these regions, endowed with less fertile soils, peasants traditionally relied for a substantial part of their income on off-farm activities and the industrial development of Moscow, St. Petersburg and other urban centers during the second half of the 19th century gave rise to sustained outmigration for off-farm earnings from these regions, involving up to one third of adult males in the Central Industrial Region. Peasant migration to St. Petersburg, Moscow and the Central Industrial Region has been relatively well-studied, although no single work exists which documents the phenomenon over a longer time frame and for the region in its entirety.21 A second important migration flow consisted of seasonal agricultural laborers from the Ukraine and the Central Black Earth Region who went to work in the steppe grain belt on the northern and eastern shores of the Black Sea during the harvest season. In these thinly populated regions large grain-growing estates were producing for export markets and needed many extra hands at harvest time. Because the harvest in the steppe areas usually took place somewhat earlier than in the Russian agricultural heartland where the migrant workers came from, they would as a rule manage to be back home in time to bring in their own harvests. In the heyday of this ‘steppe-system’, during the last two decades of the 19th century, annually well over a million peasants from these central provinces, almost exclusively men, worked as agricultural laborers in the South. After the turn-of-the-century migration to the steppe decreased due to mechanization of the harvesting process and a population

20 Grube 1904. On the suspension of operations at factories during the summer, cf. Bradley 1985: 110–111; Johnson 1979: 35. 21 Zhbankov 1890; Zhbankov 1896; Munting 1976; Johnson 1979; Bradley 1985; Engel 1990; Economakis 1997; Burds 1998. Figures on involvement in migratory labor in the Central Industrial Region taken from Burds 1998: 22–23. measuring migration in russia 81 increase in the grain-growing regions which, in conjunction, greatly reduced the need for workers from elsewhere.22

Settlement and Colonization

Lastly, and most significantly, figure 1 reveals the crucial role played by settlement and colonization, particularly during the long eighteenth century—the period in which emigration as well as immigration were at a low. Together with the formidable share of military migration this clearly shows how population mobility during this period served the expansion and consolidation of the Russian state across the Eurasian landmass. Colonization and settlement were the logical corollary to the almost constant territorial expansion of the Muscovy and Russian state from the mid-sixteenth century on. As pointed out by Willard Sunderland in this volume, colonization and settlement only became the subject of a premeditated policy by the reign of Catherine the Great in the last quarter of the eighteenth century. Before that, colonization and settlement of newly conquered frontier regions were largely spontaneous processes and achieved through a mix of voluntary and forced migration. The main driving force behind the process was the constant stream of fugitive serfs from the Russian heartland, who settled in the frontier regions in search of freedom. As a rule, the authorities in the frontier regions would close an eye to this instead of returning the fugitives to their legal owners because they badly needed people in the generally sparsely populated territories acquired by the Russian state. At the same time, nobles who were awarded land in the new territories by the tsar would often transfer serfs from their domains in the Russian heartland to bring these lands under cultivation. Finally, exiles were used on a large scale for settling frontier areas.23 During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries colonization and settlement were largely confined to the European steppe-areas to the South and South-East of the old Muscovy state, up to the shores of the Black Sea and Caspian sea. These were the pastures of the nomadic tribes formerly living there—fertile lands which were turned into arable land and brought under cultivation by Slavic and, in the late eighteenth century, German colonists. Although the settlement of Siberia had been an ongoing process ever since Yermak crossed the Urals at the end of the sixteenth century, Russian peasant

22 Grube 1904: 3–51; Sagorsky 1907; Mixter 1991. For an overview of the rise and fall of this migration system, cf. Kessler 2007. 23 Hellie 2002: 308–316. 82 kessler settlers only started to move there in any significant numbers during the nineteenth century. Distance and poor prospects for agriculture in large parts of the Asian territories were the main reason why the areas were not settled earlier on. The advent of the railways and active pro-settlement policies adopted by the Russian state after 1880 fundamentally changed the situation. The aim of these policies was to settle the Eastern parts of the Empire with a Slavonic population, safeguarding future control over the territories, as well as to reduce population pressure in the agricultural heartland of European Russia by providing peasants with virgin lands beyond the Urals.24 Highlighted by Adam McKeown as one of the three main long-distance migration flows of the period 1846–1940 the settlement of Siberia and the far East brought the Russian state and civilization to the shores of the Pacific, parallel to a similar settlement of neighboring Manchuria by migrants from North-Eastern China.25 It is well worth noting, finally, in the light of the importance of military migration as seen in Figure 1, that Russian migration and settlement beyond the Urals had a significant military component, surpassing similar movements of European troops to the colonies within the British, Dutch and other empires of the time.26

A Comparative Perspective What does Russian migration look like in global comparison? The following section of this chapter is dedicated to such a comparison, along a number of criteria and in relation to Europe and China. The choice for Europe and China as instances of comparison is inspired by the fundamental difference between the situations they represent—a continent composed of a multitude of smaller states on the one hand and an empire on the other hand. Data-sets for Europe and China are available from contributions to this volume.27

Cross-Cultural Migration Rates

A first comparison is concerned with the intensity of migration, as expressed in the cross-cultural migration rates (CCMRs), which relates numbers of migrants to population size (figure 2). Calculated as the sum of migrations

24 Moon 2002: 334–335, 349. 25 McKeown 2004: 156–157. 26 Bosma 2009. 27 The author wishes to thank Jan and Leo Lucassen, as well as Adam McKeown, for kindly making these data-sets available to me prior to the publication of this volume. measuring migration in russia 83

0 1501‒50 1551‒00 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 Europe China Russia Figure 2 CCMRs for Russia, Europe and China, 1501–1900 (% of total population) Source: Data for Russia taken from table 4, for Europe from the chapter by Lucassen & Lucassen and for China from McKeown, adjusted for life expectancy as in Figure 6 on p. 33. for a fifty-year interval divided by the average population at mid-period, and adjusted for average life expectancy, it expresses the likelihood for an average person living at that time to have migrated at least once during his or her life.28 Cross-cultural migration rates (CCMRs) for Russia are on a par with Europe, although mostly higher in the formative years of the Muscovy state (1500–1700), and falling in the eighteenth century, to pick up to slightly above European levels again in the nineteenth century. The drop in migration rates during the first half of the seventeenth century would appear to reflect the impact of the imposition of serfdom, which apparently restrained migration only in its immediate wake. The decline in migration rates of the eighteenth century should be seen in the light of the patterns identified on the basis of figure 1. If we subject the underlying figures to a closer scrutiny (cf. table 3), it turns out that the lower migration rate is not so much caused by a decline in migration, as rather by an increase of the population, which almost doubles respective to the preceding period. What we observe here is the combined effect of low emigration and, more importantly, intense agricultural colonization and settlement of hitherto uncultivated land, where overall fertility rates were consistently higher.29

28 Method courtesy of Jan and Leo Lucassen, cf. (Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 353). For the life expectancy of Russia see Tables 4 and 5 on p. 21. 29 Bruk & Kabuzan 1982: 132–133. 84 kessler

Trends in the Chinese migration rates over time, meanwhile, are remarkably similar to the Russian pattern, albeit at a much lower overall rate of migration. Migration rates are on the rise in the seventeenth century, at a time when they are falling in Europe, and drop during the eighteenth century, in China even continuing its decline over the first half of the nineteenth century, in contrast to Russia. Summarizing, Russian migration rates are similar to Europe in terms of the intensity of migration, but similar to China in terms of their phasing. In their original article on European migration Jan and Leo Lucassen used their data to shed new light on Wilbur Zelinsky’s thesis of a mobility transition in the second half of the nineteenth century, consisting of a rapid rise in levels of mobility linked to modernization. The European data, Jan and Leo Lucassen argue, disprove this thesis, as levels of mobility were high throughout the period 1500–1900 and build up gradually to the levels of the nineteenth century (cf. figure 2).30 From the Russian and the Chinese perspective, though, the increase in migration rates of the nineteenth century do appear as somewhat more of a breaking-point, because it followed a period of comparatively low migration in the eighteenth century. Indeed, in the case of Russia, if we look at the breakdown of migration into its constituent categories (figure 1), we can see that the types of migration which were on the rise in the late nineteenth century were the “typical” forms of migration and mobility associated with Zelinsky’s mobility transition—emigration, urbanization and labor migration. The rise of these types of migration was linked to the process of industrialization and commercialization which started to transform the country during this period, and in this light we can clearly argue that the late nineteenth century witnesses the rise of a distinctly “modern” migration regime in the Russian Empire. This notwithstanding, in Russia as well nineteenth century levels of migration do not look overly impressive when compared to early-modern levels of mobility, particularly if we take into account the fundamentally different levels of technology and infrastructure in transportation. How then to interpret the Russian data in figure 2 in the light of the introduction, existence and abolition of the institution of serfdom with its limitations on mobility? The quick answer to this question is that, apparently, serfdom had only a limited impact on levels of mobility and migration, save for a short period right at the time of its introduction, and neither did its abolition cause for an immediate significant change in patterns and levels of migration. This corroborates preliminary findings to this extent in the literature.31

30 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 373–375. 31 Gorshkov 2000; Moon 2002. measuring migration in russia 85

This conclusion might be too straightforward, however. As we can see from figure 2, serfdom was introduced at a moment of high levels of mobility and migration. Indeed, it largely served to prevent people fleeing the Moscow heartland, wrecked by wars and taxation, altogether.32 What we do not know, therefore, is what figure 2 would have looked like, had serfdom not been introduced at that point. Considering Russia’s spectacular territorial expansion, which brought Slavic settlers to regions which were by all measure more attractive for inhabitation, one could easily imagine levels of migration and mobility far in excess of those recorded for Europe. This counterfactual argument serves to underline that figure 2 might in fact understate the full impact of serfdom on population mobility.

Types of Migration

Deepening the comparison between Europe, Russia and China, the figures 3 and 4 provide the breakdown of total migration for China and Europe into its constituent categories in analogy to figure 1 for Russia.

100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1501‒50 1551‒00 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 Emigration Immigration Colonization To cities Seasonal Temporal multi-annual Figure 3 Shares of migration types for Europe (including European Russia), 1501–1900 Source: Compiled by the author from Lucassen & Lucassen 2010.

32 Hellie 2002: 298–299. 86 kessler

100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 Emigration Immigration Colonization To cities Seasonal Temporal multi-annual Figure 4 Shares of migration types for China, 1601–1900 Source: Compiled by author from data provided by Adam McKeown in this volume.

For all the differences, the similarities between China and Russia are striking, particularly where it concerns the importance and timing of colonization and settlement, which dominate the long eighteenth century. Indeed, China is an even purer example of a migration regime in its own right, in which emigration and immigration were insignificant categories, in any case until the second half of the nineteenth century. The similarities between Russia and China become even more apparent in comparison to the European pattern as seen in figure 3, which is of a completely different nature. Following the Lucassens’ analysis the overall European pattern can be summarized as being dominated by military migration of soldiers and sailors until the nineteenth century.33 Until the mid- seventeenth century migration to the cities (and towns) is in a good second place, but during the latter half of that century and during the entire eighteenth century military migration was by far the most important form of mobility in Europe. Parallel to this development migration to the cities started to pick up again. During the nineteenth century, finally, and in particular during its latter half, the combined increase of emigration, migration to cities, as well as seasonal migration pushed the share of military migration down. Colonization, finally, was an essentially insignificant category on the European continent, largely of course, because most empty and unused land had already been brought under cultivation during the Middle Ages.

33 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009. measuring migration in russia 87

Summarizing, a comparison of the types of migration which dominated the period under study provides further support for our earlier conclusion that China and Russia essentially belong to one and the same repertoire, whereas Europe offers a fundamentally different history of migration during the early modern and modern periods.

The Great Divergence?

How then to interpret the differences between the Chinese and Russian migration regimes and that of Europe? It would appear that the key to our understanding in this matter lies in the different roles of military migration and colonization, in particular during the long eighteenth century. In this period, Chinese and Russian migrations were destined primarily to frontier lands, contributing to population growth and the further expansion of these land-based empires on their respective sides of the Amur river. Europe, meanwhile, was engaged in a series of internal wars, and, notably, overseas expansion and colonization through the joint application of commercial and military power. As Adam McKeown notes in his contribution to this volume, “Europeans were more likely to move to places where they would die (whether in battle [. . .] or on the relatively lethal frontiers of America and Africa) [whereas] Chinese were more likely to move to places where they would be fertile and multiply.”34 Much the same goes for Russian migration after roughly 1700. From a broader perspective this finding is an intriguing one. The crucial long eighteenth century in which Russian and Chinese migration regimes diverged from the European one is also exactly the period in which the foundation was laid for what has been called the Great Divergence—the widening gap in technology, productivity and living standards between the West and its settler colonies and the rest of the world, in particular Asia.35 This strongly suggests there is a link here, although it is not immediately clear whether the one follows from the other, or whether both are consequences of a wider complex of factors. Differential Malthusian pressures have been recently alluded to by Gregory Clark as one of the underlying causes of the divergence in living standards and productivity between Europe and China before 1800.36 Different patterns of migration play a role in this explanation. Chinese migration to fertile

34 McKeown in this volume. 35 Pomeranz 2000. 36 Clark 2007: 266–271. 88 kessler agricultural lands fuelled population growth and created stronger Malthusian pressures than in Europe, where people migrated to towns, with their higher rates of mortality, or indeed went to fight and die in the colonies.37 These differential Malthusian pressures then, translated into higher living standards in Europe before 1800 and stronger selective pressures, something which, Clark argues, are an important part of the explanation why Europe eventually entered upon a different path of development. Whatever the benefits of Clark’s Malthusian interpretation, what is clear beyond doubt is that the military and overseas migration which Europe engaged in, eventually produced the commercial and cultural conglomerate of European overseas empires and settler colonies which proved to be the cradle of commercial and industrial expansion. As Adam McKeown has pointed out, eventually the expanding global industrial economy produced migration patterns which were increasingly similar in different parts of the world, due to commercialization and the transport revolution.38 The migration data for China and Russia in the late nineteenth century do indeed reveal such a convergence. Summarizing, one could imagine a line of argumentation according to which the great colonizing land-empires of the eighteenth century, enjoying an initial comparative advantage in terms of population dynamics, eventually maneuvered themselves into a dead end, because the overseas colonization and military migration in which Europeans had specialized turned out to contribute to a development path which in the longer run produced the Industrial Revolution and the fundamental breakthrough in levels of productivity and wealth associated with it.

37 Ibid.: 104. 38 McKeown 2004: 166; McKeown 2010: 105. Section two South Asia

∵ illustration 2 Ghati coolies, probably in Bombay, ca. 1865 Source: KITLV, Leiden, Album 653, Image code 87154. Mapping Migrations of South Indian Weavers before, during and after the Vijayanagar Period: Thirteenth to Eighteenth Centuries

Vijaya Ramaswamy

Most migration studies, both in Europe and India, have largely focused on the nineteenth and twentieth century, although more recently, significant strides have been made in reversing this trend.1 The process of mapping early migrations is, nevertheless, still in its infancy and this is even more applicable to India. Moreover, the primary focus of migration studies has been Europe rather than Asia. Suraiya Faroqhi’s work on craft migrations in the Ottoman empire is a striking exception where three major essays deal with migrations under state control of sixteenth and seventeenth century Ottoman craftsmen, as well as the migration of townsmen.2 China is also an exception, thanks to contributions of scholars like McKeown,3 who in his seminal paper on global migration in the period 1840–1940, highlighted two major Asian migration systems. His observation that many Asian migrations were less coerced than often assumed and were embedded in independent networks of family and friends indicates that ‘non-Europeans were very much involved in the expansion and integration of the world economy, well beyond the direct intervention of Europe’.4 Early migrations are a yet to be uncovered sub-text of Indian history which has from time to time witnessed the movement of peoples following the pulls of commerce and religion,5 military expansion6 or peasant and tribal movements.7 Migrations have not been, however, the central focus of these studies,8 which primarily focused on the movement of religious or commercial communities in particular regions, as Ray’s studies of the Satavahana dynasty (230 BCE to 199 CE) of Andra Pradesh. The movement of Buddhist and Jain pilgrims and traders, Muslim traders and religious communities, like the Sufis,

1 Bade et al. 2011; Lucassen & Lucassen 1997 and Lucassen, Lucassen & Manning 2010. 2 Faroqhi 2002: 265–326. 3 McKeown 2004: 155–189. See also his chapter in this volume. 4 Ibid.: 171. 5 Ray 1986. 6 Moosvi 2008: 125–142. 7 Stein 1994: 21–23; 28. 8 with the exception of Moosvi (2008).

Map 1 Weaving centers in medieval South India (Ramaswamy 1985a)

is scattered in early texts and briefly dealt with by historians of ancient and medieval India.9 An interesting aspect of medieval migrations is the import of African slave soldiers who came to dominate Deccani politics in the fifteenth and sixteenth century. The key role played by the migrants, mostly slaves, called ‘Afaquis’, vis-

9 Richard Eaton (2000: 189–198) explored the aspect of the migration of Sufis and Sufi ideology through the mode of Deccan folk songs such as ‘Chakki Namah’ (the litany of the grinding stone) and ‘Charkha Namah’ (the litany of the spinning wheel—‘Sufi folk literature and the expansion of Indian Islam’. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 93

à-vis the local Muslim nobility is exemplified in the biography of the slave- soldier cum administrator Malik Amber (CE 1549–1623). The biographical mode acts as the prism through which to view the large-scale induction of the Afaquis (literally ‘foreigners’) in the army and administration of the Deccani Sultanates like Bijapur and Golconda.10 Eaton specifically writes about the purchase and sale of Ethiopians against Coromandel textiles in the Asian markets between the years the years 1450–1650.11 Moosvi’s article on the other hand, provides a view from below by looking at skilled labor migration in pre-colonial India. Medieval migrations into frontier regions such as the Kongu region (comprising modern Salem, Dharmapuri and Coimbatore) comprising peasant and artisanal movements, were studied by Gommans.12 Finally a seminal recent work on Asian migrations in general and Indian migrations in particular focuses on late-medieval and modern periods.13 Except for these significant forays into the territory of medieval migrations, this field is largely terra incognita. My attempt here is to fill in the gaps for medieval South India by studying weaver migrations from the thirteenth to the eighteenth centuries, focusing specifically on the Vijayanagara Empire (see Map 1). The historiography on the Indian textile industry and its expansion in the latter-medieval period from the fifteenth century onwards has grown vastly in recent years thanks to the contributions of Prasannan Parthasarathi, Georgeio Reillo, Tirthankar Roy and others.14 Particularly in the last decade, there has been a plethora of writings on the boom in South Asian, more particularly Indian, textile trade and production. The growth in Indian textiles has been connected to the global market for Indian cloth, especially from the Coromandel and from the Gujarat coast. Indian cloth was seen both as commodity and as social/cultural artifact.15 Suraiya Faroqhi commenting on the popularity of Indian textiles in the Ottoman Empire states, “That Indian fabrics, highly valued in the Ottoman lands, often showed decorative features linked to a Timurid and Persianate court culture, must have facilitated accept- ance of such pieces”.16

10 Eaton 2005: 107–11. 11 Eaton 2006. I am grateful to Jan Lucassen for drawing my attention to the entry of Ethiopean soldiers into the Deccan as migrants specifically in the context of ‘slave cloth’. 12 Gommans 1998. 13 Merkovits, Pouchepadass & Subrahmanyam 2003. 14 Among these are Riello & Roy 2009 and Riello & Parthasarathi 2009. 15 Bayly 1988; Parthasarathy 2012: 12; Faroqhi 2004. 16 Faroqhi 2004: 31. 94 ramaswamy

It is important to note that the expansion of textile production and its attractiveness as a commercial commodity was well under way during the period of the Vijayanagar Empire (1336–1614). The Vijayanagar also witnessed the greatest movement of weaving communities17 in Southern India. That the sixteenth century also witnessed weaver migrations in the context of Bengal can be seen in the sixteenth century poetic text Chandimangal composed by Mukundram which refers to the movement of Muslim weavers called Julaha into the new (mythical) city founded by the ruler.18 The weaving crafts of South India have been associated with certain traditional communities like the Kaikkolar (found predominantly in the Tamil region), Saliyar (known as Saale in the Andhra and Karnataka regions), Devanga, Jedara (found pre-dominantly in the Karnataka region) and the Pattunulkarar also known as Saurashtrar who are concentrated in the Madurai region of Tamil Nadu. Some of these communities have a long history of migrations. Migrations of weaving communities occurred at different points in history. The reasons for these migrations varied from community to community and from region to region (see map 2) Reasons for movement into semi-arid zones like the Kongu region19 were substantially different from the migration of weavers from rural areas into temple towns located in core deltaic regions. The latter formed the hub of neo-urbanism in medieval South India and were located at the heart of dynastic politics like the Kaveri basin of the Thondaimandalam region under the Chola dynasty or the Palar basin of the Kanchipuram region under the Pallava rulers. This chapter offers a longue duree overview of weaver inter-regional migrations in medieval South India, taking up for study the period from the thirteenth to the eighteenth centuries which more or less coincides with the era of the Vijayanagar Empire. Vijayanagar was a pan regional (South Indian) empire which had its base at Anegondi or Hampi in Karnataka, but spread widely into the Andhra and Tamil countries. Some of these weaver migrations in the medieval period were also into the Kerala region. Although today Tamil Nadu and Kerala constitute two distinct geographical regions speaking two distinct languages, it is noteworthy that Kerala during the early period of South Indian

17 In the Indian historical context ‘communities’ relates to particular professional castes, who stay together in one locality, practice their crafts or trades and who are strictly obliged to intermarriage. 18 Moosvi 2008: 127. 19 Gommans 1998. The logic of weaver migrations into the semi-arid zone of Northern Tamil Nadu, follows the trajectories suggested by Gommans 1998. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 95

Map 2 The Vijayanagara Empire history was a part of Tamilaham (old name for Tamil Nadu). Similarly, in terms of eco-zones and societal patterns, these regional boundaries have been fuzzy. It is therefore convenient to treat South India as the region of focus for the 96 ramaswamy present study, since borders and boundaries were much more porous, especially in the Peninsular region of South India. The present study differs from other parallel studies on textiles in that apart from the ‘archival data’, the analysis is largely based on constant interactions with weaving communities in South India but more specifically the region of Tamil Nadu. Beginning with the maternal native place of the author, the Kongu region, the mapping of the textile industry and weaver migrations is largely based on the reminiscences and narratives of the weavers themselves.20

Contextualizing Weaver Migrations in Medieval South India

Weaver migrations offer a good starting point to understand the mechanisms behind the overall migration pattern among the professional and service groups within medieval Indian society, including the peasants, merchants and craft groups like smiths. In the Indian context ‘the medieval’ covers a very wide trope from the early medieval (roughly from the 7th to 10th centuries); the classical medieval period from the 11th to sixteenth centuries and the late-medieval (also called the early modern period) comprising the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The inter-regional migrations are located in medieval South India, also called Peninsular India from the thirteenth century, which witnessed the end of the Chola Empire to the seventeenth–eighteenth century when the Vijayanagar period gave way to the beginnings of colonial rule. South India is divided from the north by the Vindhya and Satpura mountain ranges. Resembling an inverted triangle, South India essentially comprises the four major states of Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Kerala and Tamil Nadu as well as the Union Territories of Lakshadweep and Pondicherry. The region despite being demarcated by political borders is collectively known as ‘Dravida’ and the four states share common linguistic and cultural traits. The British during the period of their imperial rule collectively referred to the region as the ‘Carnatic’. The movement of peoples across these areas was frequent and most ‘South Indians’ speak three or four languages fluently, since they carry with them the language of their origin and pick up the language of the region where they re-locate with their families. For instance, the Devanga weavers from the Kongu region of Northern Tamil Nadu, can speak Kannada and Telugu, the languages of their original homes in Karnataka and Andhra, as well as Tamil, the language spoken in their new settlement. The linguistic composition of

20 The outcome of these interactions with the weavers in an effort to write their histories ‘from below’, based on their memories and oral traditions, has resulted in Ramaswamy 2013. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 97 the erstwhile Madras Presidency is the best example of this linguistic crossing. According to the 1901 Census Report for the Madras Presidency, 15 million inhabitants spoke Tamil, 14 million spoke Telugu, 1,5 million spoke Kannada and 3 million Malayalam.21 Historic evidence clearly indicates that cultural and linguistic boundaries were extremely porous, unlike dynastic-political borders which were rigid and could in fact be potentially hostile to infiltration. Politically, in South India, the territorial lines were very clearly drawn between the dynasties which ruled the four States. The internecine wars and frequent invasion of boundaries were a major factor behind the migration of weavers and other artisanal communities. Despite the stress on stability in studies on village communities in Indian history by early scholars like Henry Maine or Baden Powell and specifically in the Indian context by Chicherov, Grver and others, as in Europe mobility and migrations were an integral part of the histories of everyday lives.22 Historical evidence in this regard cuts through traditional notions of the immobility of craft groups like weavers. Village communities in medieval South India did not preclude artisanal mobility and/or migrations.23 Specifically weavers were invariably part of wider trade (particularly textile trade) networks in the Nadus and Periyanadus24 which comprised both rural and urban settlements.25 Not all artisanal communities were equally mobile. While groups like the blacksmiths, barbers or leather-workers continued by and large to be a part of local village communities, craftsmen like masons and smiths (a category which included not only the upwardly mobile goldsmith communities but also braziers and the more enterprising blacksmiths) tended to migrate towards temple towns in search of better opportunities.26 Migrating meant taking risks. Villages offered social security through the jajmani system to the artisans, but without any scope for economic mobility while the newly emerging medieval towns offered considerable economic mobility but with greater risks, since loss of patronage would mean repeated migrations to more secure territories. It can therefore be assumed that only those groups who could take the financial strain of moving with their families, migrated, whether the movement was long distance or into the neighboring areas. The 1901 census report for the

21 Risley & Gait 1903. Information accessed on 26th July 2012 from http/www/indianetzone .com. 22 Maine: 1889; Powell 1957; Chicherov 1971 and Amrita et al. 2001. 23 Moosvi 2008: 127. 24 Subbarayalu 2011. 25 Ramaswamy 1985b: 297–298. 26 Ramaswamy 2004: 552–553. 98 ramaswamy

Madras Presidency (which included the whole of Tamil Nadu and large parts of present day Andhra Pradesh)27 states that nearly 96 percent of the population was born in the district where they lived and the migrant communities were not more than 3 to 5 percent.28 However, it must be pointed out that even 3 percent of internal migrants is not a small number. Moreover, during the Vijayanagar period, when the kingdom spanned three linguistic zones and extended its protection to migrant communities, especially trans-regional migration must have been even much more common. Weaver migrations since the twelth century have been recorded by epigraphic records, inscriptions carved on temple walls or rocks located near highways and objects of common use like wells as well as copper plate grants issued by the state. The weavers and the smiths can be counted among the most powerful craft communities during the Vijayanagar period. Their migrations were largely the result of pull factors, such as the numerous incentives offered by the Vijayanagar state and its representatives in provincial towns like Tirupati, that offered tax relief, free house-sites etc. Merchant groups, like the Chettis, have been the most mobile of Indian communities and their networks and established the first diaspora into South Asian regions.29 The main body of these merchants came from Chettinad, essentially comprising the Sivagangai district with Karaikkudi as its capital, and are today brought under the umbrella ‘caste category’ of Nattukottai Chettis, the nomen- clature under which they figure in European East India Company records. The migrations and mobility of merchants have been studied by many historians, within the wider context of the spread of market centers and merchant guilds.30 Recent writings in South Indian history have mapped early merchant migrations into Sri Lanka, Thailand, Burma, Indonesia and other neighboring area.31 Apart from merchant corporations like the Tisai ayiraattu ainnurruvar and the Manigrammattar, who reached as far as Sumatra and Indonesia, testified to by

27 Risley & Gait 1903. http/www.indianetzone.com accessed on 26th July 2012. 28 Imperial Gazetteer of India (1908) vol. XVI: 257. It is interesting to compare this figure to the one quoted by Moosvi (2008) for internal migrations within England and Wales for the 20 year period from 1781–1801 as 5.18% and from 1781–1801 as 5.95%. 29 As a result of their strong presence as plantation owners and business in regions such as Malaysia and Singapore their language, Tamil, has been declared as one of the national languages of Singapore. 30 Ashin Das Gupta (2001: 88–101), Sanjay Subramanian (Gupta 2001: Introduction) and Merkovits (Merkovits, Pouchepadass & Subrahmanyam 2003: 131–162); Sundaram 1968; Abraham 1988; and Hall 1980. 31 Karashima 2002 and 2009. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 99 numerous inscriptions,32 the only other prominent groups mentioned in the medieval inscriptions are smiths and weavers.33 Upward mobility and migration also pertained to the Golla or Agambadiyar communities who were shepherds and are today known collectively as Yadavas.34 Their migrations may well have followed the trajectory suggested by Gommans, who describes Rayalaseema as a frontier zone and the terrain of pastoralist communities which rose to increasing prominence under medieval Andhra dynasties.35 Burton Stein suggests that during the Vijayanagar period, peasant groups from Telangana and Rayalaseema regions like the Velama, Reddy and even Kamma clans like the Pemmasani, migrated as mercenary peasant-warriors.36 A standing army was established along with the growing militarization in the sixteenth century, whereas until then it was customary for the state to recruit its forces from communities willing to engage in combat. The weavers were part of one such group referred to specifically as terinja Kaikkola Padai, literally the ‘well known army of the Kaikkola weavers’. Collectively one of the military contingents of the Chola kings was known as valangai velaikkarar which included merchants and smiths.

Foregrounding Weaver Migrations. General Population Trends in South India Between 1200 and 1700

There are no regular records to map the population of Peninsular India in the medieval period. The only evidence comes from stray references in Portuguese and Dutch chronicles and in travellers’ accounts. Irfan Habib, one of the few historians who has made an attempt to estimate the population in Medieval India in the context of Northern India under the Mughals, begins by saying, “So far as is known, no census of persons was ever conducted in any part of the Mughal empire”.37 This statement is no less true of the con- temporaneous Vijayanagar Empire. What is therefore being attempted here is extremely tentative.

32 Karashima 1995. 33 Ramaswamy 2002: 428–444. 34 An interesting preliminary paper, mapping these migrations in medieval Andhra is Ramachandra Reddy 2010. 35 Gommans 1998: 15–17. 36 Stein 1989: 21,80,88 37 Raychaudhuri & Habib 1982: 163. 100 ramaswamy

Moreland is one of the pioneering historians to have made such an attempt in his book India at the Death of Akbar.38 To quote Moreland, “ . . . .no records exist showing the numbers of the population of India in the sixteenth and seventeenth century. I have not read of anything approaching a census of any part of the country and our information consists mainly of comparative estimates made by individuals . . . ”.39 On the basis of revenue figures, Moreland estimated the population for the whole of Northern India ‘from Multan to Monghyr’ at 30 to 40 million in circa 1600 and estimated the total population of South India around the same time as 30 million.40 Moreland’s estimate at the all India level was 100 million. Other population estimates for this period range between 65 and 88 million for the Mughal Empire41 to 142 million for India as a whole.42 Population estimates have been worked out either on the basis of the figures given of the size of armies of the Vijayanagar empire and the Deccani Sulatanes or on the occasional figures provided by European and West Asian travellers of the description of the cities. A third method that has been adopted in this chapter is to take up the earliest population figures available to us which is from the 1871 Census Report of the Madras Presidency which comprised all of Tamil Nadu and a sizable portion of Andhra Pradesh. Postulating an average growth rate of 7 percent every decade as suggested by the 1881 and 1901 census, I have worked backwards to arrive at rough population guesstimates for South India in general and for the Vijayanagar Empire in particular.43 This approach is in line with the methodology adopted by Shireen Moosvi in her study of skilled labor migration in pre- colonial India.44 Using the 1901 Census as the base line of her investigations, she points out that out of a total population of 294 million, internal migrants constituted some 7 million, 2.4 percent of the total population. She goes on to

38 Moreland 1962 (originally published in London in 1905). 39 Ibidem: 9. 40 Ibidem: 19–21. 41 Desai 1972: 61. 42 Habib 1982: 165 (citing Shireen Moosvi). 43 I am grateful to Dr. Anuradha Banerjee, Associate Professor of Population Studies at the Centre for the Study of Regional Development, Jawaharlal Nehru University, for her valuable help in working out this ‘back projection’. In this chapter the projection has been worked backwards for a ten-year block period taking into account a growth rate of around 7% and postulating a family size of six members. Given the joint family situation in South Indian culture, this would minimally mean the grandparents, parents and the present generation. These are the broad parameters used in this backward projection methodology. 44 Moosvi 2008: 125–139. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 101 point out “We might accept the 1901 census as indicative of the fact that migrations on some scale were a part of reality of pre-industrial India”.45 I have furthermore tried to calculate the population of the larger cities and towns in medieval South India where the maximum weaver migrations had taken place. I have moderated the figures based on cross references when and where available including colonial records, European and Mughal chroniclers etc. Portuguese chroniclers, for instance, use the size of the army to arrive at population guesstimates. The other method of estimating urban population by looking at figures for cities like Hampi-Vijayanagara is slightly more speculative, because these towns often had a migrant population of a purely temporary nature such as merchants or itinerant artisans. Fernao Nuniz, a Portuguese chronicler and a diamond merchant by profession, estimates that around 1520 the size of the Vijayanagar army was around 650,000 to 700,000. If this is reckoned to be one-third of the total male population, the population should have been around 2 million. Adding women, children and the elderly, the total population of Vijayanagar empire in circa 1500 could have been around three to four million. Weaver migrations in the medieval period, like the movement of the smiths and merchants, swelled the town population leading to the emergence of cities and port towns as nodal points of urbanization. Domingo Paes, a Portuguese chronicler writing around 1509–10, states that the population of the capital city of Vijayanagar known as Hampi or alternately as Vijayanagar (the same name as the empire) was about the same as the size of the city of Rome during this period (85,000 in the sixteenth century).46 Elsewhere Paes states elsewhere that there were around 100,000 households.47 If this is a consolidated figure computing all members of the households, then it can be assumed that the population of Vijayanagar city was between 85,000 to 100,000. While the city of Hampi-Vijayanagara (located in Modern Karnataka) was undeniably at the heart of craft migrations and artisanal activities, Madurai and Kanchipuram, both major textile centers, were also very important medieval urban centers. While Kanchipuram witnessed major migration of the Saale weavers from the Andhra and Karnataka regions, Madurai became the destination of the long migration of the Pattunulkarar/Saurashtrar from the Gujarat region. William

45 Ibidem, 125–126. 46 Gregorovius 1902: 407; see also Moreland 1962: 13, footnote 1. Jan Lucassen drew my attention to some more population figures for Rome in the sixteenth century for which I am greatly indebted to him. Rome is said to have returned a population of 85,000 in 1517, 32, 000 in 1530 after the sack of Rome, 50,000 in 1560 and 100,000 in 1600 (Partner 1976: 82–83). 47 Sewell 1963: 290. 102 ramaswamy

Francis in his District Gazeteer of Madurai gives the population for the city of Madurai in 1871 as 51,987.48 The total population of Madurai district having an area of 9.502 square miles was a little over two and a quarter million The professional-castes component is also provided. Some leading caste census figures are as follows:

Table 1 Caste census figures for Madurai, 1871

Vellala (agricultural caste) 276,000 Pallar (landless agricultural labor) 220,000 Idaiyar (dairy farmers/pastoralists) 153,000 Nattukottai Chetti (merchants) 81,000 Pattunulkarar (migrant weavers) 43,000

Source: Francis 1904.

The population of the Madras Presidency in the first organized census undertaken in 1871 was recorded as 31 million,49 increasing to 42 million in 1901. The Madras Presidency at this time cut across the four linguistic zones—Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam and Kannada. It included a large part of Peninsular India with Orissa as its extreme North Eastern boundary; the highlands of the Central Provinces, stretching from North Kanara (Dharwar) in the West, inclusive of Mysore and Coorg (located now in Karnataka State) to Telangana (Hyderabad) in the East. The Presidency also included in its fold the Laccadive Island (off Malabar Coast) in the Indian Ocean.50 Projecting the 1871 figures backwards, assuming a ten-yearly growth rate of 7 percent (which has been worked out on the basis of average census figures for the Madras Presidency from 1871 to 1901) one can project a population of 1.8 million for 1671 and 1.7 million in mid-sixteenth century. Those engaged in agriculture constituted 34 percent including Vellalar, Brahmin landlords and agricultural labor like Pallar. The merchant castes constituted 3.1 percent while the Kaikkolar weavers constituted 3.7 percent. The Pattunulkarar/Saurashtrar may have made up nearly 9 percent of the total population. It is noteworthy that this community rose to great prominence in the political and cultural domain of the region during the colonial period. The numerical strength of

48 Francis 1904. 49 Cornish 1874. 50 http/www.indianetzone.com accessed on 30th July 2012. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 103 weaving communities region is explained by its historical situation as a textile center. The Pattunulkarar constituted the largest group of weaver migrants in the Vijayanagar and post-Vijayanagar periods. In Kanchipuram the migrant presence is not as strong, although the Padma- Saliya and Pattu-Saliya, who migrated from Andhra during the Vijayanagar period, continue to be in the textile business. The best testimonial of their continued presence as weavers in the Kanchipuram region is the silk empire created by Nalli Chinnasami Chettiar. The 1901 census gives an estimate of just over one million for the entire Chingleput region which includes both Kanchipuram and Chennai. A rough guesstimate made in the 1858 Gazetteer for Chennai town with an area of 10,700 square miles is 720,000.51 One would expect that the population of Kanchipuram around the same period would have been fewer than 500,000, since by this time Chennai was clearly one of the largest cities in the Peninsula. If the population of the Chingleput region can be worked backwards to 1658 at around 400,000 one can estimate the population of Chennapatnam (Chennai) at 100,000 and that of Kanchipuram at a little less. The local Kaikkola/Senguntar weavers constituted 3.7 percent of the population according to the 1871 census and there is reason to expect that the percentage in the sixteenth-seventeenth century would not have been much different. While we are not provided with similar figures for the migrant Saliyar, it could not have exceeded 3 percent. Finally, since the Kongu region and the migration of Devanga and Kaikkola weavers into it has been dealt with specially in this chapter, I would like to brief mention some population estimates for this region, which covers the modern districts of Salem, Coimbatore, Dharmapuri and Erode, all of them renowned textile centers. In the 1871 census these were part of Salem district extending over an area of 7,483 square miles. In 1871 the total population was computed as approximately 2 million. Being a commercial and industrial hub, the growth of population is much higher than other regions since a large migratory population moved into the Salem region.52 In the report peasants (Vellalar) constituted almost a quarter of the population, while pastoralist groups (Idaiyar) were the next prominent occupational group with 4.7 percent. The continued numerical importance of the Idaiyar shows the historical importance of Kongu as a frontier region. Kaikkolar which seems to be an umbrella term for all weavers including the migrant Kannada speaking Devanga, represented around

51 Thornton 1858. 52 Comparing with the population figure for 1866 which was 1,619,233 the population in 1871, just five years later, had gone up by 21 percent (Cornish 1874). The report itself states that this growth rate is unbelievably high and is the result of a faulty census (p. 331). 104 ramaswamy

4.6 percent of the population. The Kammalar being a collective term for crafts persons and artisans constituted around 2.9 percent. Chettis like the Komati and Banajigas who are also migrant mercantile communities from Andhra and Karnataka, constituted 1.5 percent of the total population. What can be deduced from the above available population data is that weaving communities constituted 3 to 5 percent of the total population in the areas with major textile centers since medieval times. Out of this the migrant weaver population would have been roughly 2 percent. The only exception is Madurai, where the migrant Pattunulkarar-Saurashtra weavers constituted 9 percent of the population because of their en masse migration from the Gujarat region until the seventeenth century.

Weaver Migrations in the Thirteenth Century into the Kongu Region

Meany weavers settled in newly cleared areas and in the semi-arid Northern Tamil Nadu, known as the Kongu region. They were accompanied by other craftsmen and peasants, who were also settled there, encouraged by various incentives and tax exemptions by the state and local authorities. The Cholan Purva Pattayam, a palm leaf manuscript of the late medieval period, deals (among other things) with the early migrations of the Kaikkola weavers and the Kammalar smiths into the Kongu country from Tondaimandalam.53 This is a classic case of state sponsored inter-regional migration from the deltaic heartland. The theme of this palm-leaf manuscript is the conquest of the Kongu region by the Chola king. The document refers to Karikala Cholan who is located historically in the Sangam period around the second century AD. But the name of Karikalan serves as a talisman and is invoked from time to time to refer to any Chola king who had done something new and praiseworthy. The name has often been associated with Kulottunga Chola III (period of rule CE 1178 to 1218) who is most likely the king responsible for the large peasant and artisanal migrations into the Kongu region. The probability of Kulottunga Chola being the main protagonist of the Cholan Purva Pattayam is strengthened by the numerous inscriptions from the twelth-thirteenth centuries, that refer to formations of new settlements in Karuvur, Tirupakkadal, Avinasi, Annur etc. in the Kongu region. These migrations according to the Cholan Purva Pattayam, seems to have begun somewhere around the thirteenth century with the decline of Chola power in the heartland of Tanjavur and therefore the waning of their influence in the Tondaimandalam region which the Cholas had conquered in the ninth century and renamed Jayankonda Cholamandalam. Clearly, a

53 Chettiar 1950. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 105 major direction of migration was from Tondaimandalam (modern Chennai/ Madras region) into Kongu. Another equally important factor was the rise of the Telugu Cholas and Sambuvarayas in the Kongu country that began to constitute the new centers of patronage and authority. Cholan Purva Pattayam describes this migration of the Kaikkola weavers from the Kanchipuram region (the heartland of Tondaimandalam) and the considerable incentives offered to them by the regional and local potentates, such as free house-sites and total exemption for the first five years. The editor of the Cholan Purva Pattayam sur- mises that this anonymous document was probably written by a poet of the Kaikkola weaver community because of the virtually panegyric references to the Kaikkola weavers in the document.

Intra-Regional Migrations of Weavers in the Cholamandalam Region of Tamil Nadu

The Chola state at the height of its power in around the twelfth-thirteenth century also encouraged new settlements within the core region of Chola- mandalam, comprising Tanjavur and Tiruchirapalli districts. During the period of Vikrama Chola in 1128, twenty weaver families from five villages were newly settled in Tirukkanapuram in the Tanjavur district and granted special privileges, including tax remission.54 If one assumes the minimum of four members to an (extended) family, between 60–80 people moved to Tirukkanapuram,55 a newly settled town in Tanjavur. During the period of Rajanarayana Sambuvaraya, there was remission of loom tax for newly settled weavers at Nerkunram in South Arcot.56 Weaver migrations operated not only in the Tamil country but also in the adjacent regions. In Amritalur in Guntur district of Andhra, the Mahamandalesvara Chintagupta Timmarajayya granted a charter (sasanam) exempting the weavers and other newly settled craftsmen from payment of taxes for the first three years.57 Until the sixteenth century migrations of weavers occurred in different waves, due to both push (famines, wars) and pull (state incentives) factors. For example, during the thirteenth century, when weavers migrated into Nerkunram on the offer of state incentives, a group of weavers emigrated out of the Hoysala country for very different reasons. Here economic coercion by the state was decisive. According to an inscription dated 1277 of the period

54 Annual Report of Epigraphy (A.R.E)., 508 of 1922–23. 55 The term ‘Puram’ is used in Tamil for a township. 56 A.R.E., 218 of 1934–35. 57 A.R.E., 628 of 1920–21. 106 ramaswamy of Hoysala king Ramanathadeva,58 his officer the Dandanayaka Ravideva reported that the weavers of Kandaradittam in Tiruchirapalli had moved en masse due to high taxation. This ‘voting with their feet’ induced the king to reduce the taxes back to 8 kasu in an effort to persuade the weavers to return. Inscriptional evidence suggests that the regional authorities issued charters of protection called nambikkai pattayam in Tami, literally ‘Charters of Trust’ in order to retain the services of weavers.59 Most of these migrations aimed at newly established temple towns, which also served as the hub of neo-urbanism marked by expanding production and trade activities. Thus one can track migrations into Kanchipuram of the Saliyar during the Chola and subsequently the Vijayanagara period and the movement of several weaving communities including Muslim weavers into the temple town of Tirupati during the Vijayanagara period. Migrations into temple towns, however, is only one of the trajectories taken by migrating weaver communities. As pointed out, the movement into the Kongu region was essentially into virgin territory and with incentives from the Kongu Chola rulers. Elsewhere as with artisanal movement into Hampi, Nagulapura and surrounding cities, migration was motivated by the patronage of the Vijayanagar State and local nobility.

Kaikkola and Saliya Weaver Migrations into Kerala

During the Vijayanagar period the Kaikkola weavers migrated further south into the Kerala region. According to an inscription dated 1506 from Melacheval (in Tirunelveli district) a Kaikkolan named ‘Keralan Martandan’ re-consecrated the temple of Udaiyavar which had been deserted during Muslim occupation. Presumably, as recognition of his service, he was made the accountant of the temple and given four nazhis of cooked rice everyday from the temple prasadam.60 The Saliya migrations into Kerala from the Eastern coast also occurred in the course of the fifteenth-sixteenth centuries. This migration was primarily into the Malabar region (from Bharatapuzha up to Kozhikode) where they are referred

58 A.R.E., 311 of 1968–69 dated 1261 from Tripattavellur; 152 of 1928–29 dated 1267 from Nattamangudi and 203 of 1928–29 from Kandaradittam, all from Tiruchirapalli district of Tamil Nadu. 59 A.R.E., 201 of 1923 from Tiruppulivanam, Kanchipuram Taluq, Chingleput district of the period of Virupaksha II. See also A.R.E., 454 of 1916 dated 1513 from Ambasamudram, Tirunelveli district and A.R.E., 310 of 1916–17 from the same area. 60 A.R.E., 407 of 1928–29. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 107 to as ‘Saaliya’ and ‘Saaliya Chetty’.61 They also seem to have migrated into the Balaramapuram region famous for its off-white sarees with gold zari border.

Saale/Saliya Weavers: Migrating from the Andhra Region into the Tamil Country

A significant migration in terms of its economic and cultural impact was the migration of the Saale or Saalewaru into the Tamil country. Nalli Kuppusami Chetty, head of the commercial Nalli empire,62 claims that his family which has been resident of the Kanchipuram region for nearly a thousand years along with many other families were originally Padma Saale from Andhra who had migrated into the Tamil country during the Vijayanagar period beginning around the fourteenth century. Nalli Kuppusami writes about his origins in the Andhra country and the family name of ‘Nalli’ in his autobiographical monograph A Success Story (Vettriyin Varalaru):

After the Pallava period, the Vijayanagar kingdom equalled the Pallavas in art and patronage to crafts. Krishnadeva Raya was the most celebrated king of Vijayanagar. During his time many families moved into the South Kanchipuram region of the Tamil country (from Andhra region). Ours of the Padma Saale/Saliyar community was one such family. Nalli is one among the hundred sub-sects/branches of the Padma Saliyar community. There are other branches of the community like Pandari and Saama who continue to live in different parts of Andhra.63

The Saale or Saalevaru are divided into two primary branches, Pattu Saale and Padma Saale. The Saale weavers seem to have migrated in waves probably from the Andhra regions into many regions of Peninsular India. Historical inscriptions relating to the Saalewaru come from the Guntur, Krishna and

61 Innes and Evans 1908: 122–123, note 80. 62 The Nalli family headed at present by Nalli Kuppusami Chettiar owns the lion’s share of silk production and sale not only at the all India level but even in the markets in UK, USA and South Asian countries. The ‘Nalli Empire of Silks’ has successfully withstood competition from other business houses like the Kumarans and Pothees, despite stiff competition— See the newspaper story ‘A soft corner for silks’: An interview with Nalli Kuppusami by Prof. Vijaya Ramaswamy in The Hindu Business Line, 20th March, 2000. For the website version see www.hindu.com/businessline/2000/03/20/stories/102069m3.htm. 63 Kuppusami 1983: 11. The translation from the original Tamil is mine. 108 ramaswamy

Nalgonda districts of Andhra.64 In the Dharwar and Belgaum district they are referred to as Salige.65 The Saliyar not only settled down in large numbers in the Tamil regions but migrated as far as Malabar, where they came to be called Chaliyar. Duarte Barbosa, the fifteenth century Portuguese chronicler, refers to them as the dominant weaving community of the Malabar regions. He makes the interesting statement that though they belonged to the upper caste, their social status in that region was low since they had but little money and were engaged in weaving cloth only for the lower castes.66 The migrating Saale weavers were connected to each other through their origin myths and their worship of the deity Salisvara or Bhavanandi Munivar. In course of time however they acquired different cultural habits and today they are endogamous. For example Thurston writes that even within Tamil Nadu, the Saliyar of Tanjavur will not inter-marry with the Saliyar of Tirunelveli.67 The Saliyar are divided into many ‘houses’ or ‘intilu’.

Devanga Weavers: From the Karnataka-Andhra Regions into the Tamil Country

Another migrant weaving community which is very important in terms of its economic and cultural contribution to the Tamil country is that of the Devanga. The Devanga weavers originally resided in Andhra and Karnataka, where they can still be found in large numbers along with the Jedara community. The wave of migration among the Devanga took place during the period of expansion under the Vijayanagar Empire when the kings extended patronage to artisanal and mercantile groups from Andhra and Karnataka regions to settle in the Tamil country. The pull factor was clearly the tremendous opportunity that the Vijayanagar state was willing to extend through patronage and subsidies including granting of house-sites and tax exemptions. The reference to the Devanga weavers in medieval inscriptions comes pre-dominantly from the Kongu country particularly Salem, Dharmapuri and Coimbatore districts.

64 South Indian Inscriptions (henceforth S.I.I.), vol. X, No. 533, dated 1323; S.I.I., vol. X, No. 507 dated 1314 and Hyderabad Archaeological Survey (H.A.S.), vol. XIII, No. 30 ascribed to the early fourteenth century. 65 S.I.I., vol. XI, pt. I, No. 97 dated 1062 and Epigraphica India (E.I.), vol. VIII, No. 22E dated 1224. 66 Dames 1921: 59. 67 Thurston 1976 (reprint): 278. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 109

Some epigraphic records are also available from Tanjavur, Chingleput and south Arcot districts of Tamil Nadu. Many Devanga families settled in the Uraiyur region of Tanjavur. Since the early Christian era Uraiyur was an important center of cloth manufacture and is referred in the Greco-Roman records as Argaritic.68 It was also a major administrative center and had been the capital of the Cholas at one point of time. A significant shift can be perceived from the seventeenth century onwards when the European East India Companies like those of the Dutch, English, French and Danes began establishing their warehouses and factories along the coast in towns like Madras now called Chennai, the capital of Tamil Nadu State (Fort St. George); Cuddalore (Fort St.David, 160 kilometres from Chennai) and Masulipatnam also known as Machilipatnam (347 kilometres S.E. of Hyderabad).

From Mandasor in the West to Madurai in the South: The Pattunukarar/ Saurshtra Community

The most mobile weaving community in the medieval period seems to be that of the Pattunulkarar. Oral traditions are preserved in their unique folk narration called baula. This narration is about the long migration of the Pattunulkara weavers from Mandasor to Madurai. This migration can be studied as a case history of an artisanal community which made a journey of several hundred miles and carried within its cultural and ritual traditions, the many memories of the regions and peoples with whom they inter-mingled. Today this community is concentrated in the Madurai region, also known by the more popular name of Saurashtrar. The name Pattunulkarar refers to their weaving in silk thread, although this name is a misnomer since the community primarily produced fine cotton sarees. This was woven with the highly specialized technique known as tie and dye, called Chungdi in Tamil. The cloth was woven and then tie-dyed in geometrical patterns. Reference to such designs occurs in the twelfth century text Manasollasa of the Chalukyan king Somesvara. The other name ‘Saurashtrar’ seems to connect them to the Surat region although this seems essentially a long cherished oral tradition which may not have any historical basis.

68 For an account of Uraiyur (located in Tiruchirapalli district of Tamil Nadu) see Ramaswamy 1985: 2–3; references to Uraiyur called Argaritic (Aragaru) on p. 3. 110 ramaswamy

The Saurashtra/Pattunulkarar trace themselves back to the Mandasor inscription of AD 473.69 According to the Mandasor inscription a class of silk weavers called ‘Pattavayaka’,70 are said to have constructed a temple to the Sun God in 437 and renovated it forty years later. The record praises them as excellent silk weavers and skilled in archery:

No women-folk may be young and lovely and may have the customary garland and pan and flowers, but they will never go to meet their lovers until they have put on their silk sarees . . . and these silk weavers (pattavayaka) had adorned the whole of that land with silken cloth of varie- gated color, pleasant to feel, a joy to the eye. Yet they reflected that man’s estate has the breeze-blown instability of a bright flower . . . and similarly accumulated wealth, however great, and so they came to have a wise and steadfast mind. And so—in the reign of Kumaragupta, the governor Vishwavarman had a son Bandhuvarman, and when this Bandhuvarman became governor of Dasapura, the silk-weavers, as a guild with the capital accumulated by their skill, caused a noble and peerless temple of the Sun to be built, dazzling white, with broad and lofty spires. It was dedicated on the thirteenth day of the bright fortnight of the month Sahasya after the completion of 493 years (AD 437) in the Malava era. But by lapse of much time and other kings, part of the temple had fallen into ruin; and so, for the increase of their fame, the noble guild restored the whole temple for the Sun, on the second day of the bright fortnight of the month Tapasya, when 529 years were completed (AD 473) . . . Vatsabhati carefully composed this matter; may it be well with him who composed it, him who engraved it, him who recites it, and him who hears it!71

The inscriptions clearly states that the silk-weavers had migrated collectively from the Lata region of Gujarat into Mandasor or Dasapura sometime in the third or fourth centuries AD. This inscription also makes the point that these communities of weavers were Brahmins. The Mandasor inscription is clearly treated as the starting point of the great southward migration of the Pattunulkarar community of weavers. Every oral tradition of this community which now has its basis only in Tamil Nadu commences with this record from

69 Mandasor Inscritptions dated 473 and 529 respectively—J. F. Fleet’s Gupta Inscritions, No. 18. Also published in Indian Antiquary, vol. 15, no. 162, 1886, p. 194. 70 This means ‘Silk Weavers’ which is the Sanskrit equivalent of ‘Pattunulkarar’. 71 I have here followed the translation provided by Randle (1944, see also his book under the same title from 1949: 20–23). mapping migrations of south indian weavers 111

Dasapura or Mandasor which in turn traces them from the Surat region. After the Mandasor inscription there is no documentary or epigraphic information to trace their further migration into South India. The subsequent stages of the Pattunukarar migration through Karnataka and Andhra into the Madurai region, is best recovered through their unique oral traditions called boula.72 This was a question and answer session which took place between the bride’s party and the groom’s party at every Saurashtrian betrothal. The bridegroom’s party arrives at the bride’s house and the ritual is started by the oldest member of the bridegroom’s family whose wife is alive, i.e. the elder should not be a widower. Thereafter the bride’s family follows with its answers and questions. The eldest member of the boy’s party states:

Kay naa meneti ‘What I mean to say is” When we glance at the history of immigration of our ancestors from times immemorial, they lived in a far-of northern direction, in a region called Saurashtra. In that district, they lived in the town of Devagiri” “What I mean is, our gotra is . . . Our country is Saurashtra, Our town is Devagiri Our religion is the Vaishnava religion Our varna is the Gauda-Brahmana varna If you ask to which they proceeded They came to Madurai They worshipped Meenakshi and Chokkanatha . . . .73

The bride’s party makes similar statements and beginning with the line kay naa meneti (what I mean to say is) referring to more or less a similar migration route. The boula ritual ends with the exchange of tamboolam and conclusion of the betrothal ceremony. The above version is only one of many versions of the boula which would have slight variations depending on the final route taken and the region where they eventually chose to settle down. The ritual is striking in many ways. To mention a few noteworthy points, the community seems to have migrated further and further into the southern

72 I am grateful to the Saurshtra Sabha of Madurai and Uraiyur for sharing with me some of their boula traditions in the course of my field work in 1985–86. 73 This boula ritual was originally published in 1914 by A. R. N. Perumal Aiyangar. The entire boula was recorded and transcribed by Yuchido Norihoko at Kilakkula in Tirunelveli district in 1975. The Japanese scholar spent more than a decade living with the Saurashtran community of Madurai and researching on their oral traditions: (Norihiko 1979: 47–53). 112 ramaswamy region as a result of economic pressures although the migration into Madurai could have been motivated by the great patronage extended by the Nayaka kingdom of Madurai. The economic role played by the Pattunulkarar community in the politics of the Black Town is extremely ambiguous because they do not figure among the Idangai-Valangai (Left-hand—Right-hand) castes which dominated the social conflicts in the Madras region in the seventeenth-eighteenth centuries. The Kaikkola weavers were major participants in these caste disturbances. In the Diary and Consultations of Fort St. George, an account of the Idangai-Valangai clashes in the Black Town on 15th January 1708, it was stated that both the Left-hand and the Right-hand castes complained to the agents that the ‘Kaicullawarr’ were fickle because they played politics, sometimes declaring in favour of one caste and sometimes in favour of another.74 An inscriptional record from Pattisvaram near Kumbakonam refers to the Pattunulkarar community.75 Their influence seems to have been confined to Madurai although during the years of the freedom struggle the community played an influential role in creating public awareness against the policies of the imperial regime. Prominent members of the Saurshtra family headed the Svadeshi movement in the Madurai region.

Colonial Black Towns, Famines and Weaver Migrations in the Seventeenth Century

The causes for migrations of weavers during the colonial period are much more clear. is much more self-evident. The seventeenth century famines along the Coromandel Coast have been well documented in the East India Company records, both of the Dutch and the English. Famines occurred at frequent intervals with disastrous consequences for the economy and had a crippling impact on all artisanal communities. Among the worst was the Masulipatnam famine of 1630–2 and the 1647 famine which region in Masulipatnam and large parts of North Coromandel as well as the Madras region and other major parts of South Coromandel. Thee price of cloth, raw cotton and yarn soared, due to an acute scarcity of raw material. The English factors wrote in 1630 and again in 1632: “the major part of both weavers and washers are dead, the country being almost ruinated (sic) . . . occasioned by the great dearth of rice and other grain.”76

74 Srinivasachari 1929:73. 75 A.R.E., 257 of 1927 from Kumbakonam District. 76 English Factory Records, ed. William Foster, 1606–1627; 1618–69, Thirteen volumes, Oxford, 1906–27, 31 January 1632 pp. 203–4. See also 2 Nov. 2630, p. 79 and 27 Dec. 1630, pp. 117–118 etc. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 113

In 1647, the factors at Fort St. George reported that 3000 people had died at Madras while San Thome and Pulicat lost five times that number: “People gave themselves for slaves to any man that will but feed them.”77 Ivy, the President at Fort St. George, wrote to the President and Council at Surat, “How violent the famine hath been here is not to be credited . . . There is not above one-third of the weavers, painters and washers living of what were formerly. This hath made cloth fifteen per cent dearer . . . ”78 The President also reported to the Surat Council that the famine conditions and the shortfalls in cloth and other raw materials, arising out the situation, was expected to last another three years. In 1659, famine again broke out at Masulipatnam and continued until 1661.79 In 1673 there was a severe famine at Madras and in 1688 famine recurred at Masulipatnam and Madras, which was termed the most disastrous in the entire century. The price of paddy increased during these famine years by 400 percent.80 The last decade of the century witnessed yet another famine in 1694–95 at Madras.81 Coromandel was importing grain from places as distant as Bengal82 and the East India Company, who managed to store up more than 100 garce of paddy and 40 garce of grain,83 began to pay the weavers in paddy rather than in cash and that too on a system of advances.84 The East India Company forced the beleaguered weavers to migrate by pur- suing a policy of extortion and coercion. While the prices of paddy and cotton had shot up during times of famine, the price of cloth was artificially regulated by means of the contracts and system of advances which virtually tied the weavers to their looms, with no hope of survival. The merchant-middlemen

77 The English Factories in India, 4th July, 1647, p. 135; 9th Oct., 1647, p. 163; 26th Nov. 1646 p. 55 etc. 78 Ibid., 9th Oct. 1647, p. 163. See. Also 4th Jan. 1647, p. 70. 79 Ibid., 17th Jan 1659, p. 263; 11th Jan. 1661, p. 402 etc. 80 Letters to Fort St. George from Subordinate Factories in 1688, The Govt. of Madras, Madras, 1915, 13th March 1688, p. 25. See also 16th July, 1689, p. 37. 81 The Diary and Consultation Book of Fort St. George–1694, ed. Pringle, Govt. of Madras, Madras, 1895, 20th Sept. 1694, p. 100; ibid., 19th Nov. 1694, p. 130; ibid., 26th Nov. 1694, p. 134 etc. 82 The Original Correspondance of the English East India Company, Nos. 150 to 1494, India Office, London, 16th Jan. 1695, vol. 50, no. 5960; Dispatches to England—1694–1746, Govt. of Madras, Madras, 1915–41, 31st Jan. 1695, p. 41. 83 Letters From Fort. St.George, 1679–1765, Govt. of Madras, Madras, 1915–41, 20th June, 1696, p. 57. Garce is a cubic measure of rice, paddy etc. in use only on the Madras coast. This varied greatly in value, one of them given by Logan for Malabar is 10,800 lbs. (Yule & Burnell 1903: 364). 84 Diary and Consultation, 19th Nov. 1694, p. 130. 114 ramaswamy and quite often the Master-Weavers compensated for the squeeze from above by pushing the weavers far below subsistence levels. By 1694, Company records were complaining that weavers had either absconded or migrated in groups further south in search of cheaper paddy.85 Not only did weavers migrate but very often they abandoned their professions. This situation is best expressed in their folklore. One of their famine songs is called ‘Panja Kummi’86 Kummi is a particular dance form in which the dancers perform with sticks to the accom- paniment of rhythmic music. It is ironical but entirely logical given the fact that the weavers were by and large not a literate community, that they should have used the medium of folk performance to express one of the most tragic events in their lives. The song goes roughly as follows:

Kaikkola thambigal virkadadai vitru Kalamalla Kodunkkalaththile Kadan adigamai pattu Pudavai maramum vitru Kainiraiya mayil irakkai kondargale

[Kaikkola brethren selling that which they do not sell (tools of their trade) Caught in the battlefield (strife of life) Hit by their debts selling the cloth on the loom and the loom itself They have gathered to themselves a bunch of peacock feathers.]

The song suggests that the weavers had to sell their cloth and their looms in order to buy food and stood still wearing peacock feathers, defeated by the cruel famine. In Tamil idiomatic usage peacock feathers signifies defeat and surrender. Chokkanatha Pulavar, a poet of the seventeenth century has written another famine song called Mezhi Vilakkam dated 1693, describing the 1680’s famine on the Coromandel coast:

padaimaramum nadavum achchudane Nallen maanathellam Jedarum Sengunthar vitrar jagathalaththil Achchgan anum Vannanum

85 Letters to Fort. St George, 23rd March, 1693. 86 Kummi is a dance form ss performed with colored sticks which goes back to antiquity in Tamil culture. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 115

Charamannudane vellavi kullantaiyum vitru koduththan.

[The wood from the plank, the rope and the mould All that had been their pride and honour in this world, the Jedara and the Sengunthar sold. Even the bleacher and the washerman Had to sell their bleaching ingredients with the special mud (they used) (Chokkanatha Pulavar ND)]

Having sold the tools of their trade, the weavers, dyers and bleachers were forced to migrate and many of them became cart pullers or agricultural laborers. It is not only the artisanal castes who sold the tools of their profession. The same song goes on to say

Chettigalum Kettu alaindu tirasu padi kal mudalai Vottuthugayai vitru vittu ozhindargal

The verse can be roughly translated as meaning that even the Chetti (merchants) sold their balance scales and even their weights and measures and left the place. For the weaving communities the push to migrate came not only from famine conditions but was also stimulated by coercion in the Black Towns by the East India Company in the areas where they located their main centers of administration and warehouses and where forcefully relocated weavers from their villages. There are, however, a few rare instances of weavers and merchants freely moving towards the Black Towns in the St. George region of Chennapatnam or the Fort St. David region of Pulicat in order to find gainful employment. For example the Salewar are referred to in one Company record dated 1694 as ancient inhabitants of the Tamil country with whom the Agents had signed a direct contract for the delivery of coarse and fine unbleached neck cloths. Similarly, another weaver caste with whom the Company traded cloth were the Janrawar who are said to have “lately come from Kaveripakkam.” In both these instances it is clear that the migration of these two communities of weavers was voluntary and due to the attraction of guaranteed customers in the East India Company Agents.87 In the following scheme the most important weaver migrations have been summarized:

87 Ramaswamy 2007: 151. 116 ramaswamy

Table 2 An overview of South Indian weavers with indications of points of departure and destination87

Weaver Place/s of Origin Arrival/Destination Point Language Spoken by Community the Community

Devanga Primarily from the regions Krishnagiri, Dharmapuri Mainly Kannada of Bangaluru, Mysore, and Salem districts. speaking although Chikabhallapur, From Rajahmundry into some groups speak Doddabhallapur and the Ganjam district in telugu and a Bellary districts in Orissa, especially smattering of Tamil. Karnataka State. They also Burhanpur.88 migrated from the From Chittoor and adjoining border areas of Nellore districts into the Andhra Pradesh such as medieval temple town of Chittoor and Nellore Tirupati districts into areas under Vijayanagar Patronage. According to one study, Devanga migrated from the Rajahmundry (East and West Godavari districts) area of Andhra into Orissa. Jedara (Janrewar Karnataka East India Company Kannada of East India (Specific places of (EIC) settlements in the Company departure not traceable) Tamil Region such as Records) Fort.St.George and Fort St.David Kaikkolar Found in Many districts of Intra-regional migration (known today as Tamil Nadu, especially into the Kongu area Senguntar) Chingleput district and (Salem, Coimbatore and (Continued)

88 I am very grateful to Dr. Milap Punea and his students Sandeep Kashyap and Varun Misra from the Centre for Regional Development, Jawaharlal Nehru University for their help in the preparation of this table. 89 Acharya 2003. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 117

Table 2 (Continued)

Weaver Place/s of Origin Arrival/Destination Point Language Spoken by Community the Community

the entire Madras Erode districts) around Tamil (modern Chennai) region the thirteenth century. Movement into the Kerala region around the sixteenth century. Pattunulkarar Western Malwa region Madurai, Tiruchirapalli Patnuli (this known popularly comprising parts of (specifically Uraiyur) and language does not in the Tamil Western Madhya Pradesh adjacent regions of Tamil have a written region as consisting of the districts Nadu. script). ‘Saurashtrar’ of Indore, Rutlam, May literally those have originally been from hailing from the the Surat region of Surat region of Gujarat. Gujarat. Saale (Pattu Belong primarily to Migrated largely into the Telugu with a Saale and Padma Andhra concentrated in Kanchipuram region of smattering of Saale) Guntur, Krishna and Tamil Nadu. Kannada. The Nalgonda districts but migrants into also to be found in the Kanchpuram speak border areas of Karnataka a mix of Telugu and such as Belgaun and Tamil. Dharwar. Saliyar (may be Inscriptional references to Internal migrations Tamil but the connected to the the Saliyar in the within Tamil Nadu. Saliyar settled in Telugu Saale) Kanchipuram region Some segments seem to Kerala speak (Chingleput District) have migrated into the Malayalam, the occur as early as the tenth Malabar region (North of language of that century. Also found in Bharatapuzha up to region. other districts of Tamil Kozhikode) around the (Continued) 118 ramaswamy

Table 2 (Continued)

Weaver Place/s of Origin Arrival/Destination Point Language Spoken by Community the Community

Nadu. Migrated from fifteenth century.89 The Tamil Nadu into Kerala. region comprises the districts of Kasargod, Kannur, Kozhikode, Wayanad, Malappuram and Palakkad.

Map 3 Weaver migration patterns in medieval South India mapping migrations of south indian weavers 119

Conclusion

This chapter has made a modest attempt to map the migrations of some of the weaving communities of South India which constitute traditional weaving castes in the medieval period. These migrations by weavers do not seem to follow a linear pattern although one can discern some broad trends. They seem to have meant permanent re-location and the idea of return is absent except for the sense of ‘longing and belonging’, an emotional return to the place of one’s origins which is reflected in ritual performances like the Pirla Panduga of the Padma Saale weavers or the Baula narrations of the Pattunulkarar community. It is also clear that the migrations, without exception, involved movement with one’s family and therefore differed from (circular) migrant workers who left their families behind. Many of the weaver migrations were stimulated by state incentives, temple construction and religious patronage. In the course of the medieval period especially temple towns such as Tirupati, Kanchipuram and Madurai became nodal points of commerce and crafts. The craft communities were clearly closely connected to the big time mercantile guilds like the Tisai Ayiraattu Ainnurruvar. Not everyone moved into cities, however, as the migrations into the semi-arid zone of the Kongu region show. These constituted a rural to rural migration rather than a rural to urban migration. Here the newly settled peasantry called the Kongu Vellalar or Gaundar had a close but tension ridden relationship with the artisan groups like the weavers. Folk memories, performances and sometimes strongly knit caste structures, bound the migratory weavers in a common community affinity. Due to the lack of sources the reconstruction of these migrations in the medieval period is extremely difficult, but not impossible. Cultural residues in the language of migratory weaver communities often mirror the regions they have passed through. This is demonstrated not only in the case of the Devanga, migrants from Kannada speaking areas into the Tamil speaking regions of Salem, Dharmapuri, Coimbatore (all in the Kongu region) and the Telugu speaking Saliyar of the Kanchipuram region, but even more powerfully with the Pattunulkarar. This community of Madurai speaks a language which has no script. It is a curious mix of Marathi, Gujarathi, Kannada, Telugu and Tamil with probably some traces of other languages. Their language called ‘Patnuli’ is the living evidence of a long history of migration.

90 The Portuguese chronicler Barbosa refers to them as the dominant community of the Malabar region. Here they are called Chaliar or Chaliya Chettis. They are mentioned as migrants from the East Coast (Dames 1918–1921; reprinted by the Asian Educational Services, New Delhi, 2002, Book I, p. 59, fn. 1. Also see Gangadharan (2000: 59, 70) for a more detailed account of Saliya migrations into Kerala. 120 ramaswamy

Many of these castes like the Kaikkolar and the Devanga seem to carry with them memories of a military past and the sword is worshipped as a sacred object in many weaver homes. The Devanga weavers of the Salem region, enact a ritual performance of their military past in the region of Hosa Kottai. In 1986 I was a participant observer in the Hosa kottai festival where Chaudeswari Amman, the patron deity of the Devanga is worshipped with food offerings and regaled with tableaus of Devanga bravery. One of them constituted the cutting into two of a tiny green banana placed on the stomach of a recum- bent Devanga warrior! The Kaikkola weavers celebrate the ‘Uram Aruththar Chadangu’ to commemorate their deeds of valor in an ancient past located in the Chola period (tenth to thirteenth centuries) when they were known as the ‘Terinja Kaikkolar Padai’, literally the ‘Trusted Kaikkola Army) and marched into the regions of conquest.91 The thirteenth century literary composition Itti Elupatu written by the celebrated Chola court poet Ottakuttar, himself a member of the Kaikkola community, celebrates the military prowess of the Kaikkolar.92 The performance of brave feats which is an ancient ritual tradition among the Kaikkola weavers thus gains credence through the account of the medieval poetic composition of the Itti Elupatu and through the numerous epigraphic records which refer to the Terinja Kaikkola Padai.93 It is noteworthy that the majority of inscriptions cited are from Tanjavur, the heartland of Chola polity. A remarkable instance of cultural memories of one’s original roots reflected in the hybrid cultural practices of the communities in its new habitat is the practice of Pirla Panduga which is the performance name for Muharram practices in the Deccan. This constitutes the ritual observance of Padma Saale weavers of the Andhra and Karnataka regions. Pirla Panduga in their new home becomes a common topos of both Hindu and Muslim weavers and

91 Many of these points have been discussed in Ramaswamy 1982. I have also participated extensively in these ritual enactments by the weavers during my field work in South India in 1986–87. 92 Itti Ezhupatu of the thirteenth century poet Ottakkuttar edited with critical commentary by Thiru Murugavel in the Sengunta Mithiran (weaver community journal), serialized in June–July, 1970. 93 Annual Report of Epigraphy (A.R.E.), Published by the Govt. of India Archaeological Division, No. 144 of 1927–28 from Tiruppalanam, Tanjavur district which refers to ‘Arulmolideva-Terinja-Kaikkolar; A.R.E., 278 of 1911 from Tillaisthanam, Tanjavur which refers to ‘Samarakesari Terinja Kaikkolar’ and A.R.E., 627 from Koneri Rajapuram in Tanjavur which describes the bravery of the ‘Rajaraja Terinja Kaikkolar’. mapping migrations of south indian weavers 121 incorporates both Islamic Sufi and Hindu practices. The artisan communities participating in the Muharram cut across both caste and religion.94 The last example of the deeply rooted cultural memories pertains once again to the Pattunulkarar/Saurashtra community. The Mandasor Incriptions which trace their original home to the Gujarat region, describes them as Brahmin weavers. However, by the time the community had made Madurai, in the interior of South India, its permanent home, they had clearly lost their Brahmin superiority. Seventeenth century records from the Madurai region are full of the contestations over their claim to a Brahmanical status. According to a booklet published in 1941 by the community itself, The Caste Questions in the Saurashtra Community the Pattunulkarar/Saurashtra weavers claim to Brahmin was finally recognized in 1704 by the ruler of Madurai, Rani Mangammal (the only woman ruler to sit on the Madurai throne) in 1704. This chapter has endeavoured to be both resourceful and inventive in bringing together strands from very different sources—from medieval inscriptions to anthropology and oral history—to piece together the divergent migratory paths taken by artisanal groups in medieval South India. Further studies may reveal the hidden precipitates of migrations such as cultural, linguistic and/or occupational transmissions.

94 The Pirla Panduga performances have been recorded by Naveen Ramamurthy Kanalu who belongs to the Padma Saale community on the basis of narrations by community elders, especially his grandmother. This article titled ‘Pirla Panduga: Muharram Practices in the Deccan’ will form a part of a forthcoming book edited by Vijaya Ramaswamy titled Migrations, Mobility, Memories: An Indian Perspective. South Indian Migration, c. 1800–1950

Sunil S. Amrith

The migration of South Indians to Southeast Asia was of overwhelming importance in the larger history of Indian emigration in the colonial period. As Kingsley Davis pointed out, 92.2 percent of all Indian emigrants between 1834 and 1900 went to Ceylon, Burma, and Malaya; between 1900 and 1937, this figure was 98.4 percent.1 These circuits of overseas migration were closely integrated with more local patterns of mobility. This chapter seeks to examine South Indian networks of migration between 1800 and 1950. Following the CCMR-model the following discussion aims to distinguish between, and where possible to quantify, different forms of South Indian migration. The underlying argument is that labor migration overseas was an important and distinctive feature of South India’s migration regime; as my earlier work has shown, it also had significant ‘cross-cultural’ implications2—it is therefore on overseas emigration, between South India and Southeast Asia, that this chapter will focus. From the 1920s, however, urbanization assumed an increasing importance in patterns of migration in South India.

South Indian Migration, c. 1800–1950

From the second millennium of the common era, South Indian society exhibited distinct patterns of both mobility and immobility. In his classic work on medieval South India, Burton Stein wrote of the ‘peripatetic ways of many in South Indian society’,3 highlighting the importance of migration and conquest, and the long process through which new peoples were integrated into ‘established locality societies’. Initially, the circulations that knitted south India together were small in scale, but significant in cultural terms: the movement of Brahmin ritual specialists, poets, and scribes. Over time, military mobility gained in importance—though historians have not had access to material with which to quantify this process: throughout the medieval era, communities of Telugu peasant warriors invaded and settled in the Tamil country.

1 Davis 1951: 100 2 Amrith 2009. 3 Stein 1980.

Increasingly, in the second millennium—under the rule of the Chola empire—lower peasant groups were absorbed into ‘expanding trade and agrarian systems’. The growth of urban settlements, primarily centred on large temple complexes, stimulated spatial mobility on the part of peasant and artisanal groups. Patterns of religious change were inextricable from economic transformation. The rise of the Shaiva religious movement saw the rise of wealthy temple complexes supported by peasant groups. The twelfth century, on Stein’s account, ‘introduced the great age of religious pilgrimage in the Tamil country’, and witnessed a widening circle of mobility that increasingly encompassed most of the southern peninsula.4 Conversely, South Indian society involved distinctive forms of immobility. Though an absence of sources makes concreteness difficult, it would appear that various kinds of bonded agricultural labor were common long before the nineteenth century. The most common of these forms of immobility in the Tamil districts was the pannaiyal system of ‘permanent farm servants’. Compared by British commentators at the time to European forms of serfdom, the pannaiyal system saw regional and local variations: in most cases, servants were tied to the land, but there were instances when pannaiyals could be sold indepen- dently of the land—sold, on most definitions, as slaves. Such forms of tied labor, on Dharma Kumar’s account, ‘spanned a wide range from near-freedom to near-slavery’. Often, bondage came with a corresponding entitlement, even a right, on the part of the pannaiyals to demand employment, access to land, and support. Inevitably, such customary rights came under greatest strain during periods of dearth and famine. For our purposes, the key point is that forms of labor that imposed immobility were widespread in South Indian society: at the dawn of the nineteenth century, they composed a ‘sizeable proportion of the total population’—up to 20 percent—of many Tamil districts. Many British observers interpreted (or misinterpreted) the nature of South Indian bonded labor through the lens of European conceptions of slavery; the abolitionist movement focused its attentions on Indian ‘domestic slavery’, yet the interventions of the colonial state did little to change the structure of agrarian society until the nineteenth century.5 Table 1, below, gives the aggregate population statistics for Madras Presidency between 1801 and 1951. Figures for the period before 1800 are unreliable, where

4 Stein 1977. 5 Kumar 1965. 124 amrith

Table 1 Population of the Madras Presidency, 1801–1951

Year Total Population

1800–2 9,574,458 1823 13,476,843 1830 15,552,135 1839 13,967,935 1851–2 22,031,697 1861–2 24,656,509 1871 31,597,872 1881 31,170,631 1891 35,630,440 1901 36,675,556 1911 39,586,718 1921 40,592,522 1931 44,649,483 1941 49,830,749 1951 57,016,002

Source: Kumar 1965: 120–121; Government of India 1951. they are available at all.6 The comparability of the figures over time is problem- atic. As demographer Christophe Guilmoto has noted, ‘continuous changes in the administrative boundaries seriously hamper demographic analyses’.7 Wherever possible, figures have been adjusted to make them comparable with the boundaries of Madras Presidency in the twentieth century—but inconsis- tencies remain, and these are approximations. A few remarks, first, on the categories of migration in the CCMR-model, which need some modification in the South Indian case. First, ‘emigration’, ‘labor migration’ and ‘seasonal migration’ are closely connected. I treat them together, using the term ‘labor migration’ as short-hand. That is to say, the vast majority of emigration from South India was labor migration, on a seasonal or at least a circulating pattern, rather than emigration in the traditional sense,

6 Regular censuses in British India began in 1871. Dharma Kumar’s (1965) estimates for earlier periods—which I have used here—draw on proceedings in the Madras Board of Revenue, and from later census reports. 7 Guilmoto 1988: 60. south indian migration 125 that is to say with the intention of long-term settlement. Second, ‘immigration’ is a marginal category of migration in the South Indian case: throughout the period considered here, immigration to South India from beyond its borders (including from other parts of India) was minimal, and far exceeded by out- migration. Third, military migration is very important to patterns of mobility in South India at the beginning of the period in question, but declines in importance after the Indian Rebellion of 1857: this, too, I have treated as labor migration. The migration of sailors is not significant in the case of South India: the vast majority of India’s sailors—and India provided a significant proportion of the world’s merchant mariners in the nineteenth century—came either form Bengal, or from western India. Finally, while ‘colonization’ was widespread during an earlier period of South Indian history,8 it plays less of a role in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, by which time many of South India’s frontiers had closed—the exception to this lies in migration to the plantation belt in the southwest (or indeed, to the frontier regions of Southeast Asia), which I treat as labor migration.

Labor Migration

Three factors underpinned the mobility of labor in South India after 1750. The first is militarization. As Ravi Ahuja has shown, the militarization of South Indian society in the second half of the eighteenth century—the product of numerous local conflicts that arose from the expansion of English power— was a crucial driver of wage labor. Wage labor, Ahuja writes, ‘marched into town in the East India Company’s red service coat’.9 The Madras Army was 24,000-strong in 1796; by 1805, it had more than doubled in size, to 53,000, and in 1857 (the year of the Indian Mutiny) Rebellion, which left South India largely untouched—its ranks counted 49,737 men. In the first half of the nineteenth century, around 35 percent of the Madras troops came from the Northern Circars district, and 31 percent from Tiruchi and the South; the army was fairly evenly balanced between Hindus and Muslims. At various points in the 1810s and 1820s, the Madras Army served the Company overseas, notably in Java and in Burma. The imposition of colonial domination in the South led to a decline in armed conflict, and in military migration. With the reforms that followed the establishment of Crown rule after 1857, military recruitment in South India declined rapidly; the British recruited troops from the so-called ‘martial races’

8 Stein 1980. 9 Ahuja 2002: 807. 126 amrith of Punjab and Nepal. Thereafter, military recruitment became a key driver of mobility in parts of North India, but more or less falls from view in South India.10 The second key factor underlying labor mobility in South India is economic stagnation—or even ‘deindustrialization’. This was a consequence of the British industrial revolution, and the flooding of the Indian market by cheap Lancashire textiles. The traditional mobility of Indian weaving communities went into decline,11 and local weavers were unable to compete with the productivity gains that machinery enabled. In Prasannan Parthasarathi’s (admittedly controversial) view, South Indian society underwent a process of deindustrialization in the nineteenth century: a shift towards lower-quality and lower value-added production, and a precipitous decline in hand-weaving, which was particularly important in securing women’s livelihoods.12 The acute vulnerability of large parts of South India to famine, in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, was one result of this economic decline.13 As discussed further below, South India witnessed slow urban growth in the nineteenth century; new forms of social immobility accompanied a rise in other forms of mobility. Movement towards new areas of plantation production was most significant. Third: capital investment greater in the ‘frontier’ areas of Southeast Asia than in the ‘saturated’ lands of South India,14 and a revolution in transportation brought these regions closer to India: this allowed older patterns of movement between South and Southeast Asia to assume massive proportions. This helps to explain the most characteristic feature of South Indian labor migration—the importance of migration overseas: to Burma, Malaya, and Ceylon.

Plantation Labor Migration Overseas The opening of new agricultural frontiers beyond India’s shores—in Ceylon, Malaya and Burma—sparked a massive increase in South Indian mobility, beginning with migration to Ceylon. From the 1840s, migration from South India to Ceylon (Sri Lanka) grew rapidly. This movement built on earlier patterns of movement, but on an altogether different scale. There were long-standing traditions of regional labor mobility between South India and Ceylon, which overlapped with circuits of seasonal agricultural migration within southern India. For centuries, fishing communities and petty traders lived across the Palk Strait separating India and

10 Dodwell 1922. 11 Ramaswamy 1985a. 12 Parthasarathi 1998; and idem 2009. 13 Arnold 1984; Davis 2001. 14 Baker 1981; and idem 1984. south indian migration 127

Ceylon: it was, Eric Meyer argues, ‘an inner sea, in which the circulation of persons and goods was intense’.15 The search for Indian plantation labor began in Ceylon in the 1840s, with British attempts to exploit more intensively the island’s natural riches. With the decline in the value of areca and cinnamon, Ceylon’s traditional products, British administrators and planters decided to stake their fortunes on coffee.16 Indian laborers were taken to Ceylon on a small scale in the 1830s, but many died or deserted. Planters’ obsession with the risk of desertion—and the fact that many of Ceylon’s planters had come from the West Indies, where they had experience of exploiting Indian indentured labor—led to their insistence that Indian workers should move under contracts of indenture. As Figure 2, below, shows, Indian migration to Ceylon took off in the 1840s, and rapidly grew in scale. With the beginning of large-scale indentured migration to Ceylon, statistical information also improves, allowing for at least a rough quantification of migration. It is unclear exactly when the system of indentured labor came into use in the case of Malaya, but there are certainly indications that it was common by the early 1850s.17 As sugar cultivation expanded in Province Wellesley— on the Malayan mainland, across the water from Penang—demand for Indian labor intensified. The long-standing historical connections between India and Southeast Asia were transformed by capital and steam power. This ‘open communication’ facilitated, in time, very considerable human migration. Writing in 1873, John Geoghegan—an Indian civil servant charged with reporting on the previous century of Indian emigration—wrote that ‘the earliest emigration seems to have taken place from the southern portion of the continent’. He wrote of a Tamil ‘exodus to the Straits Settlements’ that ‘had begun before the end of the last century’. Indians in the Straits, Geoghegan noted, ‘were employed both as domestic servants and as agricultural laborers’.18 As the forests began to be cleared in Penang’s hinterlands—and on the mainland, in Province Wellesley—Indian labor worked alongside Malay workers on the early pepper, gambier, coffee, and sugar plantations. The mid-nineteenth century saw an increase in the scale of mobility across the Bay of Bengal, to the small-scale sugar plantations that were beginning to spread in Malaya. The sheer number of boats making the voyage across the Bay of Bengal began to elicit official concern, and it is from the late 1840s that Tamil

15 Meyer 2003. 16 Peebles 2001. 17 Sandhu 1969. 18 Geohegan 1873. 128 amrith emigration begins to feature prominently in the Madras archives. A number of cases came to light in which seriously over-crowded ‘native vessels’ were arriving on both coasts of the Bay of Bengal. As one observer put wrote in 1848: ‘it is notorious the crowded manner in which the vessels arrive at Penang’, and ‘the consequences this year have been very fatal, many of the passengers having died on the way’.19 Regulation, however, appeared an impossibility: so dispersed was the traffic, from small as well as larger ports, that if regulations were tightened in Penang, ‘Asiatics wishing a passage can readily embark from the adjacent Malay coast’.20 The demand for Indian labor came from the increasing exploitation of Malaya’s forest frontier by European capital, with an increasingly aggressive administration in the Straits making alliances and forcing concessions from local rulers. Wage labor on European plantations was unattractive to local Malay populations, who maintained a significant degree of economic independence—the difficulty of exploiting Malay labor gave rise to what Syed Hussein Alatas famously called the ‘myth of the lazy native’.21 It also made the supply of labor from coastal South India essential to the capitalist penetration of Malaya’s frontiers. Hindu and Muslim shipping merchants constituted the essential link between the port cities of the Straits and south India: they advanced to thousands of laborers the cost of their passage overseas, and linked them up with employers in Penang and Singapore.22 A paucity of sources makes it very difficult to sketch in detail how these indigenous modes of recruitment worked. Until the 1870s—at which point the colonial state and European planters took a more direct role in recruiting Indian labor—the relationship between Indian shipping merchants and labor migrants to Southeast Asia remains obscure. It is plausible, however, that Indian labor migration to Malaya was, until the 1870s, similar in nature to Chinese migration; the main difference, even before 1870, was that Indian labor migrants worked almost exclusively on European-owned

19 Letter from Official Resident Councillor, Prince of Wales Island to Fort Saint George: Madras Public Proceedings [MPP], vol. 832, December 12 1848, Nos. 7–8, Tamil Nadu State Archives, Chennai [hereafter TNSA]. 20 Letter from Governor, Prince of Wales Island to Officiating Chief Secretary, Fort Saint George, May 15 1849, No. 7 MPP, vol. 836, TNSA. 21 Alatas 1977. 22 Letter from Official Resident Concilor, Prince to Wales Island to Fort Saint George, December 12 1848, Nos. 7–8, MPP, vol. 832, TNSA. south indian migration 129

plantations, whereas Chinese tin miners, for instance, worked on Chinese- owned concerns.23 As Figures 1 and 2 below show, migration to Ceylon took place on a much greater scale than to Malaya between the 1840s and 1870: nearly ten times as many people moved to and from Ceylon as to and from Malaya. A second point of note is that both currents of migration were oscillating in nature. In the case of Ceylon, migration followed the agricultural seasons in India; in the case of Malaya, migration was less seasonal, but remained cyclical. Anecdotal evidence suggests that the average length of stay in Malaya by Indian migrants was between one and three years.24

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0 1790 1795 1800 1805 1810 1815 1820 1825 1830 1835 1840 1845 1850 1855 1860 1865 1870 Arrivals Departures Figure 1 Indian arrivals into and departures from the Straits Settlements, 1794–1870 Source: Adapted from Sandhu 1969: Appendix 3 and Appendix 4.

23 Trocki 1990. 24 Kumar 1965: 136–137. 130 amrith

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0 1843 1845 1847 1849 1851 1853 1855 1857 1859 1861 1863 1865 1867 1869 Arrivals Departures Figure 2 Indian arrivals into and departures from Ceylon, 1843–1870 Source: Adapted from Peebles 1982: 67–68.

In the case of Malaya, return migration was quite consistently about 80 percent of the number of arrivals; in the case of Ceylon, there was more fluctuation (Figure 2), with rates of return migration ranging from under 50 percent to over 80 percent. By the 1860s return migration from Ceylon was a higher proportion of out-migration, though fluctuations remained. When colonial censuses were introduced around 1870, they showed that the Indian population of Malaya was around 27,500, and in Ceylon over 200,000. In both cases, these figures accord closely with the sum total of net migration each year from 1790 (and 1843, in the case of Ceylon). There is no evidence, however, that this net migration each year represented a portion of people who moved with a view to settling in Ceylon and Malaya. The census figures simply recorded the number of Indians present in Ceylon and Malaya at the time they were taken, and represent—in Guilmoto’s apt description—a ‘virtual population, constantly depleted and renewed by migratory flows, rather than a settled, self-renewing population’.25 The period after 1870 marked a step-change in the magnitude of South Indian emigration overseas for labor on colonial plantations. Migration to Ceylon and Malaya expanded in scale—to Ceylon in the 1870s, and to Malaya in the 1880s—and Burma emerged as a third major destination of emigration

25 Guilmoto 1993. south indian migration 131 across the Bay of Bengal; in time it would become the greatest magnet of all for migrants from eastern India. I have written elsewhere, and at greater length, about the causes (and the regulation) of this mass emigration from India to Southeast Asia.26 The renewed expansion of European capital, and British imperialism into Southeast Asia provided the essential stimulus for the intensification of Indian migration overseas; much more so than in the case of Chinese migration to Southeast Asia in the same period. A defining feature of Indian migration overseas—in contrast with the parallel history of Chinese emigration—was the dominant role of British Imperial authorities in every part of the process, from recruitment to transportation. Unlike Chinese emigrants, Indian emigrants around the world travelled almost exclusively within the bounds of the British Empire: only a relatively small number travelled beyond the British Empire to Sumatra, Indochina, and the French Caribbean. Lower Burma had come under British control after the Anglo-Burmese war of 1852; the 1870s saw the British ‘forward movement’ in the Malay Peninsula, suborning Malay sultans in a series of treaties. By 1885, British expansion in Burma was complete. This process of imperial expansion gave, in Guilmoto’s words, an ‘extraordinary stimulation and redirection’ to patterns of South Indian migration.27 As they invested more capital in the Malayan forest frontier, European planters found themselves unable to attract or coerce local Malay labor, and they lacked access to the networks controlling Chinese labor; they looked across the Bay of Bengal for their supply of workers.28 As the pace of migration increased, new systems of labor recruitment coalesced. The systems of labor recruitment that developed for the plantations of Ceylon and Malaya had similarities, although they were not identical. Older indigenous networks of labor recruitment were yoked to the power of the colonial state in order to secure a steady flow of labor. Initially, the system of indenture was used in both Malaya and Ceylon. Indian labor recruiters played a central role in the working of the indenture system. Recruiters would

26 Amrith 2009; and idem 2011. 27 Guilmoto 1993: 111. 28 Letter from Harry St George Ord to the Earl of Kimberley, May 15 1871; National Archives of India, New Delhi [hereafter NAI], Department of Revenue Agriculture and Commerce, Emigration Branch, Proceedings 1–9, September 1871. The Governor of Penang explained the situation quite clearly to the Colonial Secretary, writing that ‘From the poorness of the soil of the Malay Peninsula, cultivation can only be carried on profitably when cheap labor can be obtained: the native Malay will not work as a field laborer, and the Chinese immigrants find other and more remunerative occupation’. 132 amrith receive a fixed payment for each batch of workers they delivered up at the emigration depots. Sometimes they did this on speculation, trusting that demand for labor was strong enough that there would be willing takers for the workers they had persuaded, deceived, or coerced into making the journey to the port.29 By the last decades of the nineteenth century, planters found that the system of indenture simply failed to secure a large or steady enough supply of workers. The system of recruitment that emerged to replace indenture came to be known as the kangany system. Under this arrangement, which had taken south Indian labor to Ceylon on a small scale for centuries, Tamil foremen working on a plantation were sent back to their villages in India by the planters to recruit their kinsmen. Rather than relying on labor recruiters, planters turned to trusted workers, usually workers who had done well for themselves. Debt remained central to the system. Kanganies could advance relatively large sums of money to the families of potential recruits. In other cases, they would pay the masters of tied farm servants in order to free them.30 More subtle forms of attachment could work even more powerfully. The kangany was usually linked to his recruits by caste or even kinship, leaving the recruits’ families responsible for any debts they left unpaid (Amrith, 2010). Burma, alongside Ceylon and Malaya, was the third major destination for Indian migrant labor after the completion of British conquest in the 1880s. The pattern of Indian migration to Burma, however, differed from that to Ceylon and Malaya. Indian migrants to Burma were drawn overwhelmingly from the Telugu country, notably from the coastal districts of present-day Andhra Pradesh. Spurred by the expansion in Burma’s rice production, Indian emigrants and sojourners filled a much wider range of occupations in Burma, providing almost all the unskilled labor required in Burma’s rice and saw mills, its oil fields and refineries, and its timber yards. Migration to Burma followed the patterns of the agricultural seasons in India. In common with findings on other paths of mass migration in the second half of the nineteenth century, it is clear that the steamship revolution was allowed the increased scale of migration from South India to Southeast Asia after 1870. Jan and Leo Lucassen write of trans-Atlantic migration from Europe, that ‘the jump after 1850 should be considered primarily as an acceleration of cross-community migration.31 This was facilitated by cheaper and faster transport, which dramatically increased possibilities for people to find permanent and temporary jobs farther away from home’. Similarly, it was the availability of

29 Sandhu 1969; Peebles 2001. 30 Kumar 1965. 31 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 374. south indian migration 133 faster and cheaper transport—in this case accompanied by the political structures of British imperialism—that led to an increase in the scale of mobility across the Bay of Bengal. Beginning in the 1860s, the British India Steam Navigation Company (BISNC) established a growing hold over passenger shipping routes across the Bay of Bengal, putting pressure on the Indian shipping merchants that had dominated the traffic. From 1861, the BISNC launched a monthly steamer between Calcutta, Akyab and Rangoon; by the 1870s, fortnightly and then weekly steamer services connected Rangoon with the ports of the eastern Indian coast, north of Madras: Coconada, Vizagapatam, Bimlipatam, Calingapatam, Baruva, and Gopalpur. By the 1880s, a weekly steamer service had begun on two major routes from the Madras Coast: the first ran from Madras, Pondicherry, Cuddalore, Karikal and Negapatam (now Nagapattinam) to Penang, Port Swettenham, Singapore and back to Madras; ‘the bulk of the passengers embarking at Negapatam’. The second route ran direct from Madras to Rangoon. The traffic between Madras and Ceylon was dominated by ships on the short crossing (under two hours) between Taliamaner and Danushkodi; a supplementary steamer service between Colombo and Tuticorin ran twice a week.32 In all, between 1840 and 1940, 12 to 15 million people travelled to Burma, 8 million to Ceylon, and 4 million to Malaya.33 The majority of these people moved as agricultural migrant workers—to plantations, in Ceylon and Malaya, and to a wider range of occupations in Burma. The overall figures might be inflated, since these figures count some urban migrants also; however, colonial authorities often failed to enumerate ‘free’ migrants—traders, shopkeepers, merchants, casual laborers—to cities. To put it another way, if we consider urban migration as well as agricultural labor migration, then the commonly accepted figure for the total number of South Indian emigrants to Southeast Asia—around 27–28 million between 1840 and 194034—is perhaps an underestimate. This movement was overwhelmingly circular, with very high rates of return migration (until the 1930s). Net emigration in the same period, then, amounted to something around 5 million people, the majority of them settling in Ceylon

32 Government of India 1921: 9–10. 33 Throughout this paper, the figures for Burma are the least reliable, and the most approximate. Until 1937, no specific figures on immigration and emigration were collected for Burma, since it was a province of British India: I have drawn on the estimates made by Madras government officials at various points in time, and on the estimates of later historians. 34 McKeown 2004. 134 amrith

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0 1897 1898 1899 1900 1901 1902 1903 1904 1905 1906 1907 1908 1909 1910 1911 1912 1913 1914 Straits/Malaya Burma Ceylon

Figure 3 Total migration to Malaya, Burma and Ceylon, 1897–1914 Source: Madras Annual Reports on Emigration and Immigration, 1897–1914; IOR/V/24/1195–1197

and Malaysia. As the figures below illustrate, emigration to Ceylon, Burma, and Malaya gained pace in the 1880s, and reached a first peak in the first decade of the twentieth century (Figure 3). Although migration to Ceylon predominated until the twentieth century, the gap between the magnitude of migration to Ceylon as compared with Burma and Malaya narrowed over time. By the end of the first decade of the twentieth century, migration to Burma exceeded that to Ceylon. The First World War saw an interruption in patterns of migration, due in large part to disruptions to shipping across the Bay of Bengal, but also because of war-related fluctuations in global commodity prices. Due to the slump at the war’s end, both Malaya and Ceylon saw out-migration equal or exceed immigration (Figures 4 and 5), but migration resumed on an even greater scale in the 1920s. Migration reached its peaks in 1926 and 1927, with over 150,000 arrivals in Malaya both of those years, and an all-time peak of 285,000 arrivals in Ceylon in 1927. The number of arrivals in Burma was even greater, exceeding 400,000 every year from 1926 to 1929, with a peak of 428,300 in 1927. As Figures 4, 5 and 7 illustrate, the global economic depression of the 1930s brought about a significant reversal in the trend and direction of migration across the Bay of Bengal. Between 1930 and 1933, return migration from Malaya to India exceeded immigration by between 50,000 and 70,000 each year. Nearly south indian migration 135

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100000- Arrivals Departures Net Migration Figure 6 Arrivals, departures and net immigration: Burma, 1900–193835 Source: Baxter 1941: 121.

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0 1869 1874 1879 1884 1889 1894 1899 1904 1909 1914 1919 1924 1929 1934 1939 Emigration Return Migration Figure 7 Chinese migration to and from Southeast Asia, 1869–1940 Source: Sugihara 2005: 251.

35 The figures for Burma are more approximate than for Malaya or Ceylon. In the course of compiling his official report on Indian immigration, James Baxter compiled migration figures from the Burmese Public Health Department, and shipping companies’ records of tickets sold. south indian migration 137

200,000 Indian plantation workers were repatriated at government expense in those years. As illustrated in Figure 6, Chinese emigration to Southeast Asia underwent comparable reversals in those years. One striking feature of both Indian and Chinese migration (Figures 7–9) is the rapidity with which rates of migration recovered from the reversals of the depression years. By 1934, arrivals in Malaya once again exceeded 100,000, and in Ceylon the number of arrivals ‘has nearly gone up to the record figure of 1927’, at nearly 250,000.36 Similarly, the number of Chinese arrivals in Southeast Asia once again exceeded 200,000 by 1934. However, the resumption of migration between India and Malaya took place under different conditions after the depression, and in ways that made it more akin to the patterns of migration that had taken the Chinese to Southeast Asia for the previous half-century. Rather abruptly, the kangany system of recruitment went into decline. The majority of migrants to Malaya after 1933 had either some previous connection with Malaya, i.e. they were ‘repeat migrants’ themselves, or they had friends and relatives already in Malaya. Informal family networks became increasingly dominant as a source of information about jobs, opportunities, and connections. The control of official agencies over migration weakened. The Madras Emigration Commissioner noted in 1935 that ‘a large number of persons are going to and returning from Malaya as ordinary

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0 1921 1926 1931 1936 1941 Ceylon Arrivals Ceylon Departures Malaya Arrivals Malaya Departures Figure 8 Indian migration to Ceylon and Malaya, 1920–1939 Sources: See figures 4 & 5 above

36 Annual Report on the Working of the Indian Emigration Act, 1922, for the Year 1934, Government of Madras, Government Order no. 1464L, 26 June 1935, 1–3. 138 amrith

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Arrivals Departures Figure 9 Indian migration to Burma, 1929–1935 Source: Baxter 1941: 121. passengers’, paying their own passages and thus falling outside the colonial state’s definition of labor migrants.37 Figures 10 and 11, below, show the rising proportion of repeat migrants: those arriving in Malaya and Ceylon who already had connections there, up to and including prior periods of labor. In the case of Ceylon in particular, the figures suggest that, from the late 1920s, a significant proportion of migrants to Ceylon had already spent more than 5 years working on the island; on a number of occasions, the number of such migrants outstripped the number of first-time arrivals. This suggests that, by the 1930s, patterns of circular migration between India, Ceylon and Malaya, had assumed a more stable, long-term character. Far from representing a simple shift from circular migration to settlement, migrants established tighter connections between their places of origin and their places of long-term labor. The development of deeper roots in Ceylon, or Malaya on the part of Tamil laborers spurred rather than reducing the intensity of circular migration. Repeat migration became increasingly significant: migration became a constant and repeated part of the life experiences of a substantial number of south India.

37 Annual Report on the Working of the Indian Emigration Act, 1922, for the Year 1934, Government of Madras, Government Order no. 1464L, 26 June 1935, 1–3. south indian migration 139

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First time migrants Return migrants: less than 5 years in Malaya Return migrants: over 5 years in Malaya Figure 10 Fresh and repeat migration to Malaya, 1926–1938 Source: Madras Reports on Emigration and Immigration, 1926–1938, IOR/V/26/1196–7

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The 1930s saw a significant improvement in the sex ratios in both the Indian and the Chinese populations of Malaya. By the mid-1930s, the sex ratio among Tamil estate workers was estimated to stand at 515:1000, where in 1911 it had been just 308, and 405 in 1921. The number of local-born Tamil children, too, testifies to the shift: some 17,300 local births in 1934, over 21,000 in 1936. The census commissioner pointed out that the local-born were overwhelmingly likely to settle in Malaya. Among recruited unskilled laborers (i.e. those who had their passages paid for by the state), the proportion of women to men rose from 38 percent in the peak year of migration, 1926, to over 50 percent by 1937. In the case of Ceylon, the proportion of women to men among unskilled labor migrants was consistently above 60 percent, and showed less fluctuation.38

Plantation Labor Migration Within India The processes underlying the expansion of South Indian migration overseas were also at work within the region. In the second half of the nineteenth century, and particularly in the twentieth, plantation labor was an increasingly important mover of people within South India—as it was in India as a whole. Kingsley Davis called ‘commercial agriculture of the estate type’ the ‘greatest magnet’ for internal migration in India:39 largest among them were the tea plantations of Assam in the northeast, the coffee and tea plantations of India’s southwest: the upland areas of the Western Ghats, including Mysore, Coorg, Highland Travancore, and the Madras districts of Coimbatore and Niligiris. The movement reached significant proportions by the early twentieth century. The 1931 census estimated that labor migration to the coffee, tea, and rubber plantations of the Southwest formed the ‘most important’ stream of internal migration in South India.40 In 1930, the estimated estate labor force in South India stood at nearly 90,000.41 This was predominantly seasonal, family migration: the average length of stay was ten months on tea and rubber estates, and between six and ten months on coffee estates. The estate labor force came primarily from surrounding districts: this was a short-term, oscillating and short-distance pattern of migration. The estates of the Coimbatore region drew labor mainly from ‘a compact region (which also contributes heavily to Ceylon and Malaya) bisected by the

38 Compiled from Madras, Annual Reports on Emigration and Immigration, 1925–1939: IOR/V/26/1196–7. 39 Davis 1951. 40 Government of India 1932: 80–81. 41 Government of India 1932. south indian migration 141

Kaveri River’.42 Most of the plantation labor in Malabar and the Nilgiris came from within those regions, or from contiguous districts of Madras. On the whole, the plantation belt of India’s southwest accounted for a small proportion of India’s total estate labor force; Assam, in the northeast, took a far greater role, accounting for 82 percent of the total. Long-distance labor migration to Assam began at the same time as large-scale overseas emigration, and ‘the history of labor recruitment in Assam closely resembled the recruitment of Indians for overseas areas’.43 The majority of Assam’s labor force came from other parts of India—from Bihar and Bengal in particular. There was, however, a significant stream of migrants from northern Madras to Assam, drawn mostly from the Saora people of the hills around Ganjam and Vishakapatnam: in 1930, there were an estimated 57,000 Madras-born people in Assam.

The Impact of Labor Migration on South India

Routes of South Indian migration were oriented across the Bay of Bengal. The preponderance of emigrant plantation labor is its distinctive feature. Every year, the number of people making the journey from South India to Ceylon, Burma and Malaya outstripped the number of people travelling elsewhere within British India (that is to say, to provinces other than Madras Presidency). The contrast with Western India was significant: there, the majority of sea- borne journeys were intra-provincial—from one port of Bombay Presidency to another; in Madras, the majority of journeys were to other parts of the British Empire in Asia.44 Yet overseas migration was tied to localized patterns of movement. From the late-nineteenth century, people from North and South Arcot, Chingleput and Salem followed multiple circuits of migration, that took some family members to Ceylon and Malaya, but others to the rice producing regions and coastal towns of Tamil Nadu, to industrializing areas (like the cotton mills of Kongunad) and to plantations closer to home, in the Nilgiris and the Western Ghats.45 With the exception of the Burma-bound emigrants who came from further north, most labor migrants in South India—including both overseas and internal migrants—came from the region categorized as ‘South Madras’ in the

42 Government of India 1932: 80–82. 43 Davis 1951: 116. 44 Madras, Annual Reports on Emigration and Immigration, 1926–1941: IOR/V/26/1196–7. 45 Gidwani & Sivaramakrishnan 2003. 142 amrith census.46 Table 2, below, gives the overall population of these districts from 1901 to 1951:

Table 2 Population of ‘South Madras’, 1901–1951

Year Population

1901 19,988,840 1911 21,622,554 1921 22,271,844 1931 24,113,589 1941 26,946,103 1951 30,725,804

Source: Government of India (1951).

Migrants to Malaya came primarily from areas close to the ports of Nagapattinam and Madras: from North Arcot, Tanjavur, Salem, Chingleput, and South Arcot: these districts, between them, provided over 70 percent of the total number of migrants to Malaya.47 Migrants to Ceylon came primarily from Tirunelveli, Tuticorin and Ramanathapuram districts; migrants to Burma predominantly from the Telugu-speaking coastal districts north of Madras: Ganjam, Vishakapatam, and Godavari, as well as Madras itself. The social composition of the migrant labor force, in each case, is difficult to determine precisely: the caste backgrounds of laborers were only intermit- tently recorded in official statistics. Nevertheless, anecdotal evidence (and the later evidence of oral history and community histories) suggests that the majority of migrants to Southeast Asia came from agricultural castes in South India, and many of those were from dalit (‘untouchable’) backgrounds.48 In their seminal works of economic history, Dharma Kumar (1965) and Christopher Baker (1984) sought to determine the effect of overseas emigration on the agrarian economy of Madras in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth

46 Government of India 1951. The districts included were: Madras, Chingleput, Chittoor, North Arcot, Salem, Coimbatore, South Arcot, Tanjavur, Tiruchirapalli, Madurai, Ramanathapuram, and Tirunelveli. 47 Sandhu 1969: 99. 48 Kumar 1965; Satyanarayana 2001. south indian migration 143 centuries, respectively.49 Kumar argued that net emigration from Madras was between one-seventh and one-ninth of the annual growth in population in the last quarter of the nineteenth century; gross emigration was between ‘four and six times’ that figure. She argued—admitting that evidence is sparse—that emigration ‘increased social mobility’ precisely because of its circular nature. A significant (if un-defined) portion of returning emigrants came back with the means to escape ‘caste restrictions on the ownership of land’.50 Writing of the peak years of emigration, in the 1920s, Baker makes a greater claim for the impact of emigration on particular districts of Madras. Assuming most of the migrants to Southeast Asia came from the river valleys, Baker argues that emigration ‘drew off much of the growing excess of population in the valleys’. On his calculations, by the 1920s there were approximately 1.5 million Tamil laborers overseas; assuming that two-thirds, or 1 million, came from the valley tracts (that is, a subset of ‘South Madras’ enumerated in Table 2, with a total population of 10 million), Baker suggests that up to 10 percent of the population of the valley districts of Madras was involved in migration. He concludes that ‘migration prevented the level of wages falling as population outstripped production’.51 The 1931 census—which provides the most complete consideration of migration—showed that there was ‘disproportionate emigration from . . . the lower Kaveri Valley’.52 As shown in Figure 12, census estimates suggested that up to 27 percent of the population of Tiruchi, 27 percent of the population of Tirunelveli, and 11 percent of the population of Tanjavur had undertaken periods of migration between 1921 and 1931. Anecdotal evidence points in the same direction. The first detailed social survey of rural South India in the early twentieth century made constant reference to the impact of emigration on the villages under study. In the village of Eruvellipet, for instance, the survey concluded that ‘emigration to Ceylon opens out possibilities of very considerable economic advantage to the landless laborer or peasant with a very small holding and a large family’.53 Of Kshetralampuram village in Tanjore District, they observed that ‘the whole Pariah population of this village consists of persons who have migrated at least once to foreign parts, such as Penang, Singapore and Mauritius. All of them have returned after a stay of one or two years in those parts’.

49 Kumar 1965 and Baker 1984. 50 Kumar 1965: 192. 51 Baker 1984: 179–181. 52 Government of India 1932: 91. 53 Slater 1918: 14–15 and 211. 144 amrith

100 90 80 70 60 50 40 30 20 10 0 Tanjavur Tiruchi Pudukottai Ramnad Tirunelveli Figure 12 Rates of mobility for South India, 1921–1931 Source: Government of India 1931: 91

Migration to Cities

Throughout the nineteenth century, rates of urbanization in Madras were low: this was due, inter alia, to the process of ‘deindustrialization’ discussed earlier in the chapter. Madras City’s population grew slowly in the nineteenth century, accelerating rapidly after 1920 and doubling between 1941 and 1951, as Table 3 shows. Table 4, below, sets the growth of Madras City in a wider urban context, illustrating the population resident in cities of over 10,000 inhabitants. Urban growth was scattered and dispersed across many small and medium- sized towns that experienced periods of growth and stagnation. Government and administration provided the single largest category of employment in most South Indian towns: cloth was the single greatest item of industry and its production was both in decline, and—where it continued to thrive— dispersed across a myriad of villages. Thus South Indian towns persisted in their long-standing role as primary administrative (or temple) centres.54 In discussing the key phases of urban growth in South India, Baker identified four key phases, each with distinctive drivers of urban growth.55 In the

54 Baker 1984. 55 Baker 1984: 385–389. south indian migration 145

Table 3 Population of Madras City, 1800–195156

Year Population

1800–2 600,000 1823 462,051 1830 462,051 1839 462,051 1851–2 450,000 1866–7 450,000 1871 387,552 1881 405,848 1891 452,518 1901 509,346 1911 518,660 1921 526,911 1931 647,230 1941 777,481 1951 1,416,056

Source: Kumar 1965; Government of India 1951.

Table 4 Madras Presidency: population in towns over 10,000 inhabitants, 1901–1951

Year Population

1901 3,621,729 1911 4,007,906 1921 4,204,807 1931 5,241,948 1941 6,445,733 1951 9,900,761

Source: Government of India 1951.

56 The figures up to 1871 are vague, even wild, approximations; the estimate for 1800–2 is likely an overestimate. On the problems of measurement, see Government of India (1874). 146 amrith first acceleration of urbanization, between 1871 and 1891, the expansion of government administration was the single greatest factor in urban growth. The years from 1891 and 1911 saw the expansion of market towns associated with the growth of cash cropping; similarly, between 1911 and 1931, cash-crop production stimulated the growth of towns. Finally, the period of rapid urbanization, between 1931 and 1951 was spurred by the growth of major urban, industrial centres: Madras City, Madurai, Tiruchi, Salem, and particularly Coimbatore, which quadrupled in population, from 53,000 in 1901 to nearly 200,000 by 1951.57 The picture of South Indian urbanization changes, however, if we consider the port cities of the Bay of Bengal region—Rangoon, Colombo, Singapore and Penang—as part of the network of South Indian urbanization. Rangoon was, for all intents and purposes, an Indian city by the early twentieth century. On some calculations, Rangoon was the ‘second largest port of immigration and emigration’ in the world by the 1920s, second only to New York.58 All of Rangoon’s sweepers and night-soil removers and virtually every rickshaw puller was a migrant from South India—the majority of them from the Telugu-speaking districts of Madras. On the docks, in the factories, on the streets, in the offices, migrants from India, most of them on short-term contracts, provided the bulk of Rangoon’s labor. Singapore, Penang and Colombo, too, hosted large numbers of South Indian migrant workers; they were shopkeepers, road-builders, sweepers, accoun- tants, clerks, advocates, moneylenders and drivers. The number of ‘Indian Tamils’ enumerated in Colombo was 39,560 in 1921, 46,502 in 1931.59 Over 100,000 Indian migrants were present in Rangoon in the 1920s, the majority of them from South India; in 1931, over 100,000 Tamils were enumerated in the cities of Malaya and the Straits Settlements, concentrated in Singapore and Penang.60 In sum, then, the Madras-born population of Rangoon, Singapore, Penang and Colombo was greater than the population of the majority of South Indian towns, few of which exceeded 100,000 of population; and significantly greater than the South Indian population in any Indian city outside Madras Presidency, including the commercial centre of Bombay.

57 Government of India 1951. 58 Baxter 1941. 59 Government of Ceylon 1954. 60 Amrith 2009. south indian migration 147

Conclusion: Changing Patterns

In the 1930s, migration within the Bay of Bengal region what we might call a process of internationalization.61 Until the 1930s, the regulation of migration across the Bay of Bengal stood somewhat apart from the global mainstream of growing immigration restrictions. Many British administrators continued, until the 1930s, to view migration across the eastern Indian Ocean as both natural and desirable, and they explicitly rejected the applicability of American- style immigration control to their Southeast Asian territories. The effects of the global economic depression on the primary producing colonies of Southeast Asia brought about an abrupt reversal of this position; thereafter, migration within South and Southeast Asia came under the same kinds of restrictions as migration in other parts of the world. This shift occurred suddenly and abruptly, and with serious consequences for millions of people who lived lives of circular migration across the Bay of Bengal. For our purposes, what is striking is the suddenness with which a system of migration that—as we have seen—had lasted half a century, at a high level of intensity, came to an abrupt halt in the late 1930s. Though India, Burma, Sri Lanka and Malaya all remained within the British Empire, the language of nationalism came to shape the perceptions even of colonial administrators as they sought to regulate migration in the aftermath of the Depression. The question of Indian immigration was central to the development of Burmese nationalism in the 1930s, and the control of further immigration was a key goal of the demand for ‘separation’—the constitutional separation of Burma from British India, which occurred in 1937. The Indo-Burmese agreement on Immigration, finally signed in 1941, set strict limits on the further migration of Indians to Burma; for the first time in a century, Indian migrants in Burma were politically and juridically in a ‘foreign’ country. In 1938, the Government of India quite abruptly banned all further labor migration to Malaya, and to Ceylon the following year. Frustrated in their negotiations with the Malayan and Ceylonese authorities over wages, the Government of India passed an absolute ban on unskilled labor migration. The Indian Government believed that Indian migrants could never really be ‘free’ laborers, and now they responded by trying to prevent them from leaving India at all. On the eve of the Second World War, Indian migration to Burma, Ceylon and Malaya—which was on an upward trend after the reversal of the depression years—was stopped quite abruptly in its tracks. Migration did not cease,

61 Amrith 2010. 148 amrith but the flow of fresh arrivals was curtailed, and most people who made the journeys were either family members of those already overseas, or more skilled migrants who did not come under the new restrictions. Recent work has shown, the effects of the Second World War on Indian communities in Southeast Asia was devastating.62 Over 100,000 Indians in Burma fled the advancing Japanese forces in 1942, many of them crossing over to India on foot, and an even greater number dying en route. Close to 100,000 Indian plantation workers from Malaya were conscripted for labor on the notorious Siam-Burma railway, where on the estimate of the Japanese historian Nakahara Michiko, more than 30,000 Tamil workers died.63 Because of the return migration during the depression and the emigration restrictions of 1938–9, followed by a disproportionate loss of life during the war (in Burma and Malaya) the Tamil populations recorded in each of the Southeast Asian destinations of emigration were smaller in 1946 than in 1931. By the mid-twentieth century, patterns of South Indian migration were reoriented by two large transformations. The first was the globalization of borders and border-control and new restrictions on migration between states in a post-colonial era.64 The second was the culmination of a process that began in the early twentieth-century: the consolidation of an increasingly integrated, and enclosed ‘national’ economy in India.65 With planned industrialization, and the closer integration of markets, patterns of South Indian migration were oriented, for the first time, more towards other parts of India than overseas: India’s growing metropolises, not least of which was Madras City itself, and the agricultural and industrial projects that spread through the country in the 1950s, shifted the migration regime of South India away from the Bay of Bengal, as South India turned its back from the sea.

62 Bayly & Harper 2004; Amrith 2011b. 63 Michiko 2005; Nakahara 2005. 64 McKeown 2007. 65 Goswami 2004. Section three South East Asia

∵ Illustration 3 Chinese funeral in Batavia, ca. 1935 Source: KITLV, Leiden, Album 1368, Image code 169622. Migration and Colonial Enterprise in Nineteenth Century Java

Ulbe Bosma

Introduction

While Leslie Page Moch twenty years ago convincingly demonstrated that there was extensive migratory movement in Europe before the industrial revolution, Bayly and other historians of India repudiated the image of the static village as a product of the colonial mind.1 Likewise, in Indonesia the picture of stagnant subsistence, or at best reciprocal, rural economies was rejected in the 1970s and 1980s together with Geertz’s concept of Agricultural Involution that portrayed Javanese as huddling together on shrinking plots of land per capita.2 Zelinksky explicitly mentions Java’s alleged Agricultural Involution as an example of an immobile society. But this image of Java with self-contained villages that were devoid of social diversity and social mobility was a colonial perception rather than a traditional feature of Javanese society.3 Actually, it were Dutch colonial civil servants who associated rural mobility with either war and oppression or primitive slash and burn agriculture (the ladang system) and considered a sedentary rural population as one of the fruits of colonial peace and modernity. In their view it had been the introduction colonial rule that had reduced the habitual mobility of the Javanese rural population.4 Though Zelinksy’s mobility transition has since long been rejected for ignoring pre-nineteenth century migration, it is clear that in Europe migration rates soared from 1850 after having been more or less stable for more than three- hundred years. But as Lucassen & Lucassen have argued the almost doubling of European migration rates in the second half of the nineteenth century should be attributed to new modes of transport rather than to industrialization.5 For Java, I would argue, extensive migrations were not correlated to industrialization but to the emergence of hundreds of plantations, followed by transport, construction and urbanization. Or, to quote Hugo in his critique on Zelinsky’s

1 Moch 1992; Parthasarathi 2001: 29. 2 See Geertz 1963. 3 See White 1983 and Carey 1986: 81; Zelinsky 1971: 236. 4 Meijer Ranneft 1916: 64. 5 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 348, 374; idem 2011, 89.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��4 | doi 10.1163/9789004271364_007 152 bosma mobility transition: ‘For much of its recent history the critical independent variable which intervened in the evolution of Indonesia’s economy and society (and hence its mobility patterns) was not Western-type modernization, but colonialism’.6 The migrations to plantations in Java and across Street Sunda into Lampung (South Sumatra) would lay the foundation for further and wider migratory movements: from the late nineteenth century onwards, hundreds of thousands of Javanese went to East Sumatra and the almost the same number made the Haj to Mecca. Moreover, in the early twentieth century urban migration developed that would pave the way for an outflow of migration for construction work in Malaysia and domestic service in Malaysia and the Arabian peninsula in the course of the twentieth century. Of course, there was also migration to Java in the nineteenth century, particularly of Chinese, Arabians and Europeans. In the 1870s, for example, about 2,000 Chinese, 300 Arabians, about 2,000 European civilians and another 2,000 European soldiers arrived annually in the Indonesian archipelago.7 Over the entire nineteenth century, about 145,000 European civilians and 84,000 soldiers, 250,000 indentured laborers for Sumatra in the late nineteenth and first decade of the twentieth century and probably not more than 100,000 free Chinese immigrants and perhaps 10,000 Arabians came to the Dutch East Indies at that time.8 The aim of this volume is to analyse long-term patterns in ‘cross-cultural migration’. In theory one could speak about such migrations within Java by dividing the island in four main zones (e.g. West Java, the former empire of Mataram later truncated to the Residencies of Surakarta and Yogyakarta, Pasisir, and the Eastern Salient; see Map 1). But within each of these four zones some Residencies might have stronger links with the world outside their zone than with their neighbours within. Even in West Java that shared the Sundanese language in various dialects, the largest Residency Priangan was quite different from the Residency of Banten, once part of the Sultanate with that name, which crossed Street Sunda into Lampung. In fact, the nineteenth century

6 Hugo 1980: 95. 7 Bosma & Mandemakers 2008: 166. 8 For a discussion on the Chinese immigration to the Dutch East Indies see also McKeown 2004: 158, 189 and McKeown 2007: 137. McKeown mentions the figure of 1 million Chinese immigrants to the Netherlands Indies, but this happened in the twentieth century, when for example in the 1920s, almost 35,000 Chinese immigrants entered the Netherlands Indies annually. See Colonial Report of 1927 (Koloniaal Verslag 1927 Bijlage G, 13). For the migrant stock of Chinese, see Volkstelling 1930: VII, 4. For an estimation of the Arabian immigration to the Indonesian Archipelago see Volkstelling 1930: VII, 46. migration and colonial enterprise 153 migration in the context of plantation agriculture in Java from Madura to the Eastern Salient of Java occurred within the same cultural context since ethnic Madurese made up the majority of the population in this part of Java. For all practical purposes I employ as the units of analysis the Residencies, which were the largest administrative units under the Governor-General. There were about 20 on Java, many of which underwent some border rearrangements and a few were even split, merged or renamed. From the mid-nineteenth century population data are presented by Residency in the so-called Colonial Reports on an annual basis, and from the 1870s onwards these become increasingly reliable. The hub of the matter is that crosscultural in the context of colonial Java is not migration of peasants who are on the move to find new land, but migrations that are propelled by a rising plantation economy. It is this type of migration that this paper wants to address rather than the fact that Javanese had always been on the move. Initially in the early nineteenth century, the colonial government tried to control movements of the Javanese rural population. These measures were hardly effective, however, and the introduction of the Cultivation System (1830–1870) proved to be so burdensome in some districts that it triggered migrations. From the mid-nineteenth century, the development of plantation agriculture in Java elicited increasing seasonal as well as permanent migration. For the last thirty years of the nineteenth century, I will argue, a trek emerged roughly from West to East Java and to the Priangan, which was a direct consequence of the rapidly growing demand for plantation labor. Moreover, by about 1900 large emigrations of Javanese commenced to the Outer Islands, both as indentured laborers or as participants in settlement schemes, as well as to Mecca and last but not least to Java’s large cities. Meanwhile, railways enhanced mobility and tens of thousands of high-skilled Europeans entered the colony. All these elements precisely constitute the second phase of mobility according to Zelinsky.9

Population Movements from Late Eighteenth Century until 1850

In the course of the eighteenth century the Dutch East Indies Company (VOC) had established its rule over the entire island, a process that was more or less completed by about 1800. By that time Java had become the most important possession of the VOC, supplying it with coffee, wood, rice and sugar. That the VOC began to bring large amounts of small copper coins in circulation in Java

9 Zelinsky 1971: 230. 154 bosma Bali angi yuw o Ban Besuki Probolingg ean ya w asuruan P Ba Suraba ediri K embang R Madiun acitan P a Japar va Surakarta akarta Semarang ogy edu Y K Kanmon Ja Bagelen ekalongan P l yumas ga Te Ban Cirebon ang aw Kr Priangan via enzorg Bata Buit en Cultural zones and residencies of and residencies zones Java Cultural Bant Lampung Map 1 migration and colonial enterprise 155 by the late eighteenth century might be taken as a sign of the spread of wage labor. Among them were, for example, thousands of seasonal migrants who travelled up to 200 kilometres from Cirebon to work in the cane fields around Batavia.10 Not all migrations in the context of the VOC were free, as a matter of fact. In the Priangan forced coffee cultivation required seasonal migrations up in the mountains—involving about 80 miles walking before the coffee gardens were reached11—whereas corvée labor for construction work was also usually seasonal migration under coerced conditions. But there was nonetheless a substantial wage labor market, quite often involving migratory movements or at least seasonal migration. The maritime sector, shipbuilding, the construction of fortifications, sugar plantations, the colonial army all required labor, the total of which might have amounted to about 120,000 men by 1800.12 To this figure we still may have to add thousands of dockworkers as well as thousands of workers involved in transport over land or along rivers. Of an employable population of 4.5 million Javanese between 3 and 4 percent were wage laborers, usually involving migration. Since it usually concerned younger males, bujangs (bachelors), it would not be an exaggeration to claim that in this particular age and gender category 10 to 15 percent was working on a wage basis outside the home of their kin.13 Not only the North Coast with its harbors, cane fields, and maritime orientation knew substantial labor mobility, in Central Java too about 10 percent of the male working population consisted of itinerant workers, according to Carey who emphasizes the dynamic character of that society.14 This level of engagement in wage employment could only exist with substantial mobility of the rural population, since hardly 8 percent of the Javanese lived in one of the island’s cities larger than 10,000 by about 1800. At that time, more than 80 percent of the households in Java was engaged in agriculture, of whom just over half could be counted as independent farming families.15 Among the dependent farmers, or sharecroppers, many may have combined sharecropping with seasonal by-employment. Others may have tried their

10 Levert 1934: 60, 63; National Archive The Hague, Collection Schneither, inv.no. 88, Cheribon, p. 2. 11 Day 1904: 272; Breman 2010. 12 About 12,000 men were working in the sugar sector, 20,000–25,000 in the shipping sector, 57,000 to be counted as maritime labor, 14,000 in construction and finally 20,000 soldiers in the colonial army. Figures are based upon Bosma 2011. 13 Bosma 2011. 14 Carey 2008: 30–35. 15 Bosma 2011: 11. 156 bosma luck and have taken new land in cultivation, which might also have involved migration over shorter or longer distances. Yet another group may have been attracted by European landlords in West Java who tried to develop the production of sugar, indigo or coffee in the early decades of the nineteenth century.16 According to Hugo a considerable demand for labor was exerted by the plantations established in West Java during and shortly after British rule (1811–1816).17 Mobility may also have been enhanced by the construction of the Great Post Road by Governor-General Herman Willem Daendels, 1,000 kilometres of road over Java—most along the coast, only in the Priangan going into the interior— which connected most of the densely populated parts of Java. Another indication of considerable mobility is that the colonial government tried the curb the movements of the rural population. As soon as Java had been returned to the Dutch by the British, who had ruled the island from 1811 to 1816, the colonial government implemented a system of permits (passenstelsel). Javanese were not allowed to travel beyond their own department (Regency) unless they had permission from their village head and from the office of the Assistant-Resident, the highest official of the Regency. If one was caught without a pass, a beating with the rattan or imprisonment were waiting.18 In Priangan this measure was also employed to force the population to quit ladang agriculture and become sedentary sawah agriculturalists.19 The passenstelsel was only abolished in 1868 and until that time the annual number of passes to be issued in an average Residency could amount to 10,000. It is a high number, which becomes even more pronounced in view of the fact that passes were frequently withheld, at the instigation of local officials and village heads. In general they were keen to keep as much labor in their villages as they could to have more hands available for all kinds of corvée labor both for the government as well as for their own personal needs. Conversely, village heads had seldom any qualms to welcome newcomers irrespective of whether they possessed the necessary travel documents.20 Apart from the fact that the passenstelsel was far from watertight, there were two main events that triggered major migratory movements. First of all the Java War (1825–1830), which caused 200,000 deaths and disrupted the existence of another 2 million people, and in all likelihood led to massive

16 Breman 2010; Bosma & Raben 2007: 126. 17 Hugo 1980: 105. 18 ‘Afschaffing van het passenstelsel’, 236; For Europeans and Chinese restrictions on movement were imposed in 1823. Bosma 2007c: 278, note 9. 19 Meijer Ranneft 1916: 64 20 ‘Afschaffing van het passenstelsel’, 237. migration and colonial enterprise 157 displacements.21 The introduction of the Cultivation System, that dispersed its burdens rather unequally over Java’s rural population, engendered extensive migrations as well, as has been recorded for Residencies Pasuruan and Probolinggo for example, where the burdens of cane cultivation weighted heavily and land to resettle was still abundant.22 The cultivation of indigo was even more loathed than the growing of cane and may have caused even more migrations.23

Reconstructing Net Migration per Residency 1867–1894

The major emigration flows in Java came from areas that suffered from dense population, heavy coerced labor, poor soils or combinations of three. The pulls were exerted by fertile and relatively thinly populated areas and emerging plantations. In the first half of the nineteenth century there was already substantial eastward migration over Java according to Hugo.24 There are two ways of reconstructing the major migration flows in Java. One is via the rich but far from reliable population statistics included in the Colonial Reports, the other via historical evidence at the local level of demand or expulsion of labor. I will do the former below and the latter in the next section, that is focusing on the Eastern Salient. While it is difficult to provide concrete figures on mobility before 1850, from the mid-nineteenth century onwards more data become available. Yet it took quite some effort of the colonial state to wrestle reliable figures from the local Javanese officials, who were inclined to resist head counts. Since the land rent and compulsory work for the Cultivation System were based upon the number of households, and particularly sawah holding households, their actual numbers were kept from the gaze of Dutch officials. Over time resistance against proper counting diminished. First of all because the colonial government embarked upon a gradual abolition of corvée labor from the 1850s onwards and second because Indonesian hereditary officials became increasingly assimilated to the norms of the professional colonial bureaucracy and more cooperative. Meanwhile, colonial government conducted investigations at the village level to disentangle itself from the rather unreliable tables that were provided by the village heads. In the 1850s and 1860s detailed and

21 Carey 2008: 620, 653. 22 Van Deventer 1865: II, 589; De Vries 1931: 100–101; Elson 1986: 55, 59; Knight 2007: 74. 23 Hugo 1980: 103; See also Day 1904. 24 Hugo 1980: 104. 158 bosma extensive surveys were conducted in five Residencies, which led to corrections of the data that had hitherto been provided by the Javanese officials.25 In the late 1860s detailed cadastral surveys were started, which eventually covered 105 districts and a quarter of Java’s population by 1870. These data give us a unique insight in the high mobility of Java’s population, which ranged consistently between 6 to 10 percent of the population of these districts per year. This should be sufficient to refute Zelinsky’s claim that practically everywhere in Asia more than 90 percent of the population never migrated beyond the borders of the lowest administrative unit up to the early twentieth century. Unfortunately, these cadastral data do not give us much beyond evidence of high mobility. First of all, because the figures added up amount to a substantial positive net migration. This still could have allowed us to say something about migratory movements, if not the figures also greatly varied from year to year. Such an erratic pattern is incommensurable with the rather stable push and pull, only changing gradually over time, that emerges from other sources. Again, the only conclusion one can draw, though still an important one, is that the rural population was highly mobile. As for the aggregate data in the Colonial Reports that present figures per Residency, Nitisastro has concluded that the quintannual growth rates based upon population data in the Colonial Reports present a rather erratic pattern prior to 1880. Though the data are flawed and erratic within time spans of five years, longer interval of 20 years, for example, present a much more consistent pattern. Over time Kediri and Banjumas feature high growth figures, and Surakarta and particularly in Yogyakarta, the two Residencies that after 1830 together formed the semi-independent Principalities, show consistently slug- gish growth rates. Furthermore, the densely populated Residency of Kedu produced consistently low growth figures and probably consistent outmigration. Such indications can be corroborated by other non-quantitative information; for example about people fleeing from the oppressive corvée duties in Yogyakarta to find a better existence in Kediri.26 In some Regencies of the Residency of Kediri where sugar production was rapidly expanding the population tripled between 1845 and 1867 according to Pieter Bleeker, the ichthy- ologist and demographer who made extensive demographic surveys in the

25 Between 1851 and 1858 such extensive and detailed surveys were made in Cirebon and Banjumas (see Bleeker 1863: 1, 11–12) and from 1864 onwards in the Residencies of Pekalongan-Tegal, Semarang and Kedu.—and from 1864 onwards in the Residencies of Pekalongan-Tegal, Semarang and Kedu. 26 Nitisastro 1970: 36. migration and colonial enterprise 159

Netherlands Indies between 1842 and 1878 and who was an authority in this field in his days.27 J. W. Meijer Ranneft (1887–1969), in his days as colonial civil servant acclaimed for his knowledge of welfare issues, in one of his publications takes the data from 1855–1905 and compares these with growth in cultivated land and expansion of sugar factories per Residency. According to this author the dominating trend in most Residencies until 1855 consisted of a migration to uncultivated land. From the latter year onwards the opportunities for finding uncultivated land diminished in many Residencies, with the notable exceptions of Kediri, the Priangan and Malang (Pasuruan) where the acreage of cultivated land was still sharply rising in conjunction with the rapidly developing sugar industry or tea plantations (even though Meijer Ranneft does not mention the tea plantations of the Priangan). Plantations, that emerged from the 1850s and particularly from the 1870s onwards were an important pull factor as long as there was space for migrant workers’ families to settle.28 By the mid- nineteenth century pockets of high coolie wages emerged in urban centers and at sugar factories. In the 1860s, there was clearly a shortage of coolies in the Eastern part of Java. As a matter of fact, the increasing transport costs, precisely at the time that increasing quantities of commodities had to be carried to the ports, became an important factor behind the start of the construction of railroads in those years. In the 1880s the highest coolie wages were probably earned by the dock workers, amounting to almost a guilder per day, against the usual 25 to 30 cents for unskilled coolie work. At sugar factories in East Java, wages could be at least 5 to 10 cents higher than Java’s average, and in port cities they could be as high as 80 cents. In the port of Pasuruan they may even have amounted to a guilder per day. It should be noted, however, that these high wages were extrapolations from piece rate payments in the harbor, which was arduous work and too demanding for the usually undernourished laborers to be sustained for longer than a couple of days.29 To return to the Colonial Reports, by the late 1860s considerable improvements had been made in the process of collecting population data. The improvements could be maintained thanks to the gradual phasing out of the Cultivation System and systems of labor corvée as well as to the abolition of the pass system in 1868. Data rapidly improved to such an extent that they can help us to identify migration patterns. In Table 1, we have made an attempt to

27 Bleeker 1869: 597. 28 Meijer Ranneft 1916: 77, 81. 29 Nederburgh 1888: 39; ‘Cultuur-maatschappij Wonolongan’ (1925): 325; Bosma & Raben 2007: 121. 160 bosma

Table 1 Reconstruction of annual average net migration, 1867–1894 (indigenous Javanese population). Arranged from relatively low to high net natural growth (NNG)

Population Average growth rates NNG

Residency 1 2 3 4 5 6

Madura ? 1,585,813 0.5 ? 1.5? –1 Banten 621,744 660,074 0.2 0.4 1.2 –1 Kedu 614,008 741,191 0.7 0.5 1.3 –0.6 Semarang 1,149,813 1,443,882 0,8 0.6 1.4 –0.6 Yogyakarta30 372,537 802,236 1.7 1.5 2.3 –0.6 Batavia 853,256 1,080,241 0.9 0.3 1.1 –0.2 Bagelen 984,826 1,392,962 1.3 0.7 1.5 –0.2 Probolinggo 369,241 549,146 1.5 0.7 1.5 0 Surabaya 1,321,033 2,114,540 1.8 1 1.8 0 Madiun 635,440 1,089,160 2 1.2 2 0 Surakarta 724,118 1,189,349 1.9 1 1.8 0.1 Rembang 772,260 1,297,659 1.9 1 1.8 0.1 Japara 606,432 938,247 1.6 0.5 1.3 0.3 Pekalongan 381,237 559,524 1.4 0.2 1 0.4 Pasuruan 516,392 1,005,991 2.5 1.3 2.1 0.4 Cirebon 935,263 1,502,414 1.8 0.6 1.4 0.4 Tegal 618,074 1,121,199 2.2 1 1.8 0.4 Banyumas 723,627 1,226,673 2 0.7 1.5 0.5 Krawang 207,063 405,930 2.5 0.7 1.5 0.7 Besuki31 385,154 715,369 2.3 0.7 1.5 0.8 Kediri 488,428 1,193,745 3.4 1.6 2.4 1 Priangan 919,292 2,131,623 3.2 0.7 1.5 1.7

Column 1 Indigenous Javanese population according to Bleeker 1869: 556 Column 2 Indigenous Javanese population according to the population statistics of 1894 in the Colonial Report of 1896 Column 3 Net Population Increase of Indigenous Javanese Population Column 4 Natural Growth Rate according to life statistics registriation Column 5 Life statistics registration adjusted by adding 0.8% Column 6 Net migration (column 3 minus column 5)

30 Since it is clear that the Yogyakarta figure of 1867 was a gross underestimation we have calculated the growth rate on the basis of the figure that was given for 1845 by Bleeker (1869: 556) namely 347, 525. 31 Since in 1882 the Residency Banyuwangi was annexed to Besuki, I have added the population of Banyuwangi to Besuki’s for 1867. migration and colonial enterprise 161 present an overview over the period between 1867, practically the end of the Cultivation System, and 1894. Regular shifts of districts from one Residency to another may distort the picture, like from Madiun to Kediri in 1883 or in 1884 from Priangan to Krawang, but the effects of these corrections dissipate as soon as we take a longer timeframe.32 The exception is Yogyakarta, where the population figure in the single year 1890 jumped from 486,329 to 778,729, which is explained by Nitisastro that this happened after the Sultan had been urged to do a proper counting of his subjects.33 Another Residency where data were utterly unreliable until 1890 was Madura, and an important one since this island was the main source of immigrants into Java. I will get back to that. We need to take into account that birth and mortality rates were not everywhere the same in Java when we try to single out the Residencies that knew consistent immigration or emigration over time. The Pasisir (the North Coast of Central Java) is a lot more unhealthy than Yogyakarta and Kediri. Data on the number of births and deceased per Residency are available from the 1860s onwards, which provides us with an insight into natural growth. I took four benchmark years in this period to construct a natural growth figure for each Residency.34 By deducting this natural growth from the overall growth one obtains an indication of non-natural growth, or in other words of net migratory movements. One additional step has yet to be made. Comparing aggregate data from the birth and death registration of all Residencies with the average 1.6 annual demographic growth of Java, it becomes clear that this registration produces an average undercount of births of 0.8 percent for entire Java. This undercounting is a general pattern in a society with high infant mortality and where new babies were not immediately registered; this in contrast to funerals that could not escape official attention. We have therefore added a 0.8 percent correction. Through this procedure I arrived at Table 1, which shows by and large that the eastern and south eastern part of Java were more healthy than the north coast of Java, and definitely more so than the highly urbanized Residencies like Batavia and Semarang. An important caveat needs to be made here. Residencies with high immigration figures, receive an influx of young families, which may have a positive effect on the birth rates in these territorial units. By deducting the corrected average annual natural Growth Rates from

32 Koloniaal Verslag 1889, (HTK 1889–1890) Bijlage 83, [5.45]. 33 Nitisastro 1970: 55. 34 I have taken the average of Natural Growth Years (registered Births minus registered Deaths) for the years 1874, 1879, 1884, 1889 and 1894 per Residency that were given in Colonial Reports. 162 bosma the average population growth rate of each Residency between 186735 and 189436 we obtain net migration rates. In Table 1 column 6 an average of 0.4 net migration for the Residency Pasuruan, for example, means an average annual immigration of about 4,000 persons or about 108,000 persons over the entire period: The data for Madura are surrounded by question marks. It was only by 1885 that the entire island came under direct rule, and prior to that year the official figures might have represented an undercount of about 30 percent. The only useful material for Madura is some data on population growth, collected by Bleeker, who identified for Pamanukan and Sumenap a population growth of 0.6 and 0.4 percent respectively in the late 1860s. This is low compared to the average annual population growth of Java by that time. If health conditions were similar to Java’s average, we might conclude from these figures that there was almost a full percent of annual emigration.37 Assuming a 30 percent undercount of Madura’s population, the island’s population must have exceeded one million in the 1860s and 1870s. In that case an emigration figure of 1 percent would imply that on average 10,000 emigrants left the island annually, adding up over 50 years to half a million people. This is quite plausible, because Madura is a poor and not very fertile island and until 1900 it was easier for Madurese to cross the sea to Surabaya than to travel around their own island.38 There are other sources that can be used to test the figures in Table 1. The Diminishing Welfare Reports 1880–1905 provide information about in- and out migrations per Residency. Gooszen has produced an quantified overview of these patchy data.39 Moreover, there is the Census of 1930 (see Table 3), in which Pasuruan and Besuki are identified as the receiving Residencies of immigration, and Madura and Kedu as sending Residencies.40 Moreover, the small and densely populated Residency of Yogyakarta was notorious for the heavy pressures that local rulers and private plantations exerted on the peasantry. Stories are manifold of sikeps (independent farmers) who gave up their land and houses—a gesture called seleh—if the burdens of compulsory labor became too intense.41 There can be no doubt, furthermore, that Banten faced

35 Bleeker 1869: 456–457. 36 Colonial Report 1896. 37 Bleeker 1869: 635. 38 De Jonge 1988: 22. 39 See Gooszen 1999. 40 Gooszen 1999: 120–121. 41 Margana 2007: 107; Nitisastro 1970: 36–37. migration and colonial enterprise 163 demographic decline around 1880. First, 73 percent of all buffaloes died from rinderpest in this Residency in 1878, a few years later it was ravaged by a severe cholera epidemic, which was followed by the eruption of the Krakatau that took the lives of 22,000 inhabitants of Banten in 1883.42 For some Residencies, however, there is room for different interpretations. Whereas in Table 1 the different rates of demographic growth in neighbouring Residencies of Tegal and Pekalongan are explained by different health conditions, Meijer Ranneft and Diminishing Welfare Reports point at considerable immigration into the Pamelang department of Tegal from Pekalongan.43 Since we cannot expect health conditions to differ that much in these two neighbouring coastal Residencies, the explanation offered by Meijer Ranneft seems to be more plausible one. Needless to say that with help of more precise data on health conditions and more detailed data from Residential Reports (Gewestelijke Verslagen or Memories van Overdracht) the figures I have given above can be improved. My claim is just that we should not give up on the official colonial data for the final three decades of the nineteenth century, in spite of their flaws.

The Frontiers of the Eastern Salient and the Priangan

Ever increasing quantities of coffee, sugar indigo and other products of the Cultivation System had to be transported and processed, or at least partly processed, in Java, before they could be shipped abroad. Java’s wage economy rapidly expanded at factory compounds, in the transport sector, at warehouses and in the ports. Partly under pressure of European business interests from 1854 onwards corvée for public construction was gradually abolished. In fact, they were replaced by monetized taxes, which enhanced the supply of wage labor. In 1868, just before the end of the Cultivation System, the permit system (passenstelsel) that was aiming at regulating if not curbing movement was abolished.44 Whereas the Cultivation System had decentralised the production of coffee and indigo to ease the burden of transport for the rural population, this was impossible in the case of sugar, because of the relatively expensive cane processing equipment. Milling and sugar boiling had become centralized in 100 factories all over Java by the mid-nineteenth century. The haulage of

42 Nederburgh 1888: 4–8. 43 Meijer Ranneft 1916: 78. 44 Veth 1860: 275–277. 164 bosma cane to the factories soon came in the hands of professional cart drivers, who increasingly established wider areas of operation than just one sugar factory. In the 1860s, cane cutting was converted from compulsory to wage work, and with that the cutting and haulage teams became increasingly migratory labor. Kediri, identified above as a typical immigration Residency, received many immigrant haulage teams.45 The factories themselves became surrounded by compounds that employed a few hundred workers throughout or part of the year. By the mid-nineteenth century factory managers reported that they employed all kinds of people including ‘vagabonds and itinerants’, who sometimes came from squalid kampongs of the district capitals. It is impossible to establish whether seasonal or permanent migration dominated, though it is clear that the employers tried to stabilize their workforce by providing housing at the factory compound. In the 1860s such settlements lodged between 1,000 and 2,000 persons who might be provided with small gardens. Seasonal labor migration therefore easily resulted in permanent settlement.46 The development sugar factories may have triggered a migratory movement towards their compounds of 100,000 persons as early as by the mid-nineteenth century. In other sectors of plantation production the demand for labor ushered new migration flows as well. When in the 1840s tobacco and tea production under the Cultivation System was phased out, private tobacco growers started in Rembang and Besuki and tea growers in Priangan. The introduction of the Agrarian Law of 1870 that facilitated the long-term leasing of large tracts of waste land by plantation enterprises inaugurated a new wave of migratory movements. Sure, the areas taken into long-term lease were often less deserted than suggested—in practice they were often enclosing existing villages—and migrations involved smaller distances at the sub-Residency level and are therefore hardly discernible in the Colonial Reports. Yet the large belts of cash crop production, for example tobacco in Jember (Besuki), or the coffee production on the slopes of the Tengger mountains in East Java and last but not least the tea plantations of the mountainous Priangan involved tens of thousands of migrants. The Priangan mountains must have been another site of intense immigration. To get an idea of the magnitude of the labor migration to the tea estates, one must know that the area covered by these plantations was almost 35,000 bau (1 bau = 0.71 hectare) by about 1910 whereas another 11,000 was used for smallholder tea.47 An average tea plantation involved about 500 bau on which

45 Van Moll 1913: 1020, 1051, 1055, 1069, 1094. 46 Elson 1986: 143; Tennekes: 359. 47 Departement van Landbouw in Nederlandsch-Indië (1910): 10–11. migration and colonial enterprise 165

1,000 families found employment. For the entire area held by estates this would mean 70,000 households, and taking 4.5 person for an average household, it would lead to a migratory movement involving over 300,000 people. Obviously, most of these migrants may have come from within this large Residency, but still the tea plantations can explain why the Priangan together with Kediri and Besuki, had consistently high demographic growth figures from the 1870s onwards. Again, these were the combined result of burgeoning plantation sectors and abundance of land where labor migrants’ families could settle. The emergence of sugar and later on tobacco and coffee production in East Java was made possible by massive immigration of Madurese who in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century repopulated the most eastern part of Java that had been ravaged by war in the century before. By the mid-nineteenth century almost 830,000 ethnic Madurese lived in East Java, making up about 60 percent of the local population.48 And the Madurese were particularly present in frontier areas, like Jember (a plantation belt district in Besuki, Lumajang, and Probolinggo).49 They also came to the Tengger mountains, in the district of Probolinggo, to become involved in coffee cultivation, and where they were joined by immigrants from the Principalities (Yogyakarta and Surakarta).50 For two Residencies of the Eastern Salient detailed studies have been conducted that have mapped immigration patterns. One is by De Vries (1931) on Pasuruan and the other by Tennekes (1963) on Besuki. According to De Vries, the four sugar factories in Pasuruan as well as the coffee frontier in the Tengger mountains, must have accounted for the above average population growth in the second half of the nineteenth century and early twentieth century.51 These higher growth figures are not the result of relatively healthier conditions in this part of Java, which, I admit, contradicts somewhat my findings in Table 1. In coastal areas and in the capital of Pasuruan health conditions were rather bad compared to other coastal areas and cities in Java, as we can surmise from the detailed data on birth and mortality from the 1840s De Vries provides us with. Only the Tengger mountains featured consistently higher natural growth than the malaria-infested coastal areas.52 In other words, a significant part of

48 According to Bleeker in 1845, 83,275 of the 155,528 inhabitants of Pasuruan, 210,380 of the 232,480 of Besuki and 183,000 of the 242,000 inhabitants of Probolinggo were ethnic Madurese. Bleeker 1849–1850: 1949 II, 30, 122, 127. Bleeker 1849–1850: 1949 II, 30, 122, 127. See also De Jonge 1988: 18; De Jonge 2000: 838. 49 Hefner 1985: 32. 50 Hefner 1985: 33. 51 De Vries 1931: 40. 52 De Vries 1931: 38, 40, 45. 166 bosma population growth in nineteenth and early twentieth centuries population growth came from immigration. In economic prosperous years, about 2,000 to 3,000 immigrants per year settled in Pasuruan, and since these settlers were young their arrival might have been responsible for higher natural growth rates as well.53 On its eastside Pasuruan bordered the Residency of Probolinggo. This was also the site of sugar production, but in contrast to the other Residencies of the Eastern Salient, the acreage of cultivated land by Javanese showed a relatively slow increase. This explains relatively the slow population growth or might just be the result of it.54 Besuki and Banyuwangi (the latter Residency on the most Eastern tip of Java was joined with Besuki in 1880) were more than 90 percent Madurese by the mid-nineteenth century. It had almost completely been depopulated during the wars between the Muslim empire of Mataram and the Hindu kings of Bali.55 Local rulers from Besuki and Madura were intermarried and jointly encouraged immigration of Madurese to this part of Java to rehabilitate cultivated land that had fallen prey to the forests. Tennekes estimates the average annual growth of Besuki at 2.4 percent before the mid-nineteenth century, which would mean a full percent higher than the average population growth of Java.56 At that time most of the Madurese settled along the north coast.57 They became the cane growers for the sugar contractors who established their factories in the same region and attracted these migrants towards their cane fields.58 Jember only became populated in the second half of the nineteenth century, and this continues well into the early decades of the twentieth century when the southern coast of Besuki was reached. The railway from Jember via Panarukan to Lumadjan established a connection to the rest of the island and facilitated a Javanese influx. In the early years of the twentieth century this immigration was also encouraged by the construction of large-scale irrigation works. According to Tennekes in the early twentieth century more than 7,000 labor migrants entered the residency of Besuki annually to work on the coffee and rubber estates alone.59 Many more seasonal, but also permanent migrants, came to the cane fields at that time. The showcase of sugar colonization was the immense plantation complex Djatiroto that was built on 10,000

53 De Vries: 37 and see Elson 1986. 54 Meijer Ranneft 1916: 77, 79. 55 Tennekes 1963: 329. 56 See Tennekes 1963: 336. 57 Bleeker 1869: 597, 627. 58 Bleeker 1869: 627. 59 Tennekes 1963: 342–344, 389. migration and colonial enterprise 167 hectares of waste land in Pasuruan in the early years of the twentieth century, and where the owner, the HVA (Amsterdam Trading Society), had built entire villages for thousands of immigrant laborers. In addition spontaneous kam- pungs emerged, alongside an immense influx of seasonal migration.60

Outmigrations

Within Java migration towards the sugar, coffee and tea frontiers commenced by the mid-nineteenth century: towards the Eastern Salient from Madura and from the oppressive Principalites and towards the tea plantations of the Priangan from West and Central Java. These migrations prefigured three types of outmigration: to Sumatra’s East Coast, to Mecca and finally government- sponsored resettlement of Javanese in South Sumatra and to coffee and rubber in South and West Sumatra. From the 1870s onwards, railways began to play their role in facilitating the mobility of Javanese.61 The Cultivation System that was initiated and implemented by the colonial government gradually gave way to private plantations and private recruitment systems. Alongside the village heads, the mandurs (foremen) of the plantations became key figures in the extensive labor mobilization both of men and women, which often involved debt contracts.62 These informal systems developed into professional and large-scale recruitment efforts, particularly once in 1911 the colonial government decided to replace Chinese labor in East Sumatra by Javanese men and women. This migration was also a concomitant of the shift in the cultivation and production of export commodities from Java to the Outer Islands, share of the latter in total commodity exports of the colonial Indonesia increased from 22 percent in 1898 to 61 percent in 1940.63 Labor supplies had become abundant and land increasingly scarce since Java’s population had tripled from about 7 million in 1815 to 19 million in 1880. From as early as 1885 onwards Javanese departed for the plantations on Sumatra’s East Coast, often recruited by individual agents or mandurs. From about 1900 Falkenberg & De Haas in Batavia and Soesman Immigration Office in Semarang became the dominant commercial recruitment agencies.64 Their recruiters were originally mainly active in Yogyakarta and Kedu, but later

60 See Penris 1930. 61 Meijer Ranneft 1916: 73. 62 Hugo 1982; Elson 1986; Spaan 1999: 91–92; Houben & Lindblad 1999; Knight 2007. 63 Houben & Lindblad 1999: 2. 64 Van Vollenhoven 1913: 17. 168 bosma on extended their practices to Banyumas, Surakarta, Madiun and Kediri. Yet by about 1914 most of the coolies for Sumatra’s East Coast still came from Surakarta, Yogyakarta and Kedu.65 The government preferred permits for recruitment to be issued in densely populated parts of Java, but the point is that in coastal areas with a high incidence of Malaria the employers of the East Coast of Sumatra were not very keen to engage coolies.66 The Deli planters faced two problems, one was that the labor demand of their enterprises was immense and the second that they had to compete with the sugar plantations of the East Java, which offered better wages than the 33 cents that could be earned at Sumatra’s East Coast. The latter plantations could perhaps compete with West Java or Madiun, where a day’s coolie work only paid 25 cents, but not with East Java, where they could reach 47 cents, and definitely not with the pepper groves of Lampung wages could amount to 90 cents per day.67 The Deli planters did not invest in wages, however, but in their recruiters, who made deceit their habitual practice, and sometimes even took recourse to outright abduction.68 De Waal Malefijt has recorded how recruiters approached men and women working alone on the field, asking them whether they would like to earn a lot money, then brought under a spell after which the victims found themselves in a shed in a harbor town to be brought to a ship.69 These practices did not diminish during mass recruitment that started in 1911 and that would lead to a peak of 272,718 Javanese laborers working at Sumatra’s East Coast in 1929. The recruiters became even more unscrupulous after in 1911 the recruitment fee per coolie was raised from 100 to 200 guilders, whilst the daily wage of Sumatra coolie stayed at the pitiful 33 cents per day.70 According to Meijer Ranneft supervision of recruitment by European civil servants did not work, since the coolies were told by their recruiters not to believe the European civil servants when warned the recruited Javanese that they were not going to be employed in household but sent to the plantations of Deli.71 To raise the yields of recruitment and improve the reputation of the Deli plantations, the planters developed the laukeh system, which involved the sending of 5 percent of all Javanese workers in Deli back to Java to act as recruiters, but this was not very effective, which is hardly surprising given

65 Meijer Ranneft 1914: 15. 66 Gooszen 1999: 69. 67 Verslag Arbeidscommissie (1920) 37; Huender 1919: 101. 68 Lockard 1971: 49. See also Meijer Ranneft 1914. 69 Lockard 1971: 50; See Waal Malefijt 1960: 29; Houben & Lindblad 1999: 30–31. 70 Meijer Ranneft 1914: 56, 65. 71 Meijer Ranneft 1914: 56. migration and colonial enterprise 169 the dreadful conditions at these plantations. The penal sanction in practice gave the plantation management the authority of the police and where local authorities were always on the side of the plantation managers.72 It has been noted that around 1918 about 8 percent of the 200,000 contract coolies ended up in prison each year. It was a labor regime based upon fear, punishment and violence.73 Though the labor migration to East Sumatra constituted the largest flow of laborers, making up two thirds of all Javanese migrants to Sumatra, the second important destination was West and South Sumatra that harbored booming areas of coffee and rubber cultivation. These migratory links with South Sumatra were old. The important harbor town Palembang, for example, had been under Javanese rule from the fifteenth century onwards. Banten and Lampung had belonged to the same Sultanate until 1818. The pepper groves of Lampung for long had attracted Javanese labor. In the late nineteenth century about 2,000 seasonal migrants crossed Street Sunda annually to work there.74 According to the census of 1920, of the about 1.5 million inhabitants of South Sumatra (Jambi, Benculen, Palembang and Lampung) about 81 percent were ethnically Javanese (including Sundanese). Lampung was the home of 50,000 immigrants from Java making up 20 percent of the resident population by 1920.75 In 1905 government-sponsored emigration to Lampung, South Sumatra, commenced. The migrants were recruited from Kedu, indeed another densely populated area of Java.76 Initially, this emigration walked with great difficulty, but in the early 1930s it was reinvigorated resulting in 12,000–15,000 government-sponsored emigrants leaving Java annually. In 1936, 64,000 colonists were living in Sumatra, forming the vanguard of what in postcolonial times would develop into the large-scale transmigration programmes. The other substantial outmigration was connected to the Hajj to Mecca. In 1914 and in the 1920s, Indonesian was the country of origin of almost half of the pilgrims who reached Mecca.77 Though the Hajj was a spiritual obligation only for those who could afford it, there is much to suggest that it was also a means for social ascendency. It is hardly coincidental that Banten was the Residency with highest number of pilgrims per capita, not only of Java but of the entire Netherlands Indies. Most of these Banten pilgrims had to borrow

72 Ibidem, 58–9. 73 Tideman 1918: 55; Middendorp s.a. 74 Onderzoek naar de Mindere Welvaart, Samentrekking (Bantam), 5–6. 75 Wellan 1932: 128. 76 Van Vollenhoven 1913: 43. 77 Husson 1998: 321. 111. 170 bosma or mortgage their property, which actually is against the Faith and suggests that social motives might at least have been secondary to religious conviction.78 We may assume that they believed that the higher status they would attain as Hajji would make their investment worthwhile. For the first half of the nineteenth century we hardly know how many pilgrims went to Mecca, official figures say a few hundred rising to 2,000 or 3,000 annually in the 1850s. Only half of the pilgrims returned in these days. Many were robbed by Bedouins, killed by diseases—about 10 percent died as late as 191479—or ended up as debt slaves in Mecca or elsewhere in the Arabian peninsula. In 1872 the Dutch opened a consulate in Jeddah to protect the pilgrims and since then each candidate pilgrim had to testify before the Regent (the Javanese head of his department) that he had the means to travel (he had to take 500 guilders with him) and that his family had been taken care off.80 This, however, did not change the fact that only half of the pilgrims returned to Java. First of all, quite a few stayed in Mecca voluntary. At the time the famous Islamic scholar Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje visited the city in 1885, 10,000 Javanese lived there, being the largest foreign element in this city.81 Other causes for not returning are related to the fact that most of the pilgrims got seriously indebted during their journey. The Indonesian pilgrims had to travel under the tutelage of a sheikh (there were about 400 in Indonesia by 1914), and almost invariably they ended their journey indebted to their sheikh. Unable to return home, moneylenders came to their rescue but that had its price. The most important agent that advanced loans to Indonesian pilgrims who got stuck in Hejaz was the Algasoff firm based in Singapore, that also owned plantations in Malaya.82 Almost back home in Singapore the Hajjis had to work off their debt—unless relatives redeemed their debts—which could easily lead to two years of ‘indentured labor’ at one the rubber plantations of the Malay peninsula.83 Within the period 1886–1890 alone, 21,000 Javanese signed contracts with the Singapore Chinese protectorate and were sent out to areas of labor demand.84 In 1896 the cooperating shipping companies including the KPM (the Dutch Royal Shipping Company that maintained an extensive network

78 Vredenbregt 1962: 135–136, 153. 79 Husson 1998: 325. 80 Handelingen van de Tweede Kamer der Staten-Generaal 1878–1879, Koloniaal Verslag 1878, 120. 81 Husson 1997: 127. 82 Vredenbregt 1962: 127. 83 Husson 1997: 122. 84 Li 1989: 94 quoting William R. Roff (1967). The origins of Malay nationalism (New Haven etc., Yale University 1967) 36–8. migration and colonial enterprise 171 throughout the archipelago) decided only to sell return tickets which they presented as a protective measure against usury. This proved to be hardly effective to protect pilgrims from getting indebted as the tickets were actually in the hands of the pilgrim sheikhs who could still manipulate the return home.85 Singapore was a nodal point for the Hajj, but also a point of no return for many of the pilgrims and other migrants. Looking for ways getting back home with filled pockets they found employment throughout the region. Javanese gardeners were seen in Bangkok in the 1890s and as much as 3,000 Javanese contract laborers have been seen in Siam in 1937.86 Migrants only returned when they have assembled enough funds to live up to the expectations back home, Vredenbregt concluded, when he found in 1962 that 47 percent of pilgrims from Bawean island (north of Java in the Java Sea) never returned home.87Among the 89,735 Java-born persons in Malaya 1930 many must have been either Hajjis or pilgrims who never made it to Mecca.88 There was also substantial, and probably largely unrecorded outmigration from the Indonesian archipelago via Singapore, which were directly related to the pilgrimage to Mecca. It began in 1825 when pilgrims for Mecca had to pay 110 guilders for a passport to go on pilgrimage, an amount that was almost prohibitive. This rule was applied because the police of Batavia had received 200 applications for a passport that year to make the hajj to Mecca. By travelling via Sumatra and crossing the Straits into Singapore many pilgrims circumvented the checks and controls from the Dutch colonial authorities.89 Pilgrims from the eastern part of the archipelago sailed with Dhows to Singapore to embark for the port of Jeddah accessing Hejaz.90 It has been reported in 1907 that about 6,000 Javanese left annually for Singapore without the necessary travel documents.91 Since the pilgrimage to Mecca required the considerable investment of at least 500 guilders, more than three or four times the yearly earnings of an average Javanese adult man, it is not surprising that the ups and downturns of the numbers of pilgrims was directly connected to economic cycles. After the severe economic crisis of the early 1880s, the number of pilgrimages to Mecca drastically declined, like they did around 1900 and later on in the 1930s. The decline in 1925–1926 is because of war in the Arabian peninsula.

85 Vredenbregt 1962: 131–133. 86 Lockard 1971: 43. 87 Vredenbregt 1964: 123. 88 Bahrin 1967: 280. 89 Vredenbregt 1962: 98–99; Vredenbregt, 1964: 117, referring to the Ambtelijke Adviezen van C. Snouck Hurgronje, vol. 2, 1416 en 1442; Spaan 1994: 95; See also Li 1989. 90 See Collins 1937. 91 Quoted in Houben in Houben & Lindblad 1999: 31. 172 bosma

Outmigration to Sumatra and for the Hajj was so substantial in the early twentieth century that it must have contributed to the slight decline in population growth compared to the second half of the nineteenth century. As a rule this decline is attributed to declining birth rates, but emigration may have been a factor too.92 From Figure 1, we can see how substantial the number of emigrants involved in the Hajj was and we know that probably only half of the pilgrims returned. From Pelzer we have a table presenting data on outmigration from Java to the Outer Islands. Of the 77,662 emigrants who left Java for the Outer Islands in 1929, 47,018 embarked for Sumatra’s East Coast. Second, were South and West Sumatra, receiving almost 15,000 emigrants, though with

50000

45000 40000

35000

30000

25000 20000

15000

10000 5000

0 1850 1870 1877 1882 1887 1892 1897 1902 1907 1912 1917 1922 1927 Figure 1 Pilgrims leaving for Mecca from the Indonesian archipelago, 1850–193093 Source: Vredenbregt 1962: 140–144. Note: Between 1850 and 1875 we have only data for 1852, 1855, 1860, 1866, 1870, 1873.

92 These declining birth rates may have been caused by unfavourable economic circumstances. See Gooszen 1999: 163. 93 The data are derived from Eisenberger, 1928: 204 with the exception of the data for 1876–1885 that are derived from Handelingen van de Tweede Kamer der Staten-Generaal 1889–1890, Koloniaal Verslag (1889) 132 and the data for 1873–1875, 1886–1889, 1891–1894, 1896–1899 and 1928–1930 that are derived from Vredenbregt 1962: 140–144. migration and colonial enterprise 173 the exception of Lampung, most were contract coolies, we may expect that quite some stayed in these parts of Sumatra.94 In 1930 about 1.2 million persons born in Java were living outside Java, almost half of them were coolies of whom about 60 percent were located at Sumatra’s East Coast.95 Whereas coolies had a chance to stay on after their contract, those who did not migrate as coolies were even more likely to settle. Suppose that one third of the 100,000 emigrants that left Java either for the Outer Islands or for the Hajj in the late 1920s did not return, which is probably a rather low estimate, it would result in a net emigration of about 35,000 per year, to which we can add about 1,000 for Suriname and a few thousand of the unauthorized migrants arriving in Singapore each year. An annual net emigration of 40,000 amounts to 0.16 percent of Java’s population and fully explains the slowing down of the population growth by 0.2 percent, particularly since the younger men and women are leaving for Sumatra.96

Plantation Agriculture and Urbanization

The second phase of the mobility transition, according to Zelinsky, consists of accelerating circular migration, emigration abroad, a transition from agriculture to industry and urbanization. In many ways, colonial Java fits this Eurocentric model if we consider plantations as agro-industrial complexes, but the Netherlands Indies knew hardly any industrial cities. According to Segers in 1905 the manufacturing and food industry employed 2.5 percent of all male and 4.0 percent of all female employable on Java.97 Most of these workers were employed by one of the 250 coffee estates, 190 sugar factories and 108 tea plantations on Java, that not only offered agricultural employment but also the processing of the products. Apart from more than a million workers in the cane fields, the 180 sugar factories themselves employed 50,000 tenured staff and another 100,000 seasonal worker to process the cane to sugar.

94 Pelzer 1935: 104–105. 95 Touwen 2001: 390. 96 Maassen 1937: 4, 50. Scheltema presents net migration figures of contract coolies between 1913 and 1925 ranging from -0.06 percent to 0.17 percent of Java’s population, which seems to corroborate our estimated average of a total net emigration of 0.16 percent. Scheltema 1926: 873. For the slowing down of the population growth in the early twentieth century see Gooszen 1999: 37–43. 97 Segers 1988: 59, 65. On female industrial labor in the early twentieth century see also Chandra 2002. 174 bosma

In 1950, Indonesia was with 12.4 percent of its population in urban areas one of the least urbanized countries in Southeast Asia, after the Philippines with 27 percent and Myanmar with 16.2 percent.98 This low relatively low level of urbanization reflects the fact that the economy of Java had become increasingly focused on plantation agriculture in nineteenth century. Yet it was not entirely ‘migration without urbanization’. First of all, because Java was more urbanized than the Outer Islands, at least since the nineteenth century. Second, the degree of urbanization in Indonesia seems to be underestimated, because not all cities with more than 20,000 residents have been listed as cities. Milone mentions for example that some industrial centers had not been counted as urban areas.99 Third, the distinction between urban and rural was traditionally not very clear in Java. The eighteenth century travelogues of Valentijn report on the North Coast of Java about densely populated areas, that were somewhat in the middle between rural and urban, and for which the term ‘rurban’ is used.100 And last but not least. Urbanization started in the late nineteenth century from a very low base: only 2.8 percent of the population in Java was living towns with more than 20,000 inhabitants by 1890, but this figure would rapidly rise to 7 percent in 1930. This must have entailed immense migratory movements to the cities, at least a 50,000 per year, if we take into account that the mortality rate in urban kampongs, particularly in the poorest immigrant quarters, exceeded birth rates in the early twentieth century.101 The nineteenth century saw the growth of the major coastal cities that served as the nodal points in the commodity producing system Java in fact was.

98 Dick & Rimmer 2009: 8. 99 Milone 1964: 1001. 100 See for example Valentijn 2002: 37. 101 According to Boomgaard (1989a: 111) in the 1890s about 2.9 percent of the 24,000,000 Javanese lived in cities larger than 20,000. This would mean a figure 696,000 that would increase to 2,792,411 (on a total population of 40,000,000) or 7 percent in 1930 (Indisch Verslag 1933: II Statistiek, 21–22). Since 38 of the 44 cities that had 20,000 or more inhabitants in 1930 were newcomers that did not begin from zero, we assume that these 38 cities on average had a 5,000 inhabitants in 1890. The total increase of the urban population between 1890 and 1930 would therefore be an estimated 1,912,441 (2,792,441 minus 690,000 minus 38*5,000). Given the health conditions in Java’s cities, where the conditions in smaller cities might have been slightly better than in the three largest, one might expect that 80 percent of this increase of 1.91 million should have come from immigration, which would mean an average of 47,500 thousand per annum over these 40 years. No doubt, the increase was not linear. Cities grew faster in the 1920s than in the 1890s, so an urban migration of 50,000 per annum in the early twentieth century would therefore be a rather conservative estimate. That the populations of the poorest urban kampongs could not reproduce themselves is also mentioned by Meijer Ranneft 1916: 169. migration and colonial enterprise 175

In colonial times, Java’s urbanization was the result of cash crop production and an influx of Europeans who were overrepresented in the urban areas. The cities were an extension of the plantation belt, of which the largest provided the services such as shipping, insurance, administration and the supplies of equipment. The cities exerted an ever increasing demand for labor, not only in the harbors, for construction and maintenance but also for domestic service in European families. Surabaya is a notable example, more than Batavia, which in spite of being the administrative center of the entire archipelago, began to grow substantially only in the 1850s and 1860s. It was already in the early years of the Cultivation System that Javanese started to flock into Surabaya, where the first kampongs emerged between 1835–1850. Surabaya became the nodal point in the logistics of the plantation agricultural in East Java overshadow- ing Pasuruan that was still an important city in the early nineteenth century. Some cities at Java’s north coast (e.g. Pasuruan, Tegal and presumably Gresik) declined over the nineteenth century, this may explain why according to Boomgaard the number of cities with more than 20,000 inhabitants on Java was lower in 1900 than in 1850.102

Table 2 Population growth of the largest cities of Java, 1810–1930

City 1810 1850 1867 1895 1905 1930

Batavia 49,683 55,000 99,758 114,566 173,000 533,000 Surabaya 25,000 88,000 124,529 150,000 342,000 Semarang 20,000 82,962 97,000 218,000 Surakarta 105,000 58,368 104,580 118,000 165,000 Yogyakarta 37,000 45,000 39,307 58,299 80,000 137,000 Tegal 29,536 17,752 43,015 Pekalongan 15,000 36,816 65,982 Pasuruan 27,000 24,821 36,978

Sources: Giap 1959: 249–250; Bosma 2011; For 1867 see Bleeker 1869: (Batavia) 465, (Surakarta). 561 and (Yogyakarta) 561; For 1895 see ‘Statistiek betreffende de bevolking van Nederlandsch-Indië over 1895’, Koloniaal Verslag van 1897 Bijlage A, (Handelingen van de Tweede Kamer der Staten- Generaal 1897–1898) 6–7. For 1850 Yogyakarta see Bleeker 1849–1850: 1849 II, 9, for Tegal, Pekalongan, Pasuruan see Bleeker 1849–1850: 1849 II, 30, 181, 267. The 1850 data for Batavia and Surabaya are actually 1855 data derived from Meijer Ranneft 1916 quoted by Hugo 1980: 112. Not mentioned here is the fast-growing city of Bandung, just a village by the end of the nineteenth century, but which counted almost 100,000 inhabitants in 1920. For Pasuruan and Tegal in 1930 see Indisch Verslag: II Statistiek: 21–22.

102 Boomgaard 1989a: 111. 176 bosma

In the final decades of the nineteenth century commodity exports soared, but also shipping activities became concentrated in larger port cities, apart from some large sugar and tobacco estates that had their own roadsteads. The operations of the harbor of Surabaya required a workforce of about 10,000 men in the early twentieth century, and to the port many other services were linked.103 Many workers, however, were seasonal laborers only working a few months per year in the harbor coming from the countryside, or, was the case in Surabaya from Madura.104 The effects of the rapid growth of Surabaya, Semarang and Batavia in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century are visible in Table 3 below. In the twentieth century, the populations of three largest cities of Java increased by about 5 percent per annum.105 Assuming that population growth in the kampongs of Java’s major cities was stagnating at best, the increase of the three largest cities of Java in 1930 (Batavia, Surabaya and Semarang) between 1895 and 1930 could only be brought about by the immigration of at least 770,943 immigrants. This explains why the Residencies of Surabaya, Semarang and Batavia rank among the top immigration Residencies of Java in 1930 as Table 3 shows.

Table 3 Lifetime immigrants per Residency in 1930 (%)

Residency 1 2 3 Residency 1 2 3

Kedu 2.1 13.96 –11.86 Japara/Rembang 2.09 4.44 –2.35 Madura 0.35 12.21 –11.86 Banyumas 3.54 5.74 –2.2 Madiun 1.95 9.22 –7.27 Buitenzorg 3.95 5.98 –2.03 Yogyakarta 2.42 9.66 –7.24 Priangan 3.41 4.91 –1.5 Banten 2.04 7.14 –5.1 Cirebon 2.72 4.06 –1.34 Kediri 6.09 10.94 –4.85 Surabaya 8.23 8.11 0.12 Bojonegoro 1.43 5.95 –4.52 Semarang 5.8 4.46 1.34 Surakarta 2.25 5.19 –2.94 Malang = Pasuruan 7.69 5.74 1.95 Pekalongan 1.24 4 –2.76 Batavia 10.87 3.7 7.17 Besuki 23.85 0.96 22.89

Source: Gooszen 1999: 69 Column 1: Immigration into the Residency as percentage of resident populations Column 2: Emigration from the Residency as percentage of native-born population Column 3: Difference between column 1 and column 2.

103 Ingleson 1983: 457. 104 Ingleson 1983: 457, 459. 105 See the chapter of Van Lottum in this volume. migration and colonial enterprise 177

What also emerges from this Table 3 are the effects of discrepancies in coolie wages in different parts of Java. Though it is not entirely correct to deduct the second column from the first, it at least provides us with an indication. In the early twentieth century, Bagelen (included in Banyumas), Kedu and even Kediri and Madiun—once immigration destinations from the Principalities— have now become emigration Residencies themselves. Migrants are moving to the East and, according to Hugo, there is also substantial overflow to Priangan from Banyumas, Kedu and Yogyakarta.106 The most amazing change is that Kediri is no longer the main destination of the migrants. Almost every Residency has a negative migration figure, which we explained before as the result of outmigration to the Outer Islands and in the direction of Mecca.

Conclusion

Needless to say that in this paper that was based upon the Residencies as units of analysis I could only present some major trends and identify mobility at the Residency level. The broad patterns are clear however. Initially, the Cultivation System clearly contradicted Zelinsky’ thesis that demographic transition cou- pled with monetization and wage labor propelled migration. The critical independent variable here was colonial policies of exploitation that were intent to control the movement of people and to keep peasants bound to their land. In spite of that, the Cultivation System itself made people flee from compulsory labor and created the plantation economy that would trigger large scale migrations by the mid-nineteenth century. Over the course of that century growing numbers of Javanese could no longer live from their plots of land, which coincided with increasing demand for labor by the plantations. The growth of wage labor led to increasing seasonal migration that could easily produce permanent migration as long as there was land to settle. From their end the plantations were keen to create a stabilised labor force, as was demonstrated for the Eastern Salient. On the other hand the Coolie Budget Commission that investigated the plight of the Java plantation coolies during the crisis of the 1930s, concluded that at about one third of the workers did not own land. Many of these proletarians may have been migrants, but since they were often subcontracted their migratory movements stayed invisible in the colonial and business archives. And to give an idea of the scale, the sugar sector involved

106 Hugo 1980: 123. 178 bosma

800,000 to one million workers in the field and another 250,000 in cane cutting and haulage.107 In addition to the plantation sector, both shipping and infrastructure absorbed tens of thousands of Javanese seasonal workers per year, many, or perhaps even most, of whom were migrants. But again, more research is needed into these sectors before something can be said about their relative share in migration. While it would need further in depth research to assess the relative importance of seasonal migration within the total of Java’s migratory movements over time, we might be able to say something about shifts between the categories distinguished in this volume (e.g. military/sailors, urban, colonization, immigration and emigration). As for military and maritime migrations, the Colonial Army and Navy throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries needed 2,000 or 3,000 recruits annually at most.108 Employment in the shipping sector must have soared over the course of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, but consistent data are hardly available, neither are there any reliable statistics on migratory labor involved in construction and infrastructure (e.g. roads, railways and last but not least the extensive irrigation works). With more confidence we can speak about urban migrations (defined as migrations to cities larger than 20,000 inhabitants), which may have increased from a few thousand in the early nineteenth century to over 50,000 per annum in the early twentieth century. These are however just net-migration figures that do not cover the seasonal migration circuits connecting rural Java with its urban or semi-urban areas. As for immigration into Java, in 1926 the figure had more or less doubled from less than 10,000 (non-Indonesian) immigrants into Java and Madura in the 1870s.109 And finally, I already mentioned the net annual emigration figure of 40,000. One can conclude that Zelinksky’s second phase of the mobility transition became visible around 1900, linking up the local economy with the world economy via urban centers.110 Recruiting agencies for Sumatra brought workers to

107 Coolie Budget Comisssion 1956; Levert 1934: 130 108 The KNIL employed 15,000 Javanese soldiers at maximum by the late nineteenth century and with a mortality rate of about 60‰ and with a time in service of usually more than 10 years, the figure of 2,000 to 3,000 new recruits per annum seems to be a reasonable estimate. Since the colonial navy only counted 1,000 Indonesian sailors the ensuing migratory movement is negligible. 109 The Colonial Report of 1927 (Koloniaal Verslag 1927, Bijlage G, 13) gives the total figure of about 45,000 immigrants for the entire archipelago—of whom almost 28,000 Chinese) and 4,532 Europeans, 8,501 Chinese, 369 Arabs and 520 other Foreign Orientals for 1926. 110 See also Gooszen 1999: 70. migration and colonial enterprise 179

Semarang and Batavia, the sheikhs worked via local priests to bring pilgrims to the port cities, and finally many villagers could easily travel to the cities along the increasingly dense railway network. Java’s contemporary migration circuits with Malaysia and the Arabian peninsula as well as the transmigration to the Outer Islands are based upon this second phase of the mobility transition in Java, and in many ways we can see the continuation of networks of labor mediation and labor migration that had emerged in colonial times. Today, for example, recruitment agencies run by Indonesians of Arab descent train and send female domestic labor to the Gulf states and cane cutting teams from Madura still come to the Eastern Salient. Toward Cities, Seas, and Jungles: Migration in the Malay Archipelago, c. 1750–1850

Atsushi Ota

The period discussed in this chapter falls in the one hundred years before mass long-distance migration rapidly expanded throughout the world. It seems a consensus that industrialization, which entailed large-scale production of raw materials and food, caused mass migrations in the modern world. For example, Adam McKeown, who has discussed the global migration from 1846 to 1940 with a special focus on Chinese migration in North and Southeast Asia, has argued that “[t]he rise of a global economy centred on European, North American, and Japanese industrialization was the context for increased long- distance migration of settlers and workers” in cash-crop plantations and rice fields in Asia in the period in his discussion.1 His argument, however, may give an impression that modern migration was propelled mostly by the industrialization in the above-mentioned countries, and that migration prior to his period was much smaller in scale and shorter-distance. This chapter discusses the migration in the larger Malay Archipelago (taken here as the Malay Peninsula, Singapore, and present-day Indonesia; hereafter the Malay Archipelago or the Archipelago) before Western private enterprises promoted cash-crop and food production, in order to understand the modern expansion of migration in a longer timeframe. No scholars of global migration have paid serious attention to the migration in the Malay Archipelago in the period in question, probably because they have assumed industrialization in the later period to be the most (or even only) important factor prompting mass long-distance migration. In fact, Western private industries started to promote cash-crop and food production remarkably only after 1870. The Cultivation System (1830–1870) in Java, through which the colonial government controlled local cultivators’ production via local agents (local elites and village chiefs), did not create long-distance migration. In this chapter, however, I will argue that new types of migration were increasing in the Malay Archipelago preceding the industrialization. First I will explain that the British Straits Settlements (Melaka, Penang, and Singapore)

* I would like to express my gratitude to Kawamura Toyotaka, who kindly provided me with a part of the source materials that I used in this chapter. 1 McKeown 2004: 166.

Penang Kedah Province Wallesley Brunei Batak Areas M Rembau in Melaka KALIMANTAN an Singapore g k Sambas a b Singkawang (BORNEO) Minahasa a RIAU u Siak Monterado Mempawa Pontianak Gorontalo LINGGA SUMATRA Sukadana Kubu Gayong BANGKA Ketapang g SULAWESI Kendawangan Palembang Makassar AMBON Batavia

JAVA SUMBAWA

BALI SUMBA DS LESSER SUNDA ISLAN

Map 1. Larger Malay Archipelago Map 1 500 km Larger Malay Archipelago

300 mi © Daniel Dalet / d-maps.com Figure 1. China-oriented trade structure, the late eighteenth century and Batavia received an increasing number of commercial and slave migrants in their urban quarters, and also labor and military migrants in their suburbs, starting from different years. Next I discuss labor migration in tin mines in Bangka and gold mines in northwest Kalimantan respectively after 1750 and 1740. Third, I discuss “maritime migration,” which Indonesian, Chinese, and other Asian migrants conducted in a small scale in search of marine and forest products, better protection from local rulers, and better locations for their trade and maritime raids throughout the Archipelago, at an increasing pace after the 1780s. I focus on West Kalimantan and North Sulawesi, where this type of migration typically took place. Unfortunately the data to show the exact scale of migration (the numbers of migrants in certain places each year) are very limited in the period in question. Here I will attempt to put together available fragmental information of the migration scale, while I will indicate the population trend and other related information, in order to obtain an image of the migration scale. Then I will attempt typological analysis of the above-mentioned cases of migration, applying the CCMR-model. In most cases the Chinese were a dominant group among migrants, and the production and collection of China-bound products, such as tin, pepper, and marine products, triggered the migration in 182 ota the Archipelago. Such “Chinese factors” will be analysed in a global framework. By so doing I will try to argue that globalization and development of mass- consumption society in urban China and Northwest Europe prompted the migration in the Malay Archipelago prior to the industrialization.

Migration to Cities and Plantations: Straits Settlements and Batavia

The Straits Settlements and Batavia formed the largest urban communities in the Archipelago in the period in question. Penang and Singapore rapidly developed into important trade hubs, although Melaka had lost its former role as a leading trade port. Batavia remained a commercial center and the seat of the Dutch authority, although it suffered from economic and social stagnation in the late eighteenth century. In both the Straits Settlements and Batavia, first urban communities developed near the ports, and later plantation society was formed in the suburbs. Melaka was the oldest town that witnessed concentration of an urban migrant population in maritime Southeast Asia. Shortly before the Portuguese conquest of Melaka in 1511, several European travellers and local chronicle authors estimated its population to be 65,000 to 200,000,2 although these types of authors tend to exaggerate population figures. In the following centuries Melaka experienced large shrinkage and fluctuation of the population under the Portuguese (1511–1641) and Dutch rule (1641–1798, 1816–1824) (Table 1). Towards the end of the Dutch rule in 1824, Melaka’s economy was still stagnant, although it maintained the trade with neighboring regions, China, and Siam. Nearly all of the Portuguese Eurasians were poor fishermen, while there were quite a few prosperous Dutch Eurasian merchants and landowners. The

Table 1 Population of Melaka Town, c. 1511–1688

Year Before 1511 1675 1678 1680 1687 1688

Population 65,000 to 200,000* 5324 5970 3689 4274 4302

Source: Reid 1993a: 69–70; Hussin 2007: 163–164 Note: * Some estimates include the population in the suburbs.

2 Reid 1993a: 69–70. toward cities, seas, and jungles 183

Map 2 South China, indicating approximate areas of origin of Chinese in the Malay Archipelago Sources: Wurm et al. 1987; Somers Hedhues 2003: 30

population fluctuated from 1750 to 1824 (Table 2), but Melaka does not seem to have been receiving large-scale migrants during this period. Some of the Chinese families, mostly Hokkien, had lived in Melaka for centuries. They were intermarried with Malays to form a large Baba community, retaining many Chinese customs but adopting some features of Malay culture. After 1819, many wealthy Baba Chinese moved to newly established Singapore in search of business opportunities. In 1824, just before the British takeover, 24.5 percent of the total population was Chinese. Smaller numbers of other foreigners were mostly local born and mixed with the local population.3 Around the British takeover in 1824, Melaka Town experienced an economic boom, and it received increasing numbers of Chinese migrants heading for the newly opened tin mines in the western Malay states. Melaka became one of several entry points for newly arrived Chinese laborers, and also a financial base from which the Chinese launched their business in the interior. These Chinese migrants concentrated in Melaka Town. On the other hand, the population in the suburbs was almost exclusively local Malay agricultural producers. From the early 1830s, agriculture developed around Melaka town, and rice,

3 Turnbull 1972: 16–18; Turnbull 1983: 246–247; Hussin 2007: 168–169 184 ota

Table 2 Population of Melaka Town and its suburbs, 1750–1860

1750 1766 1817 1824 1826 1827 1834 1842 1852 1860

Malays 3615 3135 13988 2570 3893 23292 20463 32623 48766 53554 Chinese 2161 1390 1006 2741 3989 5006 4143 6882 10068 10039 Indians 1520 1023 2986 1688 2286 2342 2403 3258 1191 1026 Other Asians 1937 1493 452 790 206 Europeans 2339 1668 1667 405 233 2522 1799 2544 2283 2648 – Portuguese 1839 2289 – Eurasians Total 9635 7216 19647 11180 14183 33162 29260 46097 62514 67267

Source: 1817, 1827–1860: Braddel 1861: 2; 1750, 1766, 1824, and 1826: Hussin 2007: 168–175 Note: – The data collected by Braddel in 1817 and 1827–1860 seem to have covered a wider area, probably including the suburbs. For the other years, Hussin has referred to the data of Melaka Town indicated in the Straits Settlements Factory Records. – “Europeans” includes “Portuguese-Eurasians” in the years when the latter is not indicated.

coconuts, sago, poultry, cattle, and fruit were exported mostly to Singapore. The large increase in the Malay population after 1827 (Table 2) was related to the agricultural development in the suburbs.4 From the mid-1840s, Malacca experienced a renewed tin rush, which again led to a flood of Chinese laborers, mainly Hakka from Guangdong. After the dis- covery of rich veins of tin at Kassang, about sixteen miles inland from Melaka Town, 2,000 miners were working there by the beginning of 1848. It seems that miners worked only for short terms, and the industry always demanded new laborers, because 2,500 to 3,000 Chinese youths were landing in Melaka every year in the early 1850s. Tin mining behind Melaka town declined within some ten years. In the late 1850s, miners started to drift to richer mines in neighboring states, and by 1862 most Melaka mines were abandoned.5 The development of plantations took place only after 1860 in the hinterland of Melaka. There was no influx of European capitals to develop plantations, but during the 1860s, Melaka Hokkien merchants started to invest in tapioca planting, and invited Hainanese and Teochiu migrant workers for the labor in the plantations. The Chinese population doubled between 1860 and 1881, by which time there were probably 10,000 Chinese tapioca planters in the hinterland.6

4 Turnbull 1983: 251; Hussin 2007: 171–175. 5 Turnbull 1972: 18–19; Turnbull 1983: 252. 6 Turnbull 1972: 19–20; Turnbull 1983: 251. toward cities, seas, and jungles 185

Table 3 The slave population of Melaka Town and its suburbs, 1824–1827

1824 1826 1827

Men 666 441 823 Women 590 496 670 Incapable men 86 107 Incapable women 75 77 Total 1417 1121 1497

Source: Hussin 2007: 178–184 Note: – The data of 1824 includes 161 children born into slavery. – The data of 1827 includes “slave debtors,” who bound themselves with their families to serve their creditors until the liquidation of their debt. – “Incapable” male and female are indicated as those “under eight years of age” in the original source of 1824, and as “male minors and female minors” in 1826.

Slavery existed in Melaka since its early period, especially under the wealthy Chinese and European residents. The Dutch East India Company (VOC) also owned some 100 slaves for various tasks, but after its collapse in 1799, the slave masters were predominantly private individuals. As men always greatly outnumbered women in Melaka, female slaves functioned not only as domestic workers, but also as sexual and marital partners of their masters. According to slave registers in Melaka town in 1824, 1826, and 1827 (Table 3),7 the places of origin of slaves included nearby regions such as Kedah, Rembau, and Riau- Lingga, some areas in the Archipelago such as the Batak areas, Borneo, Bali, Sumbawa, and Makassar, and outside the Archipelago such as Bengal, Malabar, and Mozambique. Although the British increasingly tightened their regulation on slavery, which they finally prohibited in 1830, Melaka continued to be a large market of slaves, which were still a symbol of wealth and social status. Asian raiders who assaulted passing ships and coastal villages in the Melaka Strait often captured people into slavery, and sold them in Melaka and some other places.8 When the English East India Company occupied Penang in 1786, there were only 158 Malays living there. The population rapidly increased in the first few decades (Table 4). At that time most of the population lived in its urban center

7 The slave registrations created on the order of the British government in 1824, 1826, and 1827, with penalties for failure by masters to report their slave figures, are much more reliable than similar surveys during the Dutch period without such a penalty (Hussin 2007: 178–179). 8 Hussin 2007: 177–184; Ota 2010a: 133–135. 186 ota

Table 4 Population of Penang and its hinterland, 1786–1860

1786 1788 1792 1800 1810 1812 1816 1818 1820 1822 1824 1827 1830 1833 1842 1851 1860

Chinese 537 5000 5088 7291 3128 8270 3313 8963 8751 9715 15437 28018 Indians 5604 7041 5498 8858 9681 7840 10618 – Chulia 8198 4996 7886 – Bengali 411 1322 – Parsis 51 Malays (a) 158 n.c. 2193 n.c. 3367 n.c. 16435 n.c. n.c. n.c. Other Asians 583 2373 2318 1481 2829 438 – Jawi-Pekans (b) 530 – Arabs (c) 84 145 142 – Total of (a–c) 2069 – Achenese 60 347 – Bataks 294 561 – Native Christians 763 708 Europeans 19 95 999 400 1328 400* 1877 789 1180 347 1995 – Portuguese-Eurasians 197 790 831 763 Armenians 70 16 21 Others 57 1 15 2725** Total of Georgetown 158 1283 7000 13385 12135 13781 13303 12992 Total including its hinterland 24424 23418 37445 28849 37943 30655 33959 40322 40499 43143 59956

of Georgetown on the north eastern corner of Penang Island. The Europeans (mostly from Britain) were concentrated in the administration and related jobs, and also in agricultural-planting and trade-related occupations. A large part of the Chinese and the Jawi-Pekans (mixture between Indian and Malay) migrated from nearby towns,9 and they were mostly engaged in small trade- related business. The Chinese also occupied a smaller number of semi-skilled jobs in the agricultural and manufacturing sectors, such as carpentry and blacksmithing. Malays were principally involved in trade and in clearing the jungles.10 Slaves were not noticeable in Penang and Singapore, which developed under the stricter control of the British authorities.

9 Out of the early Chinese population, about 50% was from Kedah, 20% was from China, and 7% from Melaka. Out of the Jawi-Pekan population, 45% was from Kedah (Hussin 2007: 185). 10 Hussin 2007: 184–185. toward cities, seas, and jungles 187

Table 4 Population of Penang and its hinterland, 1786–1860

1786 1788 1792 1800 1810 1812 1816 1818 1820 1822 1824 1827 1830 1833 1842 1851 1860

Source: 1812, 1820, 1830, and 1842–1860: Braddel 1861: 2; 1833: Newbold 1971 [1839]: 54–55; 1792, 1794, 1816, 1824: Tsubouchi 1998: 126–128; 1786–1810, 1818, 1822–1829: Hussin 2007: 184–192 Note: – Figures are indicated as they appear in the original sources, although some of their totals do not agree with the calculated figures. – “N.c.” means that figures are not clear in the original source. – Figures indicated in Braddel (1812, 1820, 1830, and 1842–1860) seem to cover a wider area than those in the other years. – “Indians” seems to include indicated subcategories. – “Other Asians” seems to include indicated subcategories. – “Europeans” includes “Portuguese-Eurasians” in the years when the latter is not indicated. * These figures include Company servants. ** This figure includes Siamese and Burmese (648); Kafirs (180); native military and followers (678); convicts, including local prisoners (1,263); the average number of patients in the Chinese poor house, lunatic asylum, and native pauper hospital (140), and itinerants (400).

In 1810 the population of Georgetown expanded to more than 13,000, in which the Chinese and Indians (Chulia and Bengali) were the two largest groups. After this year, however, the population came into a declining trend with some fluctuations until the end of the 1820s. The declining population might have been related to the standstill of trade after 1810, and the stagnation of pepper cultivation in the hinterland (Penang Island outside Georgetown) after 188 ota pepper prices fell in 1806. After the establishment of Singapore in 1819, a number of Chinese merchants and a few Indians migrated to the new port city. In addition, outbreak of diseases such as fever, smallpox and cholera resulted in depopulation in some years. From 1857 onward, the government attempted to reform the town’s infrastructure to improve health, but limited funds hindered improvement until the early 1860s.11 By the 1790s Indians were coming into Penang at the rate of 1,300 to 2,000 a year.12 Apart from this information, there is no clue to the scale of migration in Penang. Chinese migrants usually had no intention of staying permanently, staying only long enough to build up savings, but those married to local women were considered permanent settlers.13 Short-term migration of unskilled laborers would have resulted in a steady flow of migrants, while those engaged in trade-related business and semi-skilled jobs would have been settled down for a longer time. Penang also functioned as an entry point for migrants to neighboring regions. For this type of migration, a few data are available in the 1850s. It was stated in 1854 that 2,000 to 3,000 Chinese migrants landed in Penang every year, and they further moved to Province Wellesley (the British Penang territory on the Peninsula coast opposite Penang Island), Siam, and Malay states. According to a report in 1859, 4,000 to 5,000 Chinese, 3,000 to 4,000 Indians (Klings), and 1,500 to 2,000 Javanese annually arrived in Penang. Chinese migrants soon moved to Malay states or Siam, while Indians and Javanese settled in Penang. However, as the latter groups usually repatriated immediately after their contracts ended, there was always strong demand for new labor in Penang.14 In the hinterland of Penang Island, good roads were built and plantations were thriving before 1826. The principle products were nutmeg and cloves, while Penang also exported coconuts, betel nuts, pepper, gambir, coarse sugar, and timber. Most of the hinterland population was probably involved in the cultivation of this produce.15 The population increase after the 1830s was likely related to the development of plantations. Province Wellesley clearly developed through plantation after the 1840s. Before then, most of the residents in Province Wellesley were Malay peasants and fisherman, Chinese and Indian shopkeepers and petty traders, and

11 Hussin 2007: 91–93; 186–192, Turnbull 1972: 14. 12 Turnbull 1972: 7–8. 13 Hussin 2007: 186. For example, most Chinese children born between 1787 and 1793 were the offspring of mixed marriages between Chinese and natives. 14 Tsubouchi 1998: 128. 15 Turnbull 1972: 11–12. toward cities, seas, and jungles 189

Table 5 Population of Province Wellesley, 1786–1860

1786 1800 1812 1820 1824 1827 1832 1833 1844 1851 1860

Chinese 267 325 951 2259 4107 8781 8204 Indians 72 338 654 1087 1815 1913 3514 Malays 3353 5399 18805 41702 44301 52990 52836 Other 123 324 905 1179 1117 186 Asians Europeans 107 76 Total 500 2–3000 3692 6185 16479 20734 50000 45953 51509 64801 64816

Source: 1786, 1812, 1820, 1827, 1833–1860: Braddel 1861: 2; 1800, 1824, 1832: Tsubouchi 1998: 126–128 Notes: Figures of Malays are calculated because those in the original source are not clear.

Teochew Chinese sugar planters. From the 1840s, when extensive European and Chinese sugar plantations were opened in the southern part of the Province, large numbers of Chinese, Indian, and Malay laborers flooded into the newly opened plantations (Table 5).16 For Indian workers, we roughly know the scale of migration. Nearly all Indian immigrants who disembarked at Penang went to the Province Wellesley estates in the mid nineteenth century. 1,800 Indian laborers are estimated to have arrived each year in the 1840s, rising to 2,000 a year in the early 1850s, and to between 4,000 and 8,000 a year in the 1860s. Most of the migrants were plantation workers on short-term contracts, which usually ran for three years.17 The large number of immigrants in spite of the relatively small rise in the Indian population (Table 5) was a result of most of them returning after the end of their contracts.18 No data is available for other groups of migrants, but similarly large numbers of Chinese and Malay migrants are likely to have arrived every year as short-term plantation workers.

16 Turnbull 1972: 14–15. The sudden population increase in 1832 had little to do with the development of plantations. In 1831, the Siam army invaded Kedah, as a result of which about 16,000 people moved to Province Wellesley (Tsubouchi 1998: 127–128). 17 Turnbull 1972: 14–15, 45–46. 18 K. S. Sandhu argues that few Indian migrants lived to return to their home country, and their death rate was eighty to ninety percent up to the 1860s (Sandhu 1969: 85, quoted in Turnbull 1972: 45). 190 ota

Table 6 Population of Singapore, 1819–1860

1819 1821 1823 1830 1832 1833 1834 1836 1840 1845 1849 1860

Chinese 30 1159 3317 6555 7762 8517 10767 13749 17704 32132 27988 50043 Malays 120 2848 4580 5173 7215 7131 9452 9632 9318 10035 12206 11888 Indians 132 756 1913 1945 2324 2322 2932 3375 5212 6284 12973 Other Asians 556 1882 3882 4445 – Bugis 1860 1427 1726 2364 1962 1971 2263 – Sea Nomads 850 – Javanese 607 644 595 669 903 260 1649 – Arabs 28 64 96 66 41 260 194 – Kafirs 8 37 62 3 59 3 – Native Christians 345 420 300 326 425 Europeans 29 148 92 105 119 138 141 1110 336 360 2385 – Indo-Britons 29 94 96 113 117 280 922* – Portuguese 382 – Eurasians Armenians 23 26 35 44 34 65 50 Jews 9 5 2 6 4 22 Others 5306** 7096*** Total 1000 4724 10683 16634 19715 20978 26329 29984 35389 57421 59043 81734

When the British established their authority in Singapore in 1819, only about 150 people resided around the main harbor area.19 Two years later, the population had expanded to more than 5,000, including Malay, Chinese, and minorities such as Indians, Arabs, Armenians, Europeans, and Eurasians (Table 6). In Singapore, unlike Melaka and Penang, the British authorities allocated the land in the town for particular ethnic or religious groups.20 The first Chinese settlers came from nearby regions such as Riau, Melaka, and Penang, many of whom were from long-settled families, mixed with Malays. Influential and prosperous Cantonese and Hokkien from Melaka built warehouses in Singapore, and became agents for the Chinese junks. They encouraged Chinese migration by supporting newcomers by providing

19 C. M. Turnbull calculated another about 850 inhabitants, all groups of sea nomads, along the coast of the entire island (Turnbull 2009: 24–25). 20 Saw 2007: 9–10; Turnbull 2009: 24–25. toward cities, seas, and jungles 191

Table 6 Population of Singapore, 1819–1860

1819 1821 1823 1830 1832 1833 1834 1836 1840 1845 1849 1860

Source: 1819: Turnbull 2009: 24–25; 1821, 1823, 1840, and 1860: Braddel 1861: 2; 1830–36: Newbold 1971 [1839]: I, 284–285; 1845 and 1849: Tsubouchi 1998: 135, 138 Note: – Figures are indicated as they appear in the original sources, although some of their totals do not agree with the calculated figures. – Slightly different figures are indicated in Braddel (1861: 2) and Newbold (1971 [1839]: I, 284–285), as to the population in 1830. Here I use the more detailed data of Newbold. – Braddel (1861: 2) also showed the data of 1850, but they are almost identical to and less detailed than the 1849 data indicated in Tsubouchi 1998: 136 (the original data are Jackson 1850). – The category “Other Asians” seems to include indicated subcategories. – The category “Europeans” seems to include indicated subcategories. – For Indians, Braddel and Newbold use different subcategories, which are difficult to identify exactly. I used a larger category, “Indians,” as it is certain that the subcategories all fall in this category. – The figures of Bugis between 1832 and 1836 include small numbers of Balinese and others. – Kafirs are non-Muslim natives. * This figure is indicated as “Eurasians” in the original source ** This figure includes Boyanese (232); convicts (1,500), military (487), patients (70), hospital[ised] Europeans (17), and floating population [i.e., people living on boats] (3,000). *** This figure includes Balinese (149), Boyanese (763), Cochin-Chinese (27), Siamese (5), soldiers (609), convicts (1,548), people living on boats (2,995), and those without fixed abode (1,000). 192 ota credit and goods. Nearly all the Chinese immigrants came from the provinces of Guangdong or Fujian, and comprised four major dialect groups: Hokkien, Teochew, Cantonese, and Hakka. The Hokkiens were the most numerous, and dominated Singapore’s commercial life from the beginning. Their main business rivals, the Teochews, were the second largest community. Cantonese generally came as agricultural laborers, tin miners, or artisans, and included most of Singapore’s carpenters, tailors, goldsmiths, and masons. Hakka settled mainly as laborers. Straits-born and some successful China-born immigrants settled down to permanent family life in Singapore, and several leading merchants became British subjects under a naturalization law passed in 1852. Most immigrants, however, hoped to make enough money to return to China within a few years. The sex imbalance was enormous, although mixed-blood women were often considered “Chinese.” The relaxation of the emigration laws in China in 1859 and government efforts to solve the sex imbalance did not bring a result, apart from prostitutes imported by secret societies, throughout the period in question.21 Although the Malay community continued to grow, it soon lost its position of predominance. Immigrants from Melaka, Sumatra, and the Riau Islands mingled with the existing Malay population and with Javanese and others from the eastern islands. Most of the Malay immigrants were employed in humble occupations such as boatmen, fishermen, woodcut- ters, or carpenters. The sexes were evenly balanced among the Malays.22 Early Indians were mostly soldiers or camp followers, although there were also a few merchants, mainly from Penang’s mercantile community. By 1860, most Indians became traders or laborers, while a small number of garrison troops, camp followers, and convicts were still coming. The majority were South Indian, although there were Sikhs (known in the Straits Settlements as “Bengalis”), Punjabis, Gujaratis, Bengalis, and a few rich Parsis. Most were young men, who skimped and saved to accumulate enough money to return home to settle. In the early years, Indian convicts supplied Singapore with a steady supply of cheap labor for public works. Convicts were allowed a great deal of freedom, and after a certain period working in heavy manual labor, they were taught skills to enable them to earn an honest living after their release, such as brick making, weaving, tailoring, rope making, printing, carpentry, and photography. Many convicts released after their term chose to remain in Singapore as permanent settlers. Very few Indian women came to Singapore

21 Turnbull 1972: 21; Turnbull 2009: 33, 55, 72. 22 Turnbull 2009: 55–56. toward cities, seas, and jungles 193 until the 1860s, but some Indian Muslims and many ex-convicts married Malay girls and settled down, producing the Jawi-Peranakan group.23 The Bugis, originally from South Sulawesi, migrated from Riau. After their conflicts with the Dutch authorities in Riau in 1820, a number of the Bugis, including women and children, migrated to Singapore. The Resident of Singapore welcomed them, expecting growth in the prized Bugis trade. The Bugis, the sexually well balanced group, almost monopolized Singapore’s trade with the eastern islands of the Archipelago until the 1830s. However, as the Dutch lifted trade restrictions and Chinese shipping grew in dominance in the Archipelago trade, the Bugis traders lessened their hold, and their population shrank by 1860.24 Of the smaller groups, barely half of the Europeans were adult British men. Europeans were disproportionately influential, and continued to fill all the upper and middle-grade official posts and provided most of the trading capital. The first Baghdad Jew arrived in 1836. The Arabs came immediately after the establishment of Singapore, largely from Hadhramaut in present-day Yemen, and some from Palembang (Southwest Sumatra) and Java. Armenians migrated from their former bases in Brunei and the Philippines. These groups prospered in their business. The original sea nomad groups disappeared as separate communities, as they became absorbed in the on-shore population, drifted off to other places, or died in smallpox epidemics.25 Chinese kongsi (joint enterprises) successfully ran gambir and pepper plantations in early Singapore. As early as in 1819, about twenty gambir plantations worked by Chinese and Malays exported the product to China.26 After the 1830s, British dyeing and tanning industries became the main market for Singapore’s gambir. Gambir production reached its peak in the late 1840s, by which time there were 600 gambir and pepper plantations under cultivation, employing about 6,000 to 8,000 Chinese laborers as planters or coolies, nearly all Teochews. Soon later, however, as the forest was destroyed in order to boil gambir and the soil was exhausted, the plantations moved to Johor.27 Until the passing of the Chinese Immigration Ordinance in 1880, the distribution of coolie immigrants was handled by brokers, who were often senior members of China-based secret societies, which had strong relationships with the Chinese communities in Singapore. Agents of the secret societies

23 Turnbull 2009: 34, 56, 74–75. 24 Turnbull 1972: 21; Reid 1993b: 24–28; Turnbull 2009: 32–34, 41, 56–57. 25 Turnbull 2009: 56–58, Chung 2011. 26 Gambir is an astringent extract used in dying and tanning. In Southeast Asia, it is also popularly used as a material for betel chewing. 27 Trocki 1990: 68–78; Turnbull 2009: 63. 194 ota also sometimes drugged, kidnapped, or tricked youths in China. Many of these poor migrants died during their voyage and their initial detention in Singapore because of the unhealthy environments.28 By the mid-1850s Chinese migration reached a new peak because of the civil war and impoverishment in South China. In the year 1853–54, when the Short Daggers Rebellion was suppressed in Fujian in 1853, more than 13,000 Chinese immigrants arrived in Singapore. The influx of the rebels and refugees upset the power balance among the secret societies, which led to renewed tension and fighting, and resulted in great atrocities and murder.29 Prominent Chinese were, however, excellent go-betweens for the British authorities to deal with the different dialect groups. Making use of their good relationship with the authorities, they made enormous fortunes through their business such as ship chandlery, department stores, and retailing shops, and especially through their investment in land and plantations.30 Although the authorities proposed checks on immigration to prevent the influx of criminals or sick paupers and to stem the evils of the coolie trade and the traffic in prostitutes, the merchant community in Singapore would tolerate no restrictions on immigrant labor. According to C. M. Turnbull, free immigration was a cardinal principle in Singapore, second only to the preservation of free trade.31 Batavia was, upon its establishment in 1619, planned as a migrant settlement. After the Dutch conquest of Jakarta, the local Javanese population had fled either to neighboring Banten or upcountry. In order to develop this extremely sparsely populated land, the Governor-General of the VOC pursued a policy to populate their city with Chinese migrants, expecting them to promote the junk trade with various ports in China and Southeast Asia. The Javanese and Sundanese (people originated from West Java) were prohibited from settling in Batavia. This policy was quite successful. In addition to the migrants from Banten, Chinese junks brought migrant workers, mostly from China but also from Cambodia, for the building of the city, although forcible measures were also conducted such as the kidnapping of people along the China coast and the forced migration from nearby Javanese port towns. Nevertheless, a large number of workers chose to settle in Batavia, finding their livelihood in the rapidly developing city.32

28 Turnbull 2009: 70–72. 29 Turnbull 2009: 72. 30 Turnbull 2009: 72–73. 31 Turnbull 2009: 76. 32 Blussé 1986: 80–81, Raben 1996: 83–85, 134–135. toward cities, seas, and jungles 195

Batavia was also a slave settlement. The VOC and private Dutch and Indonesian traders brought a larger number of slaves, first mostly from Arakan and India, and small numbers from Madagascar and Africa. After the 1660s, when the VOC conquered Makassar, the majority were imported from the Archipelago (largely from Makassar and Bali). Because of the continuing slave trade, in spite of the high death rate, low reproduction, and incessant desertion and manumission, slaves formed around fifty percent of the population of Batavia city throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Table 7). Marcus Vink estimated the changing scale of the Dutch slave trade in the Indian Ocean during the seventeenth century.33 The slave import was, however, not consistent business. It reached a peak in the 1660s and 1670s, but after 1680 the VOC authorities attempted to restrict the import, because of an increasing number of cases of robbery, murder, and plunder by escaped slaves. This policy was applied with a varying degree of strictness in the following years. A statistic in 1720 shows, for example, that 1,164 men and 985 women slaves were imported legally into Batavia. After 1722, the restriction tended to be loosened because of the strong demand. A record in 1779 tells that 4,000 slaves were being imported into Batavia annually. From the third quarter of the eighteenth century, the VOC attempted to secure slaves from the Lesser Sunda Islands, especially Sumba. In the last quarter of the century, Makassarese and Endehnese marauders brought their captured people for slavery in Batavia.34 Most slaves were employed by the VOC in the shipyard and in the artisan’s workshops, or sold to private citizens. A number of Balinese slave women were married to free citizens, compensating for the small female population. After manumission upon the master’s death or for other reasons, the liberated Asian Christian slaves, called mardijkers, formed their communities with a strong sense of identity and self-segregation (Table 7).35 The boom of Chinese migration came with the lifting of the maritime ban in China by the Qing government in 1683. The Chinese population reached a peak in the city in 1729, while a large part of the Chinese migrants was absorbed in the Ommelanden (environs) of Batavia. The VOC government in Batavia encouraged them to take up market gardening and agricultural pursuits in the virgin fields of the Ommelanden, by offering incentives and privileges from the mid seventeenth century. Sugar cultivation soon developed as a Chinese industry. Chinese entrepreneurs ran sugar plantations and mills in

33 Raben 1996: 120–125; Vink 2003: 139–146. 34 Raben 1996: 125–28. 35 Blussé 1986: 81; Raben 1996: 87–8, 120–130; Raben 2000: 95–96, 101–102. 196 ota

Table 7 Population of Batavia and the Ommelanden, 1673–1797

1673 1679 1689 1699 1709 1719 1729 1739 1749 1759 1769 1779 1789 1797

Batavia City Slaves 9938 10731 11985 12505 11819 13503 14760 11068 8717 10046 9163 6636 4063 4339 Chinese 2335 2484 2836 3679 3853 4091 4856 4199 1590 2419 2220 1826 1508 1978 Mardijkers(1) 1682 1370 1980 2407 2046 1773 1633 1039 1328 1555 898 676 479 533 Europeans 1711 1781 1774 1783 1671 1541 1523 1276 1541 1564 1271 839 545 478 Mestizos 625 449 543 670 590 630 612 421 677 606 861 160 257 307 Indonesians(2) 1449 1145 579 537 376 331 199 241 187 514 677 343 Indian Muslims(3) 354 330 189 152 118 58 101 210 354 78 Muslims(4) 280 539 862 Total 17740 17960 20051 21911 20544 22021 23701 18302 14141 16914 15444 10838 7364 8497 Ommelanden(5) Slaves 3343 5264 14183 13216 13929 12471 15729 13254 15246 17111 21635 34018 32906 Chinese 392 522 2333 4395 6392 7550 7463 10574 10042 23615 26064 30637 32626 Mardijkers(1) 3680 4834 5658 5515 6903 6634 6393 5247 5531 5069 4306 3749 2507 Europeans 313 353 388 475 412 308 232 272 318 335 388 304 492 Mestizos 101 170 422 507 380 640 438 504 513 467 363 287 256 Indonesians(2) 1482 2450 22199 24635 26920 36504 48277 37728 44583 63387 60555 90914 73031 Indian Muslims(3) 367 945 645 1329 425 650 782 866 1377 1306 1322 Hindus(6) 322 180 199 Total 9311 13593 45550 49688 55581 65436 78957 68229 77015 111172 114868 161215 143339

the Ommelanden, employing Chinese and local workers. Considering the fact that many newcomers were unregistered to avoid poll tax, the rapidly expanding Chinese population figures in Table 7 are probably an underestimate. The Dutch attempt to regulate the Chinese migration had only limited effect among the registered migrants. The illegal migration continued to increase.36 The rapid increase of the Chinese population created a tension. Unregistered newcomers in the Ommelanden were frustrated with the exploitative and cor- rupt Dutch authorities, and they raised a revolt against them in 1740. The news of the revolt provoked a panic among the Dutch residents in Batavia. They massacred thousands of Chinese, and many others fled for survival. As a result,

36 Blussé 1986: 80–85; Raben 1996: 88–97, 133–137. toward cities, seas, and jungles 197

Table 7 Population of Batavia and the Ommelanden, 1673–1797

1673 1679 1689 1699 1709 1719 1729 1739 1749 1759 1769 1779 1789 1797

Source: Raben 1996: 306–332 Note: (1) This category is indicated as “Asian Christians” in Batavia City after 1779. (2) This category includes Javanese, Malays, Ambonese, Bugis, Makassarese, Balinese, and all other groups from various places in the Malay Peninsula and the Indonesian Archipelago. A small number of Moors (Indian Muslims) are also included in this category in the Ommelanden in 1673 and 1679. (3) Indicated as Moors in the original sources. The background of their immigration, which “swelled” after 1750, is not clear. This category also includes a small number of “gentiles” (Hindu merchants from Coromandel) in Batavia City from 1689 to 1769 (Raben 1996: 97, 176). (4) Indicated as such in the original sources. It is not clear who they were and where they were from. (5) The regions indicated as “the Ommelanden” in 1673 and 1679 were smaller than those after 1689. (6) Hindu merchants from Coromandel. Indicated as Gentieven (literally gentiles) in the original sources. 198 ota the Chinese population sharply dropped to less than 1,000 and 4,000 respectively in Batavia city and the Ommelanden in 1742.37 The Chinese population, however, quickly recovered. Those in Batavia increased to more than 2,000 by the late 1750s, although thereafter it slowly decreased as the economy and environment deteriorated and malaria intermit- tently spread in the city. By contrast, the Ommelanden experienced a steady increase in the Chinese population, continuously receiving new migrants, registered or unregistered. For example in 1754, seven junks carried 4,608 passengers, of whom 1,928 were reported. The Chinese population recovered to the pre-Massacre level within a decade, and continued the upward trend toward the late 1780s.38 The eighteenth-century increase in the Chinese population in the Ommelanden was little doubt related to the sugar industry. Although many scholars have discussed the “fatal” damage of the 1740 Chinese Massacre on sugar production, in fact production recovered to the pre-1740 level by 1749, and during the 1750s and the 1760s the VOC export of sugar remained the largest level in the eighteenth century.39 In the 1770s, Amoy junks still annually shipped to Batavia 12,000 to 13,000 Chinese coolies, some of whom likely became unskilled laborers in the sugar industry in the Ommelanden. The junk trade itself was declining in the late eighteenth century, but junks continued to visit Batavia, mostly carrying laborers from South China. For example, in 1750– 59 junks from Amoy (Xiamen), Canton (Guangzhou), Ningbo carried respectively 25,997 men (by 61 ships), 2,453 (14), and 583 (5) to Batavia.40 The large number of newcomers implies that many of the migrant laborers returned home after a short period, although some of them settled down. By the 1790s, apart from the sugar industry, some Chinese settlers were engaged in the culti-

37 Blussé 1986: 19, 87–93. 38 Blussé 1986: 31–34; Raben 1996: 138; Van der Burg 2000: 66–67. 39 Ota 2006: 133–135. I base this argument on the examination of the VOC trade ledger. The sugar industry maintained its operation in shifting locations from the east to the west part of the Ommelanden, and further to the eastern part of Banten, throughout the eighteenth century (Ota 2006: 135). In addition, a VOC record created at the factory in Surat (Northwest India) notes that after 1760, private European and Asian merchants imported Java sugar, mostly from the Ommelanden, to Surat even in larger amounts than the VOC imported (Boomgaard 1989a: 99; Nadri 2008: 82–83). 40 The large difference in the capacity of people per junk (116.6 to 426.2 men) derives from the varying sizes of junks, which ranged from 150 tons to more than 1,000 tons (Van Dyke 2011: 227–228). toward cities, seas, and jungles 199 vation of vegetables, while others were conducting local trade with neighboring regions.41 In the late eighteenth century there were some 30,000 to 50,000 Javanese in the Ommelanden as the VOC control weakened. Large numbers of them worked in the sugar mills, while others cultivated rice for themselves, opening dry fields in the woods. Some of them seem to have been seasonal workers.42 Batavia also witnessed military migration. Since the 1610s the VOC mobilized Asian soldiers, initially largely from mardijkers, in their wars in Asia. However, as their number waned from the 1650s onward, the VOC started to recruit warrior groups from Ambon, Sulawesi, Bali, and other parts of Java, and made them settle near Batavia under their direct surveillance. Hundreds to several thousand of these Asian soldiers, up to some 4,524 in a case in 1720, were deployed each time in almost all the VOC expeditions in Asia until the end of the eighteenth century. The immigrants remained under the command of their headmen, who received lands in fief to support their people when they were not abroad. Ambonese, Bugis, Makassarese, and Balinese formed their kampong (villages), and manumitted slaves also joined them. Although the Dutch attempted to segregate them in each ethnic group, the migrants gradually intermingled through intermarriage and mixed residence. As a result, their identities did not rest much on their ethnicities, although some groups maintained their strong identities, such as Chinese, mardijkers, and Moors (Indian Muslims), often based on religion.43 Towards the end of the eighteenth century, drafting Asian soldiers in the Ommelanden became difficult, reportedly because of the depopulation but more likely because people disliked incessant recruitments. After the Fourth Anglo-Dutch War (1780–84), the Dutch abolished the kampong as recruitment bases one by one, and they relied entirely on fresh recruits in the outstations by the early nineteenth century.44 An increasing number of Indonesian and Chinese men were also employed as sailors on the VOC ships during the eighteenth century. First, they were preferred working on intra-Asian routes, but as the labor shortage became acute because of the high mortality among Europeans, they also worked on the return ships to Europe. During the 1780s and 1790s, 1,500 to 2,500 Indonesian, Chinese, and other Asian slave sailors were employed in service of the VOC.45

41 Ota 2006: 135–137; Ota Forthcoming; Van Dyke 2011: 225–227. 42 Raben 1996: 147–149. 43 Raben 1996: 88–97, 142–45, 243–247; Raben 2000: 94–104, 113. 44 Raben 1996: 145–146. 45 Raben 1996: 145. 200 ota

Although nineteenth-century censuses in and around Batavia used different categories from those in the previous centuries, it is still possible to point out significant changes in the population trend. The Ommelanden was divided into two parts, which were respectively incorporated into Residencies of Batavia and Buitenzorg in 1815. Thus Table 8 shows the population trend in Batavia city and the northern part of the former Ommelanden.46 The most significant change is the large increase of the Indonesian population. There was no longer a bar to the influx of the Sundanese and Javanese, and the expansion of the Dutch territory made the interisland transportation and migration easier. The new migrants tended to intermix, and absorbed the developing Batavian culture. Indonesians born in Batavia generally came to be called Orang Betawi. They spoke their own language, a distinctive dialect of Malay, and they also developed their own customs and culture, mixing their original cultures. Being a pious Muslim was another strong base of their identity. They made their living from the cultivation of cash crops such as sirih and fruits,47 the production of a little handicraft like batik, and the performance of services such as cart driving and laundering.48 Although slave trade was prohibited in Java in 1813, the eventual abolition of slavery was attained only in 1860. Susan Abeyasekere speculates that there were more than the reported 19,483 slaves in Batavia and its environs in the data of 1812–13, because of owners’ negligence in reporting to the authorities. The vast majority of slaves lived in Batavia city. A slave list in 1816 shows approximately 12,480 slaves in and around Batavia (again, this should be an underestimate), of which 42.9 and 19.7 percent were respectively from Sulawesi and Bali. Thousands of slaves were imported from these respective places to Batavia, often through involuntary ways such as tricks or kidnapping, by predominantly European and some Chinese slave dealers. Many of them died shortly after landing, because of the poor hygiene conditions. In addition, the low reproduction rate among slaves, connected with their unbalanced sex ratio (approximately 63:37 of men and women), created a large demand for slaves every year. Slaves mostly worked for domestic service, while it was also customary for them to work in business and retailing because of the absence of a well-established free labor force. Female slaves, especially those from Bali and Makassar, were desirable concubines too. A large part of the slave owners were Europeans, and female owners were not rare. The number of slaves was

46 Boomgaard & Gooszen 1991: 69–70, 93–108, 122–130. 47 Sirih is a material for betel-nut chewing. 48 Abeyasekere 1989: 64–67. toward cities, seas, and jungles 201

Table 8 Population of the Province of Batavia, 1812–1850

1812 1820 1830 1840 1850

Indonesians* 133,560 152,000 218,116 251000 303,973 Europeans 2,187 2,715 2,720 3,348 3,374 Chinese 25,187 22,833 30,015 33,226 40,578 Other Asians 411 529 772 617 813 Total 161,345 178,007 251,623 288,191 348,738

Source: Boomgaard & Gooszen 1991: 69–70, 93–108, 122–130 * Indicated as “Indigenous” in Boomgaard and Gooszen 1991. Slaves are counted as part of the indigenous population, not being included in “Other Asians” in the original records.

declining throughout the nineteenth century, as liberal ideas become more fashionable, and the rising population provided a ready supply of labor.49 The Chinese, mainly Hokkien, continued to immigrate, and they were absorbed into the existing Peranakan (locally born) Chinese community. Many of them settled in the rural environs as farmers, particularly in Tangelang, to the west of the city, while some became very wealthy, successful in their business such as plantation management.50 Other groups also immigrated to nineteenth-century Batavia. Arab traders from the Hadhramaut began arriving at the start of the nineteenth century. They were highly respected as religious leaders, while some of them were extremely successful businessmen, although they were never more than a few hundred. The numbers of the Indians diminished, as the Indian trade had fallen off with the British conquest of India. There were very few “private” Europeans until 1870, and most were employed by some arm of government, either civilian or military. It was only after the introduction of the liberal system around 1870 that private capital was allowed to be invested in the industry in the Dutch East Indies, and private European businessmen started their enterprises. There were only 1,363 European women by 1900 (still ten times as many as fifty years earlier). Most women classified as European were Eurasian, whose language, lifestyle, and culture were assimilated to those of Indonesians.51

49 Abeyasekere 1983: 287–310. 50 Abeyasekere 1989: 61–62. 51 Abeyasekere 1989: 57–60, 63–64, 75–76. 202 ota

Table 9 Size of the Chinese population and Chinese miners in Bangka, 1803–1852

1803 1823 1849 1852

Miners 680+ 4000+* – Hakka 4178** – Hoklo 278 – Peranakan 754 Kampong Chinese 3000– Total 7000 9000 14000 Mines 55+ 200+

Source: Somers Heidhues 1992: 18, 30–32, 42, 47 Note: * This figure includes a small number of women and children. ** The figures of Hakka, Hoklo, and Peranakan in this year included miners and other adult Chinese.

Migration to Mining Settlements

Tin mines were discovered in Bangka around 1710, and it was the Chinese Muslims (or Malays of Chinese descent) from Johor that first developed the mining under the approval of the Sultan of Palembang. From the 1730s, Malay migrants from Minangkabau (West Sumatra), Riau, Pontianak (West Kalimantan), and Java worked at mines, but production increased only sporad- ically. By 1755, Chinese workers had become the majority of the workforces in the mines, and production started to increase steadily. Palembang-based Tiko (Mandarin dage, elder brother) officials of part Chinese descent managed tin mines in Bangka. The Tikos organized co-operative joint ventures later called kongsi, in which mine workers also became shareholders after having paid off their debt for passage.52 In 1803, a report counted 55 mines in operation and 680 Chinese mine workers, although the reporter believed there were more of both. Under the British rule (1812–1816), kongsis were brought under the direct control of the British Resident at Bangka. Chinese agents recruited mine workers in the mountainous regions of Guangdong province, mostly Hakka and in some cases Hoklo (people from the lowlands near Shantou). The British Resident made an arrangement with the representatives of the English East India Company at Canton to secure the recruitment of mine workers in China. As a result, the

52 Somers Heidhues 1992: 6–15, 38–40. toward cities, seas, and jungles 203 workforce of about 2,000 miners on the island increased to about 3,600 men in the first three months of 1814. This was a sort of forerunner of European coolie trade.53 Under the Dutch rule (1816–1942), which basically took over the British system in the mining management, the production steadily increased, along with the increase in Chinese migrant population. In 1823, in addition to over 4,000 miners, there were nearly 3,000 kampong Chinese, who must have been engaged in local trade and other mining-related business. In 1849, apart from the miners shown in Table 9, there were 1,277 adult women, 1,010 boys and 934 girls under twelve years old, and several hundred more were “old and frail men.” In 1852, three-fourths of the adult males were mineworkers. The majority of them came from the mountainous areas of Guangdong province. Hakka were dominant in mines, while Hoklo also came to work in the mines or settled as fishermen along the coast. As an increasing number of newcomers arrived, some of them became wageworkers, not shareholders.54 Gold mining in northwest Kalimantan seems to have started in the sixteenth century,55 but it was in the 1740s that the local rulers attempted to increase the gold production by importing Chinese laborers.56 Gold was exported mostly to China, and the rest was sent to Siam, Java, and later Singapore.57 Chinese mining enterprises took the form of kongsi, and their territories, which expanded within the Sultanates of Sambas and Mempawa, soon became almost independent states by the early ninetieth century, gaining economic power through the export of gold. People from the same region tended to organize in kongsi, although the members were mixed after the merger and re-merger of kongsi. Most of the members of the Thaikong and Samtiaokioe Kongsis were from Lufeng and Hilai on Guangdong’s coast, while those in Lanfang Kongsi were

53 Somers Heidhues 1992: 18, 30–32, 42. 54 Somers Heidhues 1992: 31, 38–47. 55 A local tradition states that trade in gold commenced in the reign of the sixth ruler of Sukadana, Panembahan Bandala (Veth 1854–56: I, 191). 56 Apart from the fact that the first Chinese miners made their settlement in the upstream of Sambas about 1740, little is known about the early settlements. 57 A part of gold exported to China was made into gold thread, which was re-exported to Southeast Asia (Somers Heidhues 2003: 50). The VOC did not obtain much gold in Pontianak, as the inland gold-mining districts preferred to sell their gold to other neighboring ports because of meager payments from the Sultan and traders of Pontianak (Ota 2010b: 76–79). Different from the gold mining in Padang (northwest Sumatra), where the VOC successfully purchased much larger amounts of gold for a longer period (Jacobs 2006: 164–176, 366), gold minting is not known in northwest Kalimantan. 204 ota

Table 10 Chinese migrants related to gold mining in West Kalimantan, 1810–1905

1800s 50,000 1828 16,000+ 1860s 25,000 1905 48,348

Source: Somers Heidhues 2003: 67–78, 128–130 predominantly from Meixiang (the Hakka “heartland”) or from Dapu, both in upland Guangdong.58 As the mining settlements expanded, the kongsi needed coastal ports in order to import laborers and necessities, and to export gold. The Lanfang Kongsi used Pontianak, the capital of the Sultanate of Pontianak established in 1771, as its gateway after 1787. A large number of the Chinese in Pontianak were migrant merchants, who had dominated the trade with the inland regions by 1810. They bought Chinese goods from Chinese junks, which annually visited Pontianak, mostly from China and partly from Siam. In exchange they sold local goods, above all gold to the junks. Some of them also distilled arrack, or cultivated vegetables, while others were smiths, carpenters, and dyers. Singkawang was another prosperous port town subordinate to the mining district of Monterado, in the thirty kilometres upstream, until the 1850s. The largest part of its population were the Chinese, although their number is not clear. They ran shops for the sale of rice, meat and other daily needs and opium, or cultivated rice, culinary vegetables, sugar cane, maize, plantains, and a variety of fruits. These Chinese merchants were for the most part married, either with Dayak women or with women descended from Chinese unions with Dayak women.59 Junks brought adult male migrants from China for the mines. Their number seemed to have reached a peak, still less than 50,000, in the first years of the 1800s, on board eight to fifteen junks (Table 10). If we apply the number of people on board per junk from Guangdong, about 175, calculated from Van Dyke’s aforementioned data in the 1750s, we can gain the approximate figures of 1,400 to 2,625, as the number of migrants who came to the mines every year. However, junk trade declined by 1811, with only two or three ships coming per year, which means 350 to 525 people. The reduction of the migrants was

58 Somers-Heidhues 2003: 50–64. 59 Leyden 1814: 48–52; Somers Heidhues 2003: 67–70. toward cities, seas, and jungles 205 probably a result of the exhaustion of the gold deposits. In search of new gold deposits, the kongsis attempted to expand their territories, which led to inter- mittent conflicts with the Dutch.60 By the mid nineteenth century, the Dutch colonial authorities suppressed the kongsi, with the intention to establish centralized modern administration. The Chinese population started to climb slowly from the 1860s, and by 1905 the growing Chinese population had occupied 10.7 percent of the total population. The increase in the Chinese population in this time had little to do with gold mining. Collection of forest products, such as jungle rubber and gutta- percha, after around 1850 and later cultivation of cash crops, such as coconuts, pepper, and rubber, all exported to the international market, provided new opportunities.61

Maritime Migration

From the mid eighteenth century, a number of small-scale migrations took place in many places in the coastal areas of the Archipelago, although little statistical record is left. For example, Sukadana, a principal port town in West Kalimantan and the capital of the Sultanate of Sukadana (later called Matan), received waves of migrants, especially from the Riau Islands, where the capital of the Sultanate of Johor was placed. This was little doubt related to the development of Riau as a trade hub since around 1760. Bugis and Malay traders sailed from Riau to various ports in the Archipelago to purchase local products, and a part of them seem to have settled around Sukadana and other ports. Local rulers also attempted to attract migrants, sometimes providing the land for their settlements, in order to promote trade in their ports.62 Riau was a key place of maritime migration in the western part of the Archipelago in the eighteenth century. During and after the long VOC military campaign and the fierce internal warfare in South Sulawesi in the 1660s, a number of the Makassarese and the Bugis (they were often collectively called the Bugis outside their homeland) had migrated to various places in the Archipelago, including Riau. After decades of struggles with the existing Malay noblemen of the Sultanate of Johor in Riau, around 1760 the Malay royal family and the influential Bugis family established a system where they occupied the hereditary positions respectively of the Sultan and of the Raja Muda (vice- roy). Riau prospered through the trade with India, China, and all of Southeast

60 Somers Heidhues 2003: 76–78. 61 Somers Heidhues 2003: 128–130. 62 Ota 2010b: 72–73. 206 ota

Asia. Chinese entrepreneurs and their fellow countrymen also came to Riau and opened pepper and gambir plantations. Carl A. Trocki has estimated the Chinese population in Riau in 1780 to be about 25,000.63 A Johor chronicle counted 50,000 Malays, excluding the Orang Laut,64 and 40,000 Bugis in Riau around the same period.65 These figures in the chronicle were probably an exaggeration, but their large-scale migration and later their diaspora in fact affected other places in the western Malay world. Riau’s prosperity, however, did not last long. The “smuggling” from the assumed “Dutch sphere of influence” to Riau frustrated the Dutch, and as a result they conquered its capital in 1784. After this and following wars, most of the Bugis and Malays migrated to other places, among others in the western part of the Archipelago.66 The wars in Riau also resulted in an increase in migration. Malays, Orang Laut, and Bugis from Riau, as well as Iranun, Arabs, and those from Palembang and Siak (East Sumatra) started raids on passing ships in the waters without strong state control, while some of them also chose to settle in the coastal areas. For example, in West Kalimantan, migrants of Malays, Orang Laut, Bugis, Iranun, Arabs, Chinese, and their slaves, from Riau and elsewhere, had resided in small settlements by 1822 (Table 11). These groups of maritime migrants were demographically small. For example, there were about 1,400 mixed migrants in settlements such as Ketapang, Bengadong, and Kendawangan in total in the Sultanate of Matan, vis-à-vis around 12,000 local Dayak and 1,680 Orang Bugit (Malay-Dayak ethnic mixture) in 1822. However, as all of these settlements were established after a war in 1786, which had driven the original coastal residents to the interior, the presence of the maritime migrants who filled the uninhabited land must have still been remarkable in the coastal areas. Some of these migrants conducted maritime raids in the nearby waters in “piratical” season, but a large part of them were engaged more in trade and collection of local products, especially marine products sought after in China, such as sea cucumber and tortoise shells. A part of them also provided their naval forces for the local rulers in times of war.67 Migrants were dominant also in the capitals of the local kingdoms in West Kalimantan. In Pontianak, 3,000 Malays, 1,000 Bugis, and 100 Arabs resided in

63 Trocki 1997: 97. 64 The Orang Laut are a group of Malays who share some degree of identity connected to their choice to live on boats rather than on land. 65 Ali Haji 1982: 161–162. 66 Lewis 1995: 87–88; Trocki 1979: 17–25; Vos 1993: 121–125. 67 Ota 2010b: 84–92. toward cities, seas, and jungles 207

Table 11 Maritime migrants in the Sultanate of Matan, West Kalimantan, 1810 and 1822

Malay Bugis Arabs Chinese Iranun slaves Malays, Arabs Those from and other Sulu, Orang foreigners Laut, and Malays

Sultanate 840 100 12 22 200 330 of Matan Pontianak 3000 1000 100 ?68 Kubu 4–500 Karimata 900+ Islands

Source: Ota 2010b: 81, 84–92 Note: Pontianak: 1810; other places: 1822. All approximate figures

1810, apart from unknown numbers of Chinese.69 They migrated from elsewhere after its establishment on very sparsely populated land in 1771. The residents of Gayong of the Sultanate of Matan, that is, 500 Malays, 40 Bugis, 10 Arabs, and 250 slaves in 1822, presumably partly moved from the previous capital Matan during the war in 1786, and partly migrated from elsewhere. The intermarriage between the Malay migrants and the local Dayak had created 300 Orang Bugits. Apart from Malay noblemen, most of these town dwellers were merchants and traders. In Pontianak, the Bugis were chiefly engaged in trading to Penang, Java, and Bali, and manufacturing cloth. The Arabs also tended to devote themselves to trade. Slaves were used mostly for subsistence agriculture when their masters went for trade or maritime raids, while some slaves also participated in piracy.70 In North Sulawesi, in which Asian trade prospered and Westerners intervened from relatively early times, maritime migrants played an important

68 The same source also mentions 10,000 Chinese in the population of Pontianak, but this figure seems too large and it probably includes the Chinese in the nearby gold-mining districts. In addition, this Chinese figure is included in Chinese migrants related to gold mining, as I show in Table 10. For these reasons I do not include the Chinese figure in this table. 69 See note 68. 70 Leyden 1814: 48–52; Ota 2010b: 81–84, 89–92. 208 ota role in the collection and export of local marine and forest products. Bugis and Mandar migrants were the major players in these activities before 1850, although other Indonesian merchants also joined the trade. Just as in West Kalimantan, the population of these migrant traders was small. Trade in early nineteenth-century Gorontalo, for instance, was exclusively in the hands of the Bugis, yet their total population, including women and children, was 691 in 1824, against an indigenous population of at least 50,000, and probably closer to 80,000. In Minahasa in 1821, there were 281 Bugis, 231 Chinese, and 1,516 Dutch citizens against perhaps 90,000 Minahasan farmers.71 Maritime migration, which entailed activities such as trade, marine- products collection, and raiding, seems to have been a common feature in the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Archipelago. For example, James Francis Warren discussed the migrant settlements of the Bugis and the Iranun dispersed on the North and East Coasts of Kalimantan in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.72 The Orang Laut also frequently migrated in the western part of the Archipelago, seeking protection from local rulers, and chances for trade and collection of marine products, as well as to engage in maritime raids.73

Typological Analysis

“Migration to cities,” according to the CCMR-model, was most noticeable in the urban areas. Although the earliest migration to Penang, Singapore, and Batavia was rather close to the category of “colonization” in very sparsely populated spaces, it soon more clearly became “migration to cities” as these places steadily grew. Most of the migrants were small-scale merchants of trade-related business and semi-skilled artisans, apart from a small number of the extremely rich successful merchants. The population trend of this category of people is indicated in Georgetown in Penang (Table 4) and eighteenth-century Batavia City (Table 7), while we should note that the population figures in Singapore (Table 6) and nineteenth-century Batavia (Table 8) include agricultural laborers in the suburbs. Slaves do not appear as an independent migration category in the outcomes of the CCMR-model for early-modern and modern Europe, but they constituted an important migrant group in old port cities such as Melaka and

71 Henley 2005: 87. 72 Warren 1981. 73 Andaya 1993: 222–224; Barnard 2007; Andaya 2008: 173–201; Lapian 2009: 77–115. toward cities, seas, and jungles 209

Batavia, and settlements of maritime migrants. Their population is indicated in Table 3 (Melaka), Table 7 (Batavia), and Table 11 (West Kalimantan). The weight of the slave population was especially large in the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century port cities. Agricultural and mining migrations seem to fit as sub-categories of the “labor migration” in the CCMR-model.74 Agricultural migration took place on a large scale in the suburbs of the port cities such as Penang, Singapore, and Batavia, and also in Riau. Particular kinds of cash crops attracted migrants, such as sugar in the Ommelanden of Batavia, nutmeg, cloves, and others in the suburbs of Penang and the Province of Wellesley, and gambir in Riau and Singapore. Chinese were dominant migrants in most places apart from Penang and the Province of Wellesley, where Indian and Malays also worked in plantations. Mining migration took place around tin and gold mines. A number of Chinese migrants came to work in the tin mines in Bangka after the 1740s, and the gold mines in northwest Kalimantan after the 1770s. Melaka received waves of migrants heading for tin mines in its suburbs and nearby states in the 1820s and 1840s. Although young unmarried men were dominant in these groups, a small number of migrants who conducted business to supply food and other necessities to workers in mines and plantations were very often married, either with Chinese or local women. The soldiers and sailors in the CCMR-model will include the military migrants in Singapore and in the suburb of Batavia, sailors in VOC ships, and maritime migrants in frontiers such as West Kalimantan and North Sulawesi. Soldiers in early Singapore were mainly Indians, while Ambonese, Bugis, Makassarese, Balinese and others were settled around Batavia. Those employed in the service of VOC ships were Indonesians, Chinese, and other Asians. Maritime migrants included Bugis, Malays, Orang Laut, Iranun, Chinese, Mandar, and others. Although they were sometimes engaged in agriculture, they also largely fall in this category, especially when they worked in trading ships and cooper- ated with local rulers in maritime battles.

74 As the most important occupational sub-groups of the “labor migration” category, the Lucassens mention seamen, soldiers, domestics, and ‘tramping artisans.’ However, as they explain that labor migrants were those who left for periods of several years, young and often unmarried, in order to build up savings to settle as independent producers, or to become economically attractive marriage partners, agricultural and mining laborers fit their category of “labor migration” very well. Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 363–364. 210 ota

Factors Behind the Migration in the Malay Archipelago

What factors promoted the migration in the Archipelago in the period in question? The trade in Singapore deserves analysis for this purpose, because it absorbed the largest number of migrants, and because it imported large parts of the items produced in other principle migration destinations such as plantations, mines, and maritime settlements in the Archipelago.75 The following analysis owes its data to the extensive study by Wong Lin Ken on Singapore trade (1960) unless indicated otherwise. The trade network of Singapore was extended to Europe, India, and all of Southeast Asia, China, Japan, North America, and Australia. The global network of this port, however, did not necessarily mean that all the trade-related people in Singapore were strongly connected to global industrialization. On the contrary, the part of the population connected to global industrialization was relatively small. Britain was the largest single trade partner of Singapore, occupying 15 to 30 percent of Singapore’s total trade. The principle import items from Britain were cotton and woollen textiles, arms and ammunition, iron, copper, and lead, thus all manufactured products or raw materials for industrial manufacture. These items were indeed products of the British industrialization. India was the second largest trade partner, occupying 16 to 26 percent of the total trade in Singapore. Import items from India consisted almost entirely of opium and cotton textiles. Opium imports to Southeast Asia significantly increased after the British stabilization of Bengal in the 1760s. Indian cotton textiles were age-old import items in Southeast Asia, but their trade seems to have grown after the 1760s to a considerable degree. The trade increase of these items was a result of the expansion of the British Empire, but they had little to do with industrialization. It also should be noted that the imports from Europe and India (and also the much smaller imports from America) were almost exclusively handled by the European merchants and their Chinese middlemen at Singapore. The trade to import these items thus influenced the life of a relatively small portion of people in Singapore. The exports from Singapore to Britain and India seem to have consisted of gutta-percha, gambir, tin, pepper, and some others.76 The first three items were

75 Until the 1930s, apart from Java, the exports from the territory which had been gradually incorporated into the Dutch East Indies were still brought to Singapore in a large scale (Lindblad 2002). 76 Wong vaguely mentions that Singapore exported mostly “Straits produce” to Britain and India (Wong 1960: 161). Straits produce, a category of trade items in the Straits Settlements, comprised a bewildering variety of products from the Archipelago such as toward cities, seas, and jungles 211 exported for industrial use in Europe and America. The most important use of gutta-percha was in the coating of trans-oceanic telegraph cables,77 and therefore its export was strongly related to industrialization and the global expansion of the Western imperial network. However, it was only after the 1840s that gutta-percha was discovered in Johor and its production expanded in various places in the Archipelago. Singapore’s gambir was exported to the British dyeing and tanning industries only after the 1830s. Before this period it was largely exported to Southeast Asia, and probably South China as a material for betel chewing. As early as in the 1730s, Chinese settlers opened gambir plantations on Pulau Bintan in Riau Islands for the purpose of export. A large part of the tin and pepper was also exported to China. Thus the export of these items was first for the Chinese market, and only after the 1830s were they brought to Europe and America for industrial use in a significant scale. A large part of the Chinese merchants in Singapore dealt with traders from China, Siam, Cochin China, Cambodia, the Malay Peninsula, Sarawak, and Brunei, the trade with which occupied 22 to 44 percent of the total trade in Singapore. From junk traders coming from China, Singapore-based Chinese merchants bought a wide range of Chinese goods demanded by the Chinese settlers, and also brought in coolies and plantation workers. They redistrib- uted these to the Chinese communities within Singapore and to the traders from Siam, Cochin China, the Malay Peninsula, and other regions in Southeast Asia. To the junk traders from China, Singapore-based Chinese merchants sold tin, gambir, pepper, and all kinds of marine and forest products from the Archipelago; raw cotton, cotton yarn, cotton textiles, and opium from India; and European arms and ammunition.78 Chinese traders based in Singapore also sailed to various places in Southeast Asia, among which Siam was the most important destination. They bought sugar there, and re-exported some of it to Europe. The trade of Singapore-based Chinese merchants and traders thus had little to do with industrialization in Europe or any other countries, apart from the re-export of the Siam sugar, a part of which was consumed by industrial laborers in Europe, and the re-export of the European arms and ammunition to China. Their trade was far more strongly related to consumption in China and Southeast Asia.

pepper and other spices, gambir, tin, coffee, and all kinds of marine and forest products (Wong 1960: 108). There is no information, however, that Singapore exported marine and forest products apart from gutta-percha to Europe in a significant scale. 77 Gutta-percha is the latex-like sap of various varieties of Blanco Palauim. 78 Later the Singapore-based Chinese merchants brought these items to China with their European-style rigged ships. 212 ota

Indonesian traders brought various kinds of marine and forest products from the Archipelago, and sold them mainly to the Bugis merchants based in Singapore. Their trade with the Archipelago constituted 7 to 29 percent of the entire trade in Singapore. In exchange, the Bugis merchants sold to Indonesian traders almost the same items that Singapore-based Chinese merchants sold to the junk traders from China. Products from the Archipelago that Indonesian traders brought to Singapore were almost entirely re-exported to China and Southeast Asia. Their business was again strongly related to consumption in China, and not much to industrialization. The strong Chinese connection in the trade-related business in Singapore does not mean that the British and other Europeans had little influence on the development of Singapore. On the contrary, the British establishment of Singapore as a free international port greatly contributed to the expansion of the trade between China and Southeast Asia. Sino-Southeast Asian trade in Singapore was far larger than that once conducted at older Asian ports such as Riau and Jolo. Facilities and legal protections that the British provided facilitated the trade expansion in Singapore. However, as far as the import and export items are concerned, the British did not bring much new, apart from manufactured items such as British cotton textiles. It was items consumed in China and Southeast Asia that occupied the large part of the Singaporean trade, and provided business opportunities to the Chinese and Bugis migrants in Singapore. The context in which China consumed an increasing amount of Southeast Asian products in the period in question should be analyzed globally. First, China enjoyed a strong economy under the long, stable rule of Qianlong (1735– 96). The increasing interest in foreign items including Southeast Asian natural products such as tin, pepper, birds’ nests, edible marine products and forest products seems to have reflected the emergence of a mass-consumption lifestyle, in particular in the urban, economically advanced areas in China.79 For example, imported tin was used to make joss paper, a paper-thin foil for religious offerings, and alloyed with other metals, to produce objects of daily use such as mirrors, teapots, and metal candlesticks and vases for ancestral alters.80 Against a backdrop of the economic development and strong demand for Southeast Asian products, both Chinese production (production by Chinese migrants) and junk trade of these items increased in the mid eighteenth century. Chinese entrepreneurs started to open pepper plantations worked by Chinese laborers in Riau, Terengganu, and Brunei, and started to send the

79 Blussé 1991; Reid 1997a; Sutherland 2000. 80 Somers Heidhues 1992: 3. toward cities, seas, and jungles 213 products to China by the mid eighteenth century.81 Chinese migrants opened tin and gold mines, and greatly contributed to the increase of production as discussed before. Junk traffic in search of these and other China-bound products through the Melaka Strait increased remarkably from 1760 onward.82 Riau emerged as a principal port for the junk traders to purchase Southeast Asian products around the same time. Second, the British also came into the arena. British country traders (private traders who operated in Asia under the license of the British government in India) brought Western arms and ammunitions and Indian opium and textiles to Southeast Asia, and in exchange they bought tin and pepper in Riau, Bangka, and some other places, and sent them to China from around 1760. The reason that the country traders participated in the Sino-Southeast Asian trade was to facilitate the tea trade between China and Britain. As Chinese tea had become increasingly popular in Northwest Europe, the English East India Company attempted to purchase tea in Canton, the only port open to Western traders. Lacking in popular items for the China market, the British, like other Europeans, attempted to bring Indian products (raw cotton and opium) and Southeast Asian products popular in China, in order to avoid losing precious silver. The production and collection of these China-demanded items also increased in various states in Southeast Asia, stimulated by the benefit of the trade, and also by the attractive items that the British brought. The growing European tea trade in China thus stimulated the existing Chinese interest in Southeast Asian products. It should be noted that the European tea trade in China was expanding, in order to meet the strong demand among the emerging middle class and factory laborers in Northwest Europe. A mass consumption lifestyle, which appeared in the eighteenth century in Northwest Europe and urban China, two poles of the global economy at that time, connected these regions directly through the global trade, and stimulated interregional trade through which some consumed items were brought from other regions, such as the Sino-Southeast Asian trade. This trade created job opportunities for the migrants in Singapore and other ports in the Archipelago. The strong demand for China-bound Southeast Asian products also prompted migration in plantations, mines, and coastal areas.

81 Trocki 1997: 88–89. 82 Lewis 1970: 117; Reid 1997b: 62–71. 214 ota

Conclusion

The relocation of people toward port cities, plantations and mines in the midst of jungles, and the sea areas in the Malay Archipelago discussed above was a new type of migration, propelled by the increasing consumption of Southeast Asian products in urban China. These factors were not isolated within China and Southeast Asia. On the contrary, the increasing consumption of Southeast Asian products in China was a result of global interaction between the con- sumer markets in Northwest Europe and urban China. European presence in the principal trade ports, among others Singapore, provided the facilities and legal protection necessary to promote global trade. It was these forms of globalization that prompted the mass migration in the Archipelago in the period in question. It is no doubt that in the 1850–1940 period, global migration expanded to an unprecedented scale because of the rise of a global economy centred on industrialization. The 1750–1850 period was the era of an approach run for the larger jump in the following period. The prototype of the mass coolie migrations to plantations and mines and urban migration to port cities in the following period had been created in the period in question. The emergence of mass- consumption society in Northwest Europe and urban China and the development of global trade had prompted mass long-distance migration in producing regions of consumed items and global port cities, prior to the industrialization. These types of migration were smaller in scale but no shorter in distance than those in the period of the industrialization. The causal relationship between mass consumption and migration was not an isolated phenomenon in China and Southeast Asia, but a global phenomenon. The migration that took place in the sugar-producing regions in the Caribbean Islands, for example, was strongly related to the increase in consumption, which started in Northwest Europe prior to the industrialization. The economy of eighteenth-century China was strong enough to propel mass migration in the Malay Archipelago, and its impact was still larger there than that of Europe in the period in question. The Art of (not) Looking Back: Reconsidering Lisu Migrations and “Zomia”1

Mireille Mazard

Introduction: A People Who Do Not Look Back

The Lisu, according to anthropologist Otome K. Hutheesing, are “a people who do not look back”.2 Of her informants in northern Thailand, Hutheesing writes:

Very few Lisu men, even fewer women know about their ‘roots’. When questioned about origins they smile faintly and do not seem interested. Some of the old generation can recall names of towns or areas in Burma [where their ancestors lived]. . . . they cite strife and unrest as a motivat- ing factor for their geographic mobility.3

This chapter addresses the mobility and migrations of the Lisu, an ethnicity in Southeast Asia who may or may not constitute a single social group with a single set of “origins.” It traces back the movements that scattered Lisu households and villages over a broad area from Yunnan in the east to India in the west, from northern Myanmar to Thailand and Laos. Today, approximately one million people call themselves “Lisu” (or a recognized equivalent) and speak a variant of Lisu as their mother tongue, yet their culture remains little known outside of Southwest China, where two- thirds of them live. This is partly because their lack of an indigenous written

1 The author thanks David Bradley, Eisel Mazard, Uradyn Bulag, Jan Lucassen and Leo Lucassen for their comments on early drafts. Stéphane Gros, Katherine Swancutt, and Sara Shneiderman were kind enough to discuss theoretical and historical issues before the time of writing. The Lucassens and Adam McKeown encouraged me to think about the broader implications of my case study. All the faults remaining here are entirely my own respon- sibility. Finally, thanks to James Scott for sparking my intellectual interest with his talk on “Zomia” at the University of Cambridge in 2009, and our conversation over drinks afterwards. Scott is known for his generosity of spirit and his willingness to engage in critical discussions of his work. His Anarchist History has already proven to be a rallying point for scholars of the region, and I trust that the criticisms in this paper will be received in the spirit in which they are intended, as a modest contribution to a broader academic dialogue. 2 Hutheesing 1990: 35. 3 Idem: 24.

Map 1 Lisu migrations in South East Asia language means they have never composed their own historical accounts. It is also because Lisu have migrated multiple times over the last five centuries, and have often been concerned with avoiding their more powerful literate neighbors, evading written history in the process. Fragments of Lisu history can be gleaned from the margins of Chinese, Burmese, Thai, British, and other historical records. Lisu people themselves may not understand the formal migration narratives that have survived in archaic language, and Lisu communities’ memories of their journeys do not always correspond neatly to the oft-redrawn boundaries of Southeast Asian states. It would seem that the Lisu have per- fected the art of not looking back. Yet, as I argue in this paper, looking back on their migrations fills an important gap in the otherwise state-dominated historiography of Southeast Asia, and has critical implications for anthropological understandings of the region’s cultural politics. the art of (not) looking back 217

The Lisu migrations (Map 1) take in quite a few of the jagged peaks and steep valleys in the highland massif of Southwest China and Southeast Asia. Willem van Schendel dubs this region “Zomia,” after zomi, a term meaning “highland dweller(s)” in a number of Chin-Mizo-Kuki languages spoken on the borderlands of India and Myanmar (thus, the term is alien to the Lisu, as it is to most other “Zomians”). Rather than having the same type of boundaries as a nation-state such as Thailand or a geo-political entity such as Southeast Asia, Zomia spans multiple nations, being defined as the remote highlands that transect national borders.4 James Scott popularizes a modified form of the Zomia concept in his recent book on The Art of (Not) Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia.5 As the title suggests, his version of Zomia is as much an ideological polemic as it is a history, portraying ethnic minorities as the descendants of the people who fled valley-based civilizations in order to construct their own egalitarian societies in the hills. It is a concerted attack on the idea that “hill tribes” (as they are known in Thailand) are the socially un-evolved ancestors of valley peoples, arguing instead that they are “barbarians by design”6. In other words, political agents in their own right, whose swidden agriculture, cognatic kinship systems, lack of writing, and even slave-raiding practices reflect their active rejection of the hierarchical, rice-farming societies of the lowlands. In Scott’s Zomia, there are only two types of societies: “state” and “non-state”.7 The state societies mainly speak Tai languages, while the non- state societies speak Tibeto-Burman languages such as Lisu. At the center of his theory is the movement of these “non-state” populations from valleys to hills (as refugees or “maroons”) and from hills to valleys (as captives or slaves of the Tai-speaking “state peoples”). The broad movement of fleeing the state for the remote and inaccessible highlands stands in for a more detailed analysis of migration. Scott’s description of Zomia as a cultural and political space succeeds in re-centring minority histories that have heretofore been condemned to the ethnographic fringe, yet his analysis excludes important historical and ethnographic evidence. The two categories of “state” and “non-state” peoples are inadequate to describe the complexities of cultural politics on the ground. The relations between so-called “non-state” peoples are a glaring omission from

4 See Van Schendel 2002, Scott 2009, and Michaud 2010 for discussions of the term “Zomia.” 5 Scott 2009. 6 Idem: 8. 7 cf. Sadan 2010. 218 mazard

Scott’s Zomia, leaving little room for the nuances of hierarchy and egalitarianism, stability and movement. Indeed, the movement of Lisu populations must be understood in the broader context of relations between Southwest China and Southeast Asia’s diverse ethno-linguistic groups. The movements of Lisu families and communities through the highlands often corresponded to what Manning terms “cross-community migration,” describing a move into a new culture and language environment. Manning points to the “role of cross-community migration as a significant mechanism for social evolution”,8 driving innovations and speeding up the rate of social change. While Manning focuses on its positive potential, he also acknowledges that it can lead to cultural and linguistic loss, particularly when cross-community migration occurs in the context of conquest and conflict between groups. The CCMR-model is a rigorous conceptual framework for quantifying migration and analysing its socio-cultural effects on an international scale.9 The six categories of the CCMR-model which contribute to a more reliable history of population movements are: emigration, immigration, colonization of empty space, migration to cities, seasonal migratory labor, and the movements of sailors and soldiers. For a number of reasons, the migrations described here, however, do not conform exactly to these descriptions. First, emigration and immigration are difficult to measure in the history of borderland peoples who inhabited the spaces at the edges of nation-states, and whose nationality—and loyalty—could remain contested even after they had lived in a new host country for decades at a time. This phenomenon is not unique to the highlands of Southeast Asia. Second, highland peoples like the Lisu, Hmong, and Karen migrated within and between Southeast Asian nations for different reasons in peace and war. They escaped violent conflicts by fleeing to different geopolitical spaces, which could simply mean higher altitudes. In peacetime, they shifted ground to find better economic opportunities or better land for their crops. This points to a flexible strategy of migration within Southeast Asia, something akin to the CCMR category of colonization, but rarely occurring in a void. Lisu communities, in fact, preferred migrating to land that was already occupied, where the area’s existing inhabitants had already proven the fertility of the soil. The third reason why Lisu migrations do not quite fit the CCMR-model is that they include a complex spectrum of movements overlapping with several different categories. It is not always advisable to try to separate a seasonal

8 Manning 2006: 26. 9 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009. the art of (not) looking back 219 migration from a colonizing move, for example. A group of Lisu families trying out new land for a season might decide to make their homes there, resulting in hundreds of other Lisu families eventually joining them, as in the Putao valley (northern Burma) or the highlands around Chiang Mai (northern Thailand). It is likely that a few Lisu men and women already lived in the Salween valley before the massive Lisu incursion into Nusu territory there. The categories of the CCMR-model are most useful for the history of the Chinese migrations that form the backdrop to the history described here.10 When considering the colonization of Southwest China, it is important to treat Chinese soldiers as a particular category of migrants who paved the way for waves of Chinese settlers by violently “pacifying” the area’s indigenous inhabitants.11 Chinese military and civilian migrations differed in both quantitative terms and long-term effects. By contrast, to complement the CCMR-model, I suggest that migration within and between the highlands and lowlands of Southeast Asia can best be understood through an approach that treats migration as a flexible cultural strategy, with different ethno-linguistic groups demarcating themselves partly through different attitudes towards migration. The Nusu and Anung, for example, treated migration as a last resort in times of conflict, whereas the Lisu were much more ready to embrace movement to protect their political and economic independence, and regularly sought out new land for their crops. There is a cultural spectrum, therefore, from more to less willing to migrate, and from coerced to willing movement. A strength of the CCMR-model is that it includes all types of population movements, from the forced transport of North African slaves to the profit- driven travels of Dutch sailors.12 From an anthropological perspective, this approach illuminates cultural changes in their full complexity, encompass- ing the outcomes of migration for the immigrants (or emigrants) themselves as well as their host society and the community they departed or were taken from. The present case study contributes to the broad-ranging aim of this volume by considering the cultural aspects of migration history. My own interest in the Lisu migration stems from my ethnographic research not on the Lisu, but on Nusu and Anung communities in the adoptive Lisu homeland of Nujiang Prefecture, northwest Yunnan. Around one-third of the total Lisu population lives in this mountainous and remote area of Southwest China, famed for its extraordinarily diverse ecology that ranges from cacti,

10 See McKeown 2010. 11 Wiens 1954. 12 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 356, 364. 220 mazard plantains, palm trees, and rice paddy in the sub-tropical lower reaches to snowy evergreens on the alpine mountain peaks. Swiddening, also known as “slash-and-burn,” is an important form of agriculture here. The Salween river gorge is the north-west artery that runs through Nujiang Prefecture; the Biluo mountains separate it from the Mekong gorge in the east, while the Gaoligong mountains divide it from Myanmar and the Irrawaddy headwaters in the west. Further south, in the region of Dehong, the Salween gorge tapers off into a rice-farming valley, home to the former garrison town of Tengchong, once a stronghold marking the Qing empire’s south western frontier, and the site of a bloody battle against the Japanese invasion during World War II. The Lisu share the Salween gorge with several other ethno-linguistic groups, including Nusu, Bai, Drung, Lisu-speaking Anung, and Anung-speaking Anung (more on this later). In recognition of position of the Lisus’ position as the local majority population, the Chinese government granted Nujiang the status of Lisu Autonomous Prefecture in 1954,13 meaning that they are guaranteed a certain degree of representation in local government. For Nusu, this is a cause for resentment: as one elder told me, “The Lisu were here a long time ago. . . . But the oldest people here are the Nusu”.14 Many Nusu feel that the massive Lisu migration into Nujiang resulted in severe oppression. The Lisu subjected them to raiding, extortion, slavery, and violent attacks; they were forced to flee further into the inaccessible upper reaches of the highlands, and were deprived of the land that was rightfully theirs. This hardly conforms to Scott’s ideal of “egalitarian” social relations in the highlands. In other climes, as in the communities in northern Thailand where Hutheesing conducted her research,15 it is the Lisu who identify themselves as the oppressed minority who were forced to flee into the highlands. As I discuss elsewhere, Lisu have also acted as petty imperial officials, and as mercenaries for hereditary aris- tocrats, occupying a variety of positions vis-à-vis changing configurations of state power in Southwest China and abroad. In my research on the Nusu, I became fascinated with the question of why and when the Lisu had migrated into the Salween gorge, and how their migration had affected the area’s indigenous communities. Lisu culture, language, and religion have had a profound impact on Nusu and Anung, many of whom now practice a form of Protestant Christianity employing a Bible written in a missionary Lisu script, and singing Lisu-language hymns. However, as I demonstrate here, the Lisu themselves have been transformed through their inter-

13 Zhongguo Shaoshu Minzu Bianxiezu 1981: 591. 14 Cited in Mazard 2011: 19. 15 Hutheesing 1990. the art of (not) looking back 221 actions with other local groups, appropriating people as well as customs from their surroundings. Thanks to the work of scholars like David Bradley, Paul Durrenberger, Kathleen Gillogly, Otome Hutheesing, A. Dessaint, W. Dessaint, Avòunado Ngwâma and Yves Conrad, as well as the Chinese researchers who participated in the PRC’s ethnological projects in Yunnan from the 1950s onwards (and whose work was often published without citing their individual names), there is now a modest but substantive body of ethnographic and linguistic work on the Lisu in disparate communities, at unique moments in time. I have benefited immensely from their research. To my knowledge, this paper represents the first attempt to draw together ethnographic fieldwork with primary and secondary sources in Chinese, English, and French to reconstruct the history of Lisu migrations from their known point of origin in Yunnan to the present day.16 In so doing, I place migrations at the heart of “Zomian” cultural dynamics, reconsidering movement, identity, and power in the highlands of Southeast Asia from the perspective of “a people who do not look back.”

Evidence in Stone and Song

Until the advent of government programs in China and northern Thailand to settle ethnic minority communities in villages and townships with fixed locations, most Lisu communities relied heavily on their freedom of movement to find productive land for cultivation. They practiced a relatively high-intensity form of swidden agriculture that meant fields could only provide food and cash crops (often opium) for a few years at a time before they had to be left fallow. Lisu households moved in accordance with the necessity of finding new farmland when fields ceased to yield good harvests. A. Dessaint provides a clear and detailed account of Lisu migration strategies in northern Thailand.17 Deciding when to move and when to stay put was a delicate calculation that brought a plethora of factors into consideration, from the necessity of planting crops in the right season to the dangers of travelling to a new home. Members of a community might also split off from their village as a non-violent means of resolving an otherwise intractable dispute.

16 For a detailed account of Lisu migrations focusing on their path through colonial Burma, the dynamics of opium cultivation, and the British empire, see K. Gillogly’s PhD thesis (2006: 87 ff.). Due to considerations of space, I have omitted some of the material that appears in Gillogly’s historical account. 17 Dessaint 1971. 222 mazard

Lisu practices of migration over relatively short distances (less than a day’s walk) included prescriptions for managing the spectral dangers along the road in non-Christian communities. “Certain days of the twelve-day cycle [were] considered especially lucky or unlucky for travel” for different households.18 On the morning of the planned journey, villagers sacrificed a chicken and conducted a divination with the bird’s femur bones to determine whether or not they could safely travel; if the reading was unfavourable, the journey would be delayed “and a new sacrifice and reading carried out” later in the day.19 Upon arrival in their new location, villagers first built a spirit shrine that would be the site for regular sacrifices as long as the village continued to exist. In the following passage, Dessaint describes several members of Evil Peaks village departing to join a new community, Red Poppy village, some distance away. This migration over a relatively short distance occurred in a context where multiple migrations from China and Myanmar had led to a high degree of ethno-linguistic diversity. In other words, Lisu were not moving between empty spaces, but between areas already settled by others, giving rise to various forms of conflict and negotiation—or, in this case, cooperation. Dessaint’s description is worth citing in full:

The morning of the day of departure the ancestor spirits were called and told of the move. Everyone ate steamed rice, pork fat, and chicken. In mid-morning, the first to leave of Old Man’s group of households were the young men leading horses packed high with goods. In addition to the group’s own horses, two horses were borrowed from villagers staying behind to go only as far as the motor road. Two Lisu, two Yunnanese [Chinese], and a Karen also helped carry goods. One of the Lisu carriers went as partial payment for a house he was taking over; the other was going to Red Poppy to look for a wife; the three other carriers were going in return for favors or small gifts. Before the move, Old Man’s group had sold or eaten all their pigs and chickens, except for prize roosters. Everyone carried something—a basket of clothes, a Chinese table, or a crossbow. Elders had shoulder bags filled with knives, children carried their favorite roosters, and women carried their umbrellas. This procession moved loudly but only as fast as the slowest of the elders ([who was] 80 years old).20

18 Dessaint 1971: 332. 19 Ibidem. 20 Dessaint 1971: 333. the art of (not) looking back 223

Dessaint explains that “Red Poppy village had been formed a few days before by fourteen households from [the village of] Mae Ya, half a day away”.21 The main loss that a household suffered in each move was the house itself, which they were forced to leave behind. They did, however, take their other belongings with them, including their opium—a commodity ideally suited to a mobile life, since it was light, easy to transport, easily convertible to cash, and, unlike meat or grain, it did not spoil. Gillogly asserts that opium both funded and stimulated migration by providing greater wealth and therefore allowing the Lisu population to increase over time, from its introduction in the mid- to late- nineteenth century onwards.22 There is no doubt that this fungible agricultural wealth was often crucial to the mobility of Lisu families and villages. In the decades following Dessaint’s field research, Lisu communities gradually lost their freedom of movement in northern Thailand as the country intensified its efforts at opium eradication.23 With the assistance of US-funded anti-opium programs, the Thai government encouraged or forced numerous Lisu communities to build settled farms where they would cultivate alternative cash crops such as lettuce or tomatoes.24 Around the same period, Lisu in the PRC had already lost much of their mobility due to programs to collectivize farming, eradicate opium cultivation and eliminate all other forms of swidden agriculture, which the Chinese government considered “primitive” and unproductive. Today, whether by necessity or by choice, many Lisu have abandoned their former highly mobile life, and we may well ask whether Lisu migrations have come to a halt. Yet the knowable history of the Lisu begins with a record of their egress. “Lisu” is now the common standardized version of an ethnonym that varies in different records and locations: “Leisu,” “Leesaw,” “Lisaw,” “Liphaw,” “Leur- seur,” “Lashi,” “Cheli”; also “Yawyin” and “Yobin”.25 “Lutzu” (Luzi in pinyin) is often erroneously added to the list, whereas it actually designates the Nu peoples. The confusion arises precisely because of Lisu migration and assimilation strategies. The meaning of the ethnonym Lisu is contested. Enriquez (a British officer in colonial Burma) claimed that Lisu meant “the people who have come down”,26 while missionary Eugene Morse translated it as “something like ‘loud-custom

21 Ibidem. 22 Gillogly 2006: 122, and 107 ff. 23 Gillogly 2006, see also Renard 1994. 24 Hutheesing 1990. 25 Idem: 34. 26 Enriquez 1921: 72. 224 mazard people.’ What this name, Lisu, tries to describe is a people who are very gregari- ous, expressive and energetic”.27 Maitra based his explanation on an alternate etymology, stating that “Lisu” meant “the group of people who customarily wrap or tie their waist with a long piece of cloth having four folds just like a big belt”.28 There is no consensus over its origins, but Lisu and its permutations echo other Tibeto-Burman ethnonyms indigenous to northern Yunnan, like Nisu, Lipo, and Lahu. The Chinese distinguish three sub-groups of Lisu, which they call “white” (Bai Lisu), “black” (Hei Lisu), and “flowery” (Hua Lisu) after the styles of cloth- ing worn in different communities.29 This costume-based typology is similar to the one they employ for the Dai and the Hmong-Miao,30 but it is not recognized by the Lisu themselves and only loosely correlates to Lisu dialect groups. Different costume styles also relate directly to Lisu migrations and interactions with surrounding communities in their new locations. English-language works on the Lisu, taking their cue from the memoirs of western travellers at the turn of the twentieth century, often speculate that the Lisu “came down” from eastern Tibet at some vague point in history, apparently based on no more solid evidence than the westerners’ opinion that some Lisu “looked Tibetan,” and the idea that their migrations amounted to a concerted southward march.31 On the other hand, Chinese sources like the Lisuzu Shehui Lishi Diaocha32 identify the present-day Lisu with the “Lu barbarians” (Luman) named in records of the Tang dynasty (618–c. 906), and said to have dwelt in the region of Lijiang, an ancient city situated in the Mekong gorge. Since imperial sources employed similar-sounding terms (such as “Luoluo” or “Lolo”) to refer to quite diverse groups of people living in the same general area, this identification raises doubts. A further source of confusion is that the people who lived in the Salween gorge before the arrival of the Lisu were called “Nu” and “Lu” in histories of the Yuan, Ming and Qing empires.33 “Lu” is close to “Luoluo” and to “Nu”; there seems to be no clear indication that it refers to the people who call themselves “Lisu.”

27 Morse 1974: 59, emphasis removed. 28 Maitra 1988: 1. 29 Gillogly 2006: 76–82. 30 Tapp 2002. 31 See Gillogly 2006. 32 “The Social and Historical Study of the Lisu Nationality” (Kunming: Yunnan Renmin Chubanshe 1981). 33 Mazard 2011. the art of (not) looking back 225

What may be the earliest reliable written records to identify the Lisu as a distinct ethnic group place them in the environs of the Mekong gorge in the mid-sixteenth century AD. From that point onwards, the broad outlines of the Lisu migration are as follows: around 1800, a considerable number of Lisu migrated west, crossing the Biluo mountain range (then called Nu Shan, the Nu Mountains) and settling in the Salween gorge. From there, they migrated in Northern Burma starting in the 1850s or thereabouts. A few Lisu settlements eventually sprang up in Arunachal Pradesh. A separate path took some Lisu communities from the Mekong gorge southwest into the Salween valley highlands in the 1800s, towards Wa and Tai areas, circumventing the lower stretches of the Salween gorge. By the start of the twentieth century, Lisu had migrated further south into northern Thailand and even Laos (then the French colony of Indochina). Linguist David Bradley has identified two major dialects of Lisu, the northern and the southern, correlating to the different migration paths described above, as well as a third dialect that is much less widely spoken.34 In the sixteenth century, the Lisu were among a number of different ethno-linguistic groups inhabiting the upper reaches of the Yangtze river (Jinshajiang) in the mountainous environs of Lijiang. The town of Lijiang itself was dominated by the Na peoples who ruled over much of northwest Yunnan as tusi, hereditary feudal chiefs,35 competing with Kham Tibetans as well as the Chinese for local tribute rights, territory, and slaves. Until Ming troops defeated the remnants of the Mongol empire in Southwest China in the late fourteenth century, Na military factions had been allied with the Mongols. The creation of the tusi and tuqian system of proxy rule through “native chieftains” had been a decisive feature of Mongol rule in Southwest China, surviving into the mid- twentieth century despite the Ming and Qing empire’s attempts to subsume Na and other Yunnanese fiefdoms under centralized rule through gaitu guiliu, a policy of so-called territorial reforms.36 A stone inscription in Lijiang commemorating a war in 1548–9 between the Tibetans and the tusi of Lijiang provides evidence of the Lisu presence there. In response to the war, the tusi, who would have been Na, press-ganged a large number of Lisu into his army. The unwilling Lisu soldiers are said to have fled towards the Mekong and Salween gorge, abandoning Lijiang altogether.37 Lisu

34 Bradley 1994, 2006. 35 Yang 2008, ch. 3–4. 36 Yang 2008, ch. 4. 37 Xiao 1994: 69. 226 mazard would often find themselves caught up in the border wars between Tibetans, Na, and Chinese.38 In the late sixteenth century, the Ming empire stepped up its territorial reforms, sending more Chinese garrisons into Yunnan to take direct control of territories that the Mongols had ruled by proxy. Waves of civilian settlers would later follow the soldiers, once the military “pacified” a given area, creating tensions with the region’s indigenous inhabitants. From 1592 onwards, Chinese histories recorded Lisu rebellions in the Mekong gorge, attesting to their presence there.39 The Manchu rulers who replaced the Ming court in 1644 pursued their predecessors’ program of centralization, replacing native chieftains with Chinese and Manchu bureaucrats. Their military interventions and their policy of encouraging Chinese immigration into the southwest fomented unrest, even as they increased the empire’s capacity to administer punishments and collect taxes from the locals. In northwest Yunnan, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, rebellions against the centralizing empire would become a regular occurrence. By the late nineteenth century their frequency had risen until they were occurring every five to thirty years.40 In 1801 to 1803 (years 6 to 8 of the reign of Qing emperor Jiaqing), a Lisu man led an uprising that united Lisu, Nu, Bai, Naxi (Na), Han and others against the Chinese military or the Chinese-allied native chieftain (the source does not make this clear). In the Chinese source, a collection of Lisu folk tales and oral histories, the Lisu leader’s name is given as “Hengzhabeng,” a translitera- tion of his Lisu name.41 In 1810, Hengzhabeng led another uprising, this time in the garrison town of Weixi. It was momentous enough to be recorded in the official archives.42 A Lisu folk song commemorated Hengzhabeng as a people’s hero. The researchers provide the lyrics in Chinese translation, with a hint of Communist inflection, in keeping with the spirit of nationalities research under Maoism:

Hengzhabeng, Hengzhabeng, The leader rebelled and killed the qianzong [minister]; He killed the minister and saved the poor, The Lisu support Hengzhabeng.

38 Gros 1996; Gillogly 2006: 87 ff. 39 Rock 1947. 40 Dubernard 1873. 41 Zhu et al. 1985: 12. 42 Idem: 289. the art of (not) looking back 227

Hengzhabeng, brave as a tiger, Attacked Weixi and wanted to strike Lijiang; Opening the granaries, saving the poor, Wielding his blade to kill government officials. Sacred Hengzhabeng, Together, the Lisu acclaim you.43

According to a French missionary’s account, a Lisu revolt laid waste to the Mekong gorge from Yezhi to Weixi forty or fifty before the time of his writing, suggesting that it occurred sometime in the 1820s or early 1830s.44 This may correspond to either the 1801–3 or 1810 uprising described above. The Abbé Dubernard claimed imperial Chinese retaliation was so harsh that a report was sent to Beijing saying the Lisu had been exterminated. This temporary ethno- cide, if it did occur, coincides with the moment when a large Lisu population abandoned the Mekong and migrated west into the Salween gorge. I return to these events below. By the mid-nineteenth century, there were significant Lisu settlements on both sides of the Salween river: in the Nu mountain range separating the Mekong from the Salween, and, to the west, the Gaoligong mountain range separating the Salween from the Nmai Hka river. A French source from the end of that century tells us that in the Salween, the Lisu lived north of 27° latitude.45 Two later accounts, one German, one British, say the Lisu lived from around 25° to 27° latitude, and that north of 27° were the Nu.46 Rumours of their annihilation notwithstanding, Lisu were also still living on both sides of the Mekong, from latitude 27°10’ up to 28°, including Weixi township itself, the site of so many rebellions.47 Their communities were not strictly segregated from those of other ethnic groups. In the Mekong gorge, Ward attests to the existence of mixed Bai-Lisu villages,48 while Dubernard notes mixed Lisu-Nu villages.49 A century later in northern Thailand, Dessaint and others also report villages with mixed residence:50 often Lisu-Lahu, or Lisu-Karen. But as in the case of Lisu interactions with the Anung and Nusu, the appearance of a peaceful

43 Zhu et al 1985: 289; M. Mazard’s translation from the Chinese. 44 Dubernard 1873. 45 Rocher 1879–80. 46 Brunhuber 1912, Ward 1913. 47 Ward 1913: 28. 48 Ward 1913. 49 Dubernard 1875. His “Lou-tze” are probably Anung rather than Nusu; see Mazard 2011, ch. 1. 50 Dessaint 1971. 228 mazard coexistence (as they enjoy today) often masks tensions that relate directly to the history of migration and its discontents. Whereas the Lisu came to dominate a significant stretch of the Salween gorge, in the Mekong, they were subjugated to the Na rulers of Yezhi, Kangpu and Weixi, from important mugua chiefs to lowly headmen.51 In the Mekong gorge, Lisu people were sometimes the slaves of Na chieftains and commoners or of Tsarong Tibetans, who often had Lisu debt-slaves.52 In the Salween gorge, Lisu people were the masters, kidnapping people and keeping them as slave labor.53 Like many other peoples in Southeast Asia, their role in the widespread institution of slavery depended on their status and wealth in any given area, as well as their ability to mount raids and fight wars. As mentioned above, Lisu men served as foot-soldiers and mercenaries in the continuing conflicts between the Mosuo (Na) and Tibetans, who controlled the lamaseries. In 1871, after the mugua of Yezhi was assassinated at Hongpu lamasery, two thousand Lisu retaliated by laying waste to the villages around Hongpu.54 Lisu also fought alongside the mugua during the Muslim rebellion that transformed the political landscape of Yunnan in the late nineteenth century.55 In the eighteenth century, the Qing empire established dozens of small military outposts in the regions of Deqin (Zhongdian) and Weixi, as it was doing throughout Yunnan.56 Han Chinese immigrants started flowing into Yunnan via Sichuan, establishing themselves around garrison towns like Weixi.57 These towns became centers of Chinese influence. By the 1860s, the Lisu in Weixi wore almost the same dress as the Chinese, including “large turbans of blue cotton cloth” for the men, like Sichuan Chinese, and for many women, “ordinary Chinese female costume,” but sometimes the “short petticoat and jacket of the Mosos [Mosuo], and little caps ornamented with cowrie shells”.58 The Lisu there practiced Chinese Buddhism and studied the Chinese language in temple schools, whereas Tibetan language and religion predominated wherever Tibetan influence was stronger.59

51 Cooper 1871: 317, 335; Gros 1996. 52 Rockhill 1891. 53 Dubernard 1875. 54 Dubernard 1873. 55 Cooper 1871. 56 Yang 2008: ch. 6: 55. 57 Idem: ch. 6: 52–4 58 Cooper 1871: 337. 59 Cooper 1871: 337. the art of (not) looking back 229

On the surface, the Lisu migrations from Lijiang to the Mekong gorge around 1548–9, then into the Salween gorge in the early 1800s, appear to fit Scott’s model of egalitarian peoples seeking refuge from a predatory state by fleeing to the remote highlands. One could also invoke the Lisu participation in, and instigation of, revolts against feudal authorities to portray them as egalitarian anarchists, as Scott would have it. Yet the history does not, in fact, support Scott’s state versus non-state dichotomy, nor his concept of radical egalitarianism. Lisu may have fled from Lijiang to avoid conscription into the Na chief’s army; yet some time thereafter, Lisu did, in fact, fight willingly for other Na chieftains. In the nineteenth and early twentieth century, Lisu themselves also increasingly joined Yunnan’s petty bureaucracy as “chieftains” in their own right who collected tribute with the support of the empire. On his travels through northwest Yunnan, British colonial merchant Thomas Cooper met several of these petty bureaucrats. The Lisu headman in a town southeast of Weixi said of “La-won-quan,” a Na tusi, that “[h]e is the father of the Lei-sus; he is the same as my eldest brother”.60 The Lisu in this period were not a “non- state” people in the sense that Scott uses the term, and their relations with state representatives, such as the Na chieftains, were not exclusively coercive or conflicted, but could include relations conceived as a form of kinship. Lisu uprisings against the Ming and Qing empires must be understood through the broader context of increasing state pressure in Southwest China. The empires’ strategies were in many ways continuous: both the Ming and Qing states encouraged Chinese immigration into what is now Southwest China (the provinces of Sichuan, Yunnan, and Guizhou); both mounted violent attacks on the powers of chieftains such as the Na tusi, as well as on their cultural independence from the Chinese heartland. It was not only “anarchists” like the Lisu who rebelled against these pressures, but also peoples like the Na and Bai, who had their own feudal aristocracies, and, in fact, Han Chinese immigrants. It should be remembered that Hengzhabeng led Han, Bai, Na, as well as Lisu in revolt. The events surrounding the major Lisu migrations into the Salween gorge further call into question Scott’s notion of the Lisu as an “egalitarian” society in dynamic tension with the state.

60 Cooper 1871: 335. 230 mazard

Altitude Shift

After leaving the Mekong gorge for the Salween in the early 1800s, Lisu initially migrated to the area surrounding Mugujia,61 a village close to what is now the main township in Fugong county, central Nujiang. Their arrival sparked a conflict with the existing Anung and Nusu inhabitants of the Salween gorge. Thanks to their superior numbers and their weapons, the Lisu rapidly gained the advantage. Like the indigenous inhabitants of the Salween, the Lisu fought with machetes and crossbows; but their machetes dwarfed those of the Nusu and Anung, and they poisoned their arrows with aconite, using a technology unknown to the Nu peoples. The British official who was then the consul at Tengyue described these after making a trip to the Salween gorge in 1905:

The largest [Lisu] crossbows have a span of fully 5 feet, and require a pull of fully 35 lbs. to string them. The bow is made of a species of wild mulberry of great toughness and flexibility; the stock, some 4 feet long in the war-bows, is usually of wild plum wood; the string is of plaited hemp and the trigger of bone. The arrow, of 16 to 18 inches, is of split bamboo, about four times the thickness of an ordinary knitting-kneedle, hardened and pointed; the actual point is bare for a quarter to one-third of an inch, then for fully an inch the arrow is stripped to half its thickness, and on this portion the poison is placed. The poison used is invariably a decoc- tion expressed from the tubers of a species of aconitum, which grows on those ranges at an altitude of 8000 to 10,000 feet. The poison is mixed with resin, or some vegetable gum, to the consistency of putty, and is then smeared on the notched point. The ‘feather’ is supplied by a strip of bamboo leaf folded into a triangular form and tied in a notch at the end of the arrow with the point of the angle outwards. The reduction in thickness of the arrow where the poison is placed causes the point to break off in the body of any one whom it strikes, and as each carries enough poison to kill a cart-horse, a wound is invariably fatal. Free and immediate incision is the usual remedy when wounded on a limb or fleshy part of the body.62

Lisu started to collect tribute around Mugujia: items woven from bamboo strips (probably baskets and satchels), dried vole meat;63 everyday goods quite different from those desired by the Naxi, and likely destined only for local use.

61 Nuzu Wenhua Daguan 1999: 9. 62 Forrest 1908: 262–3. 63 YNP 1999: 9 the art of (not) looking back 231

The Naxi officials lost their ability to collect tribute in many areas, including the Nusu villages. Lisu chieftains became the de facto “Overseers of the Nu” (Nuguan), as they were dubbed in imperial documents.64 The Lisu expanded south, taking over the lower reaches of the gorge. Lisu cattle raids became a persistent danger. One Nusu woman in her twen- ties told me that her api (classificatory great-grandfather) boasted of his daring expedition to win back his cattle after a band of Lisu men raided his herd. A typical Nusu herd ran from three to four heads of cattle; wealthy households might own six or seven. Cattle were, perhaps, the principal form of wealth to the Nusu, who kept them for ploughing their fields and for two important ritual uses: bridewealth payments, and shamanic sacrifice. Nusu men and women who remembered these raids felt the loss of their cattle as not only a material privation but also as a symbolic and emotional injury. Sporadic raids also targeted the Nusu villages’ human inhabitants. In my interviews, Nusu elders recounted incidents and stories from their own life- times and from those of their ancestors. Young women were kidnapped and forced to marry Lisu men. Other kidnap victims, especially elders, were held hostage and forced into slavery until their relatives paid an exorbitant ransom in full, if they could afford to pay at all. These events were not unique to the Nusu homeland. Slave-raids were a “normal” if not common phenomenon in northwest Yunnan: in the northern part of the gorge, in the Gongshan area, Tibetans raided Anung villages for slaves, while in the Drung valley, Anung kidnapped and enslaved Drung.65 The identities of slave and slave-raider differentiated ethno-political factions as more or less powerful in different regions. On occasion, the kidnappers murdered the victim but pretended he or she was still alive so they could continue to collect ransom. Some of these stories passed on to their children and grandchildren, transmitting their sense that the Lisu had done them a great injustice before the Kuomintang invaded the area and put an end to the worst of the conflict.66 To escape the depredations of the Lisu, inhabitants of the Salween gorge fled to higher altitudes in the Gaoligong and Nu mountains, where the thick vegetation, difficult terrain, and undesirability of the land afforded them some protection. The Lisu arrivals preferred the relatively flat lower altitudes clos- est to the river, which they considered more comfortable and better suited to their methods of swidden agriculture. Others, instead of escaping uphill, fled westwards across the Gaoligong mountain range. After the British annexed

64 Ibidem. 65 Gros 2007. 66 Mazard 2011: ch. 2. 232 mazard

Northern Burma, British officers and travellers around the Nmai Hka and as far west as the Hkamti Long plain noted settlements of Anung who had fled the Salween gorge, many of whom were subsequently followed by Lisu and paid tribute to them.67 The entire population of Nusu seems to have shifted uphill, bar any who fled west, but quite a few Anung hamlets remained on the lower reaches of the Salween, where they became isolated from each other as the Lisu surrounded them. Buladi is one of these lower-altitude Anung settlements sandwiched between several Lisu villages. The village of Chihengdi is one of its neighbors. Chihengdi, an entirely Lisu community, is one of the few places in Nujiang where people still weave the traditional blue-and-white striped cloth employed in the distinctive dresses, shirts, and overcoats of this part of the Salween gorge. There is a loom in almost every household. Post-economic reform, Chihengdi has developed a vibrant niche economy on the basis of its weaving skills, providing the raw cloth and home-made “nationality costume” to tailors, costume shops for tourists, and individual consumers in the nearby township of Shangpa. Buladi, the Anung village, is a sharp contrast. Many of the young people have left for seasonal or long-term work elsewhere, leaving a disproportionate number of elderly people raising their own infant grandchildren and great- grandchildren. Unlike Chihengdi, its fields are on poor ground, lacking direct access to the river. Its inhabitants are registered as members of the Nu nationality, yet like their Chihengdi neighbors, they speak Lisu as a mother tongue; none of them can speak Anung. They do not call themselves Anung but “Nũpa” and “Nũma.” (The pronunciation of the root varies between Nu, Nũ and Nõ.) The suffixes -pa and -ma mean “male / father” and “female / mother” in Lisu. To the Bijiang Nusu, the terms Nupa and Numa are derogatory: these are the exonyms that the Lisu use to refer to them, humiliating because of their historical associations. Buladi’s pattern of linguistic assimilation is not unusual among Anung villages. The villagers’ Anung ancestors born before the turn of the twentieth century spoke Anung, but most took Lisu spouses and did not teach the language to their children. Deference to household elders dictates that an Anung woman who marries into a Lisu household would speak the language of her parents-in-law. All things being equal, Anung men who took Lisu women into their households would likewise assimilate their wives into their own language group. Instead, it was the men who abandoned their mother tongue. When I interviewed them in 2007, they told me their prospective Lisu parents-in-

67 Barnard 1934: viii–ix. the art of (not) looking back 233 law refused to allow them to marry their daughters unless they spoke Lisu in the home. These marriages should be seen against the backdrop of broader relations between Lisu and Anung. The Anung young people in question had limited marriage choices, given their weaker position vis-à-vis their Lisu neighbors. Bridewealth (flowing from the bridegroom to his wife’s household of origin) provided a motive for Lisu men to cajole or coerce Anung men into becoming their sons-in-law. In the early-to-mid twentieth century, the bridewealth required to marry a Nusu (and likely also Anung) woman hovered around three to five heads of cattle, whereas the cattle gifted to a Lisu bride’s parents could be as many as ten times higher, sometimes even numbering in the hundreds. A Lisu father whose daughter married an Anung man stood to enrich his household and make his Anung son-in-law into his long-term debtor. Obversely, a Lisu man could take a Nusu or Anung wife at much less expense. The burden of bridewealth factored into the reasons for Lisu to “seize” Nusu and Anung women as wives, while the relative weakness of the Nu peoples shielded Lisu raiders from the retribution of angry relatives. If Lisu settlers had not held the upper hand, one may imagine that Anung and Nusu villages would have enforced endogamy, or else that the two bridewealth systems would have become more commensurate over time. Instead, marriage became a mechanism of linguistic and cultural assimilation. The remaining inhabitants of Buladi, men and women who married other Anung, were left with a smaller Anung linguistic sphere, and gradually switched to using Lisu. Mugujia village, where the Lisu invasion started in the early 1800s, still pre- serves the use of Anung language; but there, being surrounded by a Lisu speakers has led to a gradual loss of fluency, and a process of Lisu assimilation in the Anung language itself. Linguist Sun Hongkai documents these changes: loss of native vocabulary and replacement by Lisu loanwords; grammatical changes (the loss of unique native syntax); even phonological changes that make the sound of Anung (given as “Anong” in their work) resemble the sound of Lisu speech.68 Based on Sun’s work, Thurgood and Li claim that in 1999, there were only sixty-two fluent speakers of Anung left in the area surveyed, all over 50 at the time (thus, all over 60 today). Lisu “is [now] the default language, even in Mugujia village”.69 Regrettably, Thurgood and Li assume that the process of “attrition and contact” leading to the “total restructuring of Anong” has been the result of a peaceful process; they state that historically, the Anung

68 Hongkai 1999. 69 Thurgood & Li 2007: 294 based on Sun 1999. 234 mazard have “coexisted amicably with other ethnic groups” in the Salween gorge.70 However, peaceful or not, linguistic influence went both ways. David Bradley’s comparative study of Tibeto-Burman kinship and naming systems shows that the Lisu in this area appropriated elements of the Anung naming system, even as Anung itself faded into disuse.71 Missionary James Fraser already noted the use of this naming system in his study of Lisu language at the start of the twentieth century.72 Today, every Lisu child in central Nujiang receives a name from this hybrid Lisu-Anung naming system, which has been thoroughly integrated into the fabric of Lisu social life. This points to the dual nature of cross-community migration, its creative and destructive potential.73 This kind of multifaceted cultural exchange does not stop at language. The blue-and-white-striped clothes like those produced in Chihengdi distinguish the iconic costume of the Nusu, the Anung, and the so-called “White Lisu” in the central Salween gorge. This motif is popular for everyday wear in many Lisu and Lisu-speaking villages, but in Nusu villages, it is only worn on special occasions. The styles for Lisu and Nusu are similar: a simple form would be a short or long jacket for men, worn over trousers; a short jacket with a skirt for women. Nusu point to a significant detail that differentiates their style from that of the Lisu: instead of a band of cowry shells strung across the chest, Nusu women wear one large cowry pendant at their necks. (Nowadays white plastic stands in for the shells, just as cotton replaces hemp.) Nusu elders told me the similarity was no coincidence: the Lisu would have made the costumes their own after stealing them when they raided Nu villages. Thus, they say, the costume most widely known as Lisu was expropriated from the Nu. Whether the blue-and-white stripes originated with Nu autochthones or Lisu settlers, it is a visible amalgam of influences, incorporating elements like the fluorescent ribbon trim newly available from factories elsewhere in China. For Nusu, however, the synecdoche of stolen dress stands for their dispossession at the hands of the Lisu—not the Lisu individuals they know as relatives, neighbors, and friends, but the Lisu as an ethno-political entity with a higher prestige than their own.

70 Thurgood & Li 2007: 294. 71 Bradley 2007: 59 and throughout. 72 Fraser 1922: 63. 73 Manning 2006: 46. the art of (not) looking back 235

To Burma and Beyond

What happened after the Lisu pushed inhabitants of the Salween gorge west into the highlands of Northern Burma? These Nu peoples first crossed the Gaoligong mountain range to the highlands of the Nmai Hka and Mali Hka, two rivers running more-or-less parallel to the Salween within the latitude of present-day Nujiang prefecture. The region shares a similar ecology; at the time, it was covered in dense forest well-suited to the type of low-intensity swidden agriculture favoured by the Anung and Nusu. Their respite was brief. Around the mid-nineteenth century, Lisu migrants followed them into the ’Nmai Hka highlands, where they extracted tribute and bribes, as they did in the Salween. Some Anung communities decided to flee further, eventually settling in the highlands around the Hkamti and other nearby valleys, where they paid tribute to Shan officials.74 According to Barnard, the Lisu arrived in the ’Nmai and Alikyang valleys three or four generations before the time of his writing in 1925, suggesting a very rough date of 1860 at the latest. In the hills of north eastern Burma, Lisu found land that was sparsely populated by lowland standards. By highland standards, it was already becoming crowded. The most populous and powerful of the highland dwellers were the Jinghpaw, who were known to the Burmese and Shan as “Kachin.” British colonialists adopted an awkward use of the term “Kachin” to mean “any and all highland dwellers,” often erroneously grouping them as a single “tribe”.75 The British succeeded in winning allies among the Jinghpaw, who became the principal recruits for the Burma Rifles, a military corps made up exclusively of highlanders. As the language of the dominant ethnicity, Jinghpaw was widely spoken in the highlands of north eastern Burma; the British adopted it as their chief language for dealing with the region’s other inhabitants. Thus, in Burma, they came to know the Lisu as “Yawyin,” a Jinghpaw exonym derived from ‘yeren’, a general Chinese term meaning “savages.” In Northeastern Burma, a British officer wrote:

[The Lisu] are rarely found anywhere except on the extreme mountain tops where they destroy the jungle around them for miles, leaving the ground bare and open. For this reason they are the despair of [the British

74 Barnard 1925: 140. 75 see Leach 1954 for an example of this unfortunate practice; Sadan, 2007, explains the development of the term “Kachin”. 236 mazard

colonial] Government, though the habit is no doubt a healthy one, and is not without merit in a country smothered with jungle.76

Separate migrations took the Lisu into the Salween valley in the 1800s. The forbidding geography of the highland massif combined with the need to pass through hostile territory meant these Lisu effectively divided from the Lisu further north in the Salween gorge. By the 1860s, Lisu had scattered in the highlands around Tengchong (then known as Tengyue, or Möngmien in Shan) and a wide range of territory dominated by Shan chieftains, with a mixed population of Shan, Achang, and Jinghpaw, among others.77 By then, a considerable Chinese population swelled the old garrison town of Tengyue, and its lively market attracted visitors who lived several days’ walk away in the highlands.78 There, Lisu sold firewood, vegetables, and valuable mountain products. They could buy necessary household items, like cooking-pots and knives, and luxu- ries like buttons and cotton thread. When settling in a new place, they privileged sites that were within walking distance of markets like this one, just as they would do when settling in northern Thailand in the ensuing decades.79 Lisu also lived around the markets of Sanda, Möngla, and Husa, famed for its Achang iron- and silver-smiths, selling everything from ceremonial swords and wood-chopping machetes to delicate bracelets and tinkling earrings. In these areas, Lisu were influenced by both the Shan and the Chinese. Anderson, a British colonialist, describes the forms of dress worn by Lisu he saw in the market at Sanda (the next valley over from Husa):

The dress of the women resembles the costume of the Chinese-Shans, with the exception of the turban, which is made of coarse white cloth, patched with blue squares, and trimmed with cowries. One end is allowed to hang down the back of the neck, while the other is thrown over the top of the head. They also wear close-fitting leggings, made of squares of blue and white cloth, and a profusion of ratan [sic], bamboo, and straw hoops round the loins and neck, in addition to necklaces of large blue beads, and others of seeds, and large brass earrings. A white embroidered bag is slung over the shoulders from a broad red band, ornamented with a profusion of cowries. The men are dressed like ordinary Shans.80

76 Enriquez 1921: 70. 77 Anderson 1871. 78 Fletcher 1927. 79 Dessaint 1971. 80 Anderson 1871: 136. the art of (not) looking back 237

Anderson also noted that both Lisu men and women “shave[d] a circle round the head, leaving only a large patch on the upper and back part, with a small, short pig-tail behind”.81 This must have been an imitation of the Manchu queue that was then obligatory throughout the Qing empire—but only for men. I mention dress and hairstyles as brief examples of the kinds of cultural change that can occur through migration. These changes do not always represent coercive assimilation; they can arise as indigenous imitations and innovations, for instance, when new models and materials become available. The Lisu in this area reinvented the Manchu queue. Because they could buy buttons at the Salween valley markets, they also incorporated buttons as purely decorative elements in women’s dress. Others sewed rows of Indian ¼ rupee coins onto their tunics, reusing the coins for new garments when the old ones wore out.82 The nineteenth century inaugurated a period of rapid dispersal for the Lisu. By the beginning of the twentieth century, in addition to the places already mentioned, they had established settlements in Wa territory on the China- Burma border and as far south as the Thai and Lao frontiers.83 Once they arrived in Burma, Lisu settlers periodically migrated to new areas looking for better land, more favourable living conditions, or new economic opportunities. Enriquez noted a Lisu migration into Mogok in 1907, the site of rich ruby and jade; by 1921, there were around 1,350 Lisu in that area. He listed other settlements in Bhamo, Sima, Sadon, and Panwa.84 Lisu came into conflict with the British more than once over their right to benefit from mineral and other resources in this newly colonized territory.85 The British military recruitment of “Kachin,” a category including the Lisu, tied the highland peoples into the military apparatus of a global empire. Several Lisu men fought for Britain in Mesopotamia during the First World War, alongside Jinghpaw and other soldiers from the colonized highlands.86 The empire honoured some of these soldiers with the title of King’s Orderly Officers, sending them to stand guard in the throne room at Buckingham Palace.87 At least a handful of Lisu men, therefore, would have briefly travelled as far as London before returning to Burma, taking with them their memories of the chilly London fog, and the modernist opulence of a decaying empire.

81 Anderson 1871: 349. 82 See a full-page illustration in Diran 1997: 66. 83 Hutheesing 1990, Davies 1909. 84 Enriquez 1921: 70; see Gillogly 2006: 95–6 for more detail. 85 Gillogly: ibid. 86 Sadan 2007: 94, Enriquez 1921. 87 Sadan: ibid. 238 mazard

Reinventions, Revolutions

The turn of the century saw radical political and religious changes in the highlands of Northern Burma and Southwest China. An increasing number of white Protestant missionaries came to convert the highland peoples. This missionary influx related directly to recent political events. After the British annexed upper Burma in 1884–1885, it became much easier for evangelists to operate there, benefiting from the colonial amenities in Myitkyina. The British and French victory over China in the Second Opium War (1856–60) obtained unequal treaty rights that likewise allowed white missionaries to establish permanent mission houses in places like Dali and Baoshan, with or without the support of the local government. (The treaty did not protect native evangelists, however.) French Catholic priests had already set up mission-houses in northwest Yunnan, on the Tibetan frontier, in the mid-nineteenth century,88 but their Lisu converts were few. James Fraser, a British evangelist employed by the China Inland Mission (C.I.M.), is the first to have focused his efforts primarily on the Lisu, starting in the 1910s. He joined forces with a polyglot Karen evangelist, Sara Bâ Thaw, to translate hymns and a catechism into Lisu. Eventually the pair developed a writing system for Lisu that is now widely used by Lisu-speaking communities, including Nusu and Anung villages where Lisu is spoken either as a mother tongue or as a religious language. The doctrine of the C.I.M. missionaries and of their Protestant colleagues, like the Morse family, drew on austere Methodist morals. They forbade converts from drinking, smoking tobacco, smoking or growing opium, and other forms of “immoral” behaviour. They were even for- bidden from dancing and from singing anything other than Christian hymns, on the grounds that singing led to licentiousness.89 The evangelists’ scorched earth policy regarding Lisu customs encouraged Christians to distance themselves from non-Christians, whom they were not allowed to marry. To a certain extent, these social reforms also divided Christian from non-Christian Lisu communities in their livelihoods and their settlements: Christians often ceased to cultivate opium, leading them to seek different types of land for cultivation, and ultimately separating them into different “econiches” from opium-cultivating communities.90 A Chinese army invaded the Salween gorge shortly after the Nationalist Revolution of 1911. This marked the beginning of new attempts on the part

88 Gros 1996. 89 Kuhn 1962, 1980; G. Morse 1998; Taylor 1944. 90 Gillogly 2006: 118–19. the art of (not) looking back 239 of the Chinese government to patrol the China-Burma frontier, which would transform the social and political landscape of the highlands.91 When the Japanese army mounted an invasion into Northern Burma and Southwest China during World War II, Lisu and other highland peoples fought against them on both sides of the border: alongside British and Canadian soldiers, as British empire recruits in Burma; as Kuomintang soldiers in China; and as independent bands of men, and some women, attempting to defend their home with whatever arms they had on hand. Some Lisu, Nusu, Anung and other indigenous inhabitants of this contested borderland were press-ganged into joining the Kuomintang army. Others joined voluntarily, as a means of social advancement, for example. A young Nusu man who heard the anecdote from his grandfather told me that “the Japanese soldiers most feared the poison arrows of the Lisu fighters,” who made a fearsome enemy in guerrilla warfare. Shortly after the end of the conflict, in 1948, Burma gained its independence from Britain. North eastern Burma became Kachin State. The following year, the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) expelled the Kuomintang and established the People’s Republic of China. When the CCP took over the Salween gorge in 1950, some Kuomintang recruits from the highlands chose to follow the rest of the army in its escape to Burma. A number of Lisu, Nusu and Anung civilians, many of them Christian converts, also relocated west because of their fears regarding the new Chinese regime. One of the CCP’s first actions in Yunnan was to expel all foreign missionaries. In 1949, the Morses, an American missionary family affiliated with the Church of Christ, moved their mission base to Northern Burma. They had been working in the Salween gorge among the Lisu and elsewhere in Yunnan starting in the 1920s, and from 1929 onwards they had started working in Burma as well. By the 1940s, a large proportion of Lisu in the Salween were Christians. A memoir by Eugene Morse asserts that “[s]everal thousand Lisu Christians” took refuge in Burma at the same time as the Morses did.92 Unfortunately, we do not know how many thousands. In fact, for the first few years, the CCP was remarkably tolerant of Christianity in Nujiang. Under the United Front policy, its first priority was to secure the support of the ethnic minority peoples who constituted the majority population of China’s frontier regions. To this end, in Nujiang and elsewhere, the Party delayed some of its more divisive social campaigns, like land reform (accomplished elsewhere in 1952–4). Not only Lisu Protestantism, but active Lisu evangelism (to Lisu, Anung, and Nusu in the Salween gorge) were

91 Mazard 2011, ch. 2. 92 Morse 1974: 35. 240 mazard permitted until 1958, the start of the Great Leap Forward. Christians were pub- licly tortured and forced to recant; they burnt their Lisu-language Bibles in public bonfires. Prominent shamans suffered similar fates: some were sent to labor camps to be reformed or die trying. That same year, 1958, Nujiang undertook land reform and collectivization. Private homesteads and small coopera- tives were merged into massive collective farms. The government repressed “primitive” forms of swidden agriculture in favour of intensive agriculture, building acres of rice paddy in the narrow strips of flat land by the banks of the Salween. Here, as in the rest of China, the agricultural reforms were a disaster, causing widespread famine in 1959–61.93 The combination of persecution, hunger, and dispossession turned the trickle of emigration into a flood. The people living on the west bank of the Salween, especially, took advantage of their proximity to the Burmese border to cross the Gaoligong mountain range (as the Anung once did to escape from the Lisu). It was more difficult for people living on the east bank, who would have had to cross the Salween river on one of the precarious rope bridges, running a higher risk of being noticed. Some migrants only went to Burma temporarily to forage for food, but were branded as “counter-revolutionaries” (fangeming) and severely punished when they returned. This forced many of them to settle permanently in Burma, separated from their families. Their relatives who stayed behind, wives and children especially, fell in for rough treatment because of their association with these “counter-revolutionaries.” Morse states that by 1965, there were about 15,000 Lisu and Rawang living in the plain around Putao.94 Most of them had migrated from the Salween gorge and adjoining territory. Lisu had been living in the highlands around Putao for over half a century by then, but it was the Morses who claim to have persuaded them to “come down from the hills and settle in the semi-tropical, lush Putao valley”.95 They did so partly by “virtually wip[ing] out malaria, the traditional scourge of the plains, with chloroquin and a British product called Gammexane”96—and, as another Morse family memoir explains, through deforestation.97 No doubt the converts were also willing to live at low altitude because their religion forbade them from cultivating opium (whereas opium cultivation would have required highland terrain). The Morses joined in founding a settlement in the Putao valley, complete with fruit trees, rice paddies, and

93 Mazard 2011: ch. 3–4. 94 Morse 1974: 9. 95 Morse 1974: 16. 96 Ibidem. 97 Morse 1998. the art of (not) looking back 241 a church built of concrete instead of bamboo and thatch, a move away from swidden agriculture concurrent with the Great Leap Forward, yet born of radi- cally different motives. The political climate in Burma shifted again when a military coup turned the fourteen-year-old republic into a socialist dictatorship under the leadership of General Ne Win. A five-man “Security and Administrative Council” took charge of daily affairs in Putao.98 Inhabitants of the highlands “had to get official passes for travel between villages less than ten miles apart,” and the Burmese army forced them to act as porters and guides in forays against the Kachin Independence Army.99 The new leaders took church services as opportunities to preach socialism to the Lisu. In 1965, the government served the Morses with an expulsion order. Members of the Putao settlement were already coming to the conclusion that it was time to leave. They invited the Morses to go with them. The five-thousand- strong group—about a quarter of the total population of Putao, women, men, and children—marched for several days to reach the Indian border, herding their pigs alongside, and taking whatever they could carry on their backs. They planned to rejoin the Lisu villages successfully established in Arunachal Pradesh a decade earlier but they were forced to camp out while negotiating with a border official who would not allow them to enter India. As the weeks wore on, they grew worried: if they waited much longer, the planting season would have passed. They would no longer be able to clear swidden fields and plant their crops before the summer, and they risked starvation. Instead of returning to Putao, about two thousand among them headed for a hidden valley known to a few of the men who had explored the area on hunt- ing trips. They managed to avoid attracting the attention of the military for over five years. During that time, they rebuilt a settled agricultural community, complete with citrus trees grown from clippings that J. Russell, the Morse family patriarch, received from California and Florida. But the Burmese government eventually got wind that the Morses were living in “Hidden Valley.” In 1972, a detachment of soldiers was sent to enforce the 1965 expulsion order.100 When the Morses later relocated to Chiang Mai, they undertook missionary work with the existing Lisu communities there, many of whom were not Christian (and remained so at least until Hutheesing’s fieldwork in the 1980s).101

98 Morse 1974: 9. 99 Ibidem. 100 Morse 1974: 210. 101 Hutheesing 1990. 242 mazard

The growing evangelical community appears to have influenced the further migration of Lisu Christians towards Chiang Mai. Most Lisu who emigrated to northern Thailand in the early-to-mid twentieth century survived and sometimes prospered thanks to opium cultivation, which was often a crucial factor in their ability to move from place to place. In 1958 the incumbent dictatorship banned the cultivation, consumption, and trade of the drug, but the ban was not actively enforced until around 1960. In 1968, Durrenberger102 lived in a Lisu village producing opium and selling it to the remaining Kuomintang soldiers who had relocated there (and who had followed a similar path to the Lisu who reached northern Thailand from Yunnan via Burma).103 At the time, the highlands were poorly policed, and relations between the lowland Thais and the recent arrivals were coloured by mutual suspicion.104 Thai aid workers grumbled that the Lisu did not contribute “vol- unteer” labor to public construction projects, and otherwise failed to comply with various measures that would have rooted them firmly in one place—and made them easier to control.105 This makes sense when we consider the value that Lisu people placed on their mobility as a source of autonomy, even if, in practice, many Lisu communities settled in particular areas for decades at a time. Opium connected the Lisu to a global economy that nevertheless remained abstract and remote from their daily lives, defined by the world they knew through memory and movement. Durrenberger remembers:

In 1968, I returned to northern Thailand, this time to the highlands. I lived in a Lisu village where people grew opium that they sold to the KMT. One day, a KMT horse caravan from the lowlands delivered my mail from Chiangmai. In the mail was a news magazine with an article about heroin in New York. Some Lisu asked what it was about. I said it told about what happened to opium when it reached my country. They asked what price it would fetch. The article quoted the street price in New York. I did some calculations to convert raw opium to number 1 heroin base and then to street heroin and then converted dollars to baht and then baht to silver in the form of India rupees and calculated the volume of the silver in them and finally announced that the local unit, a joi, about 2.2 kg,

102 Durrenberger 2009. 103 Huang 2009, McCoy 1972. 104 Cf. Dessaint 1971; Durrenberger 1975. 105 Chaipigusit 1989. the art of (not) looking back 243

would fetch enough silver to fill the house to about knee level. There was a long silence before one old man asked, ‘How long does it take to walk to New York?’106

The paths they walked, the multiple currencies and languages they employed in trade—these created a living landscape of possibility for a people who thrived on autonomy, carving out opportunity in the midst of privation and war.

Conclusion

The history of Lisu movements through “Zomia” suggest several different strategies and motives for migration that co-exist in Lisu culture, and that Lisu draw upon as adaptable resources. There is, first of all, migration as a means of seeking new farmland, a necessity for Lisu communities relying on high-intensity swidden agriculture. There are migrations for the sake of avoiding disputes, abandoning inconvenient locations (where drinking water or markets are not easily accessible), or escaping unfavourable surroundings (such as neighbors from other ethnic groups whom Lisu villagers suspect of stealing their cattle, or government officials intent on extracting taxes).107 There are, finally, major migrations, like those that brought tens of thousands of Lisu from the Yangtze to the Mekong and Salween gorges, into Myanmar and northern Thailand, and further into the remote highlands, to escape oppressive governments. Lisu communities decide when, where, and how to migrate through lengthy discussions where they seek to reach a consensus satisfying to all participants.108 They prefer lands whose fertility has already been proven by other pioneering groups; they might buy the land or take it by force, as they did in the Salween gorge. Established customs, such as the practice of first building a spirit shrine in any new village, make migration into a strategy of adaptable continuity. Hutheesing records a myth about a Chinese king’s conflict with the Lisu that ends with a justification of why the Lisu live scattered across a wide territory, without a homeland:

106 Durrenberger 2009: 11. 107 Dessaint 1971; Morse 1974. 108 Chaipigusit 1989: 182–3; see also Dessaint 1971; Hutheesing 1990; and Morse 1974. 244 mazard

After the Lisu king had been killed [by the Chinese king], the Lisu people did not have a place to stay. Even when they killed and fought the Chinese, it was not possible. They fled everywhere, went in all directions. Since then the Lisu have no country . . .109

Hutheesing interprets the Lisu’s lack of identification with a specific homeland, their scattered settlements, and their lack of a straightforward migration chronology as signs of trauma and victimhood. Yet while they have suffered political events beyond their control, their moves were, in fact, often choices to find more favourable living conditions. Their lack of a mythical lost homeland, per se, does not equate to victimhood. It underscores the fact that their mobility is chosen, amounting to more than the sum of their migrations. The Lisu approach to migration is at the heart of their cultural diversity, from their imitations and innovations in costume to their appropriation of Anung kinship terms. From an anthropological perspective, cultures and identities do not just exist through time and space; they must be continually, actively reproduced. It is easy to regard migration as antithetical to cultural continuity, and indeed, numerous studies of diaspora focus on efforts to reproduce one’s identity in spite of distance from one’s homeland and the danger of assimilation into one’s new environment. Cultural reproduction in the context of migration can take many forms, such as a preference for endogamous marriage, the observance of certain rituals,110 or speaking a mother tongue at home (even if family members speak another language at school and at work). These are all relevant in the Lisu case, yet it is through migration, not in spite of it, that Lisu reproduce their identity. To what extent does the pattern of Lisu migration hold true for other highland peoples of Southeast Asia? Many of the factors that I highlight here should be taken into consideration when studying the Hmong, Karen, Jinghpaw, Wa, and other neighboring ethno-linguistic groups. Instead of viewing their history exclusively through the lens of opposition to the state, it is crucial to understand the importance of power relations within the highlands of “Zomia,” not least the role of slavery, raiding, and tribute extraction in patterns of settlement and accommodation, as in the case of the Lisu pushing the Anung and Nusu to flee the lower reaches of the Salween gorge. The cross-community migrations that occurred so frequently in Lisu history led to numerous cultural and linguistic changes, both from Lisu influence on others and from others’ influence on the Lisu. It is difficult to overstate the pervasiveness of this transformative

109 As cited in Hutheesing 1990: 25. 110 Huang 2009. the art of (not) looking back 245 dynamic. A complex pattern of mutual influence underlies nearly every aspect of social life in the highlands today, from agriculture to religious rituals to the names that parents give their children. This pattern convincingly demonstrates Manning’s thesis that cross- community migration is “a significant mechanism for social evolution”.111 This social evolution, however, does not occur in a political void, and its outcomes are often fraught with the kind of tension affecting Nusu people’s views of the Lisu. To gain a nuanced perspective on this history, it is crucial to look at more than one side of the story, and to take the power dimension into account. Mutual cultural influence may have created new commonalities within the highlands, but it has not resulted in the “homogenization” of highland societies—quite the contrary. Lisu attitudes towards migration, for instance, contrast with those of Anung and Nusu whom I interviewed in Nujiang. The latter look down on the Lisu as being overly mobile and failing to pass on their land and their houses through the generations. While Anung and Nusu did flee invasions by migrating into northern Burma, they did so only as a last resort. Unlike the Lisu, few continued their journey into northern Thailand. These cultural disparities suggest that we cannot subsume all highland peoples of Southeast Asia into an undifferentiated category of “Zomians.” The patterns of mobility and cultural influence that I describe here could shed light on the history of other regions of the world where colonization, combined with nomadic forms of subsistence, precipitated both conflicts and cross-community migration between indigenous groups. I am thinking of places like the plains of central Canada, where Cree people displaced the original Blackfoot inhabitants and allied themselves with Nahkawe (Saulteaux) newcomers who were fleeing the fatal diseases that European colonialists brought to their homeland in Ontario.112 In Saskatchewan, my adopted academic home, the sounds and words of Nahkawe language have drawn closer to Cree, while migrations further east created hybrid Anishinaabe-Cree social groups calling themselves Oji-Cree. These changes reflect the same kind of dynamic and discordant social change that I describe in Southeast Asian history. Here, too, the power dimension is crucial: the Cree-Nahkawe alliance came at a high price for the Blackfoot. As in Southeast Asia, the encroachment of colonial forces—the Chinese and Japanese in Yunnan, the British in both Burma and Canada—reshaped the context of migration and cultural exchange. The movements of people, customs, and languages pervade these histories. The people who identify themselves as Lisu, today, are not a bounded,

111 Manning 2006: 26. 112 Brightman 1993. 246 mazard genealogically continuous group. They have absorbed and been absorbed, assimilated and been assimilated multiple times in the past few hundred years. This migration-centred dynamic, which animates not only the highlands of Southeast Asia but also the distant climes of the Canadian plains, invites historians and anthropologists to move beyond our current understanding of ethnicity towards a mindset of adaptability, a vision of identity shifting through time and space. Writing on the African diaspora, Jayne Ifekwunigwe reminds us that “[w]ho is on the ethnographic fringe depends on who is defining the center”.113 Lisu migrations occupy the fringes of other stories, those of the British and Chinese empires, of colonization, Christianity and Communism. Yet we stand to learn much by weaving together such equivocal sources with the data from contemporary ethnography to “re-center the margins,” as James Scott does in his Anarchist History.114 In so doing, however, we must not simplify away the richness and nuance of cultural difference. The conflicts and alliances of highland peoples in Southeast Asia, their adaptations, innovations and losses, and the sheer complexity of their experiences belong at the center of our understanding of their social history, in which they have mastered the art of (not) looking back.

113 Ifekwunigwe 2003: 201. 114 Horstmann & Wadley 2006. Migration in an Age of Change: The Migration Effect of Decolonization and Industrialization in Indonesia, c. 1900–2000

Jelle van Lottum

Introduction

This contribution focuses on migration in Indonesia between 1930 and 2000, a period in which the country underwent substantial political and economic change. Between 1930 and 2000 Indonesia not only gained independence from the Dutch (in 1949), after Suharto took over power from President Sukarno in 1966 it transformed from being a largely agricultural society, to an increasingly industrial economy with a (relatively) advanced manufacturing industry oper- ating in a global market.1 Colonial rule, decolonization, and industrialization, the three phenomena that to a great extent shaped Indonesia in the twentieth century are all factors that have a potentially strong effect on population movements. These factors are not only likely to influence the overall size of population movements, they also have the ability to change patterns of migration and transform the characteristics of the migrant population.2 The literature shows that, of these three phenomena, the migration effects of industrialization are the most unequivocal. Industrialization, regardless of context and timing, is almost without exception accompanied by an unprecedented increase in urbanization, mainly as a result of in-migration from rural areas. Because of the sheer magnitude of this transformation, industrialization is commonly regarded as the key driver of overall migration levels in the modern era. Recent research for Europe has shown that the transition from the ancien regime to the industrial era was not such a clear break as the influential mobility transition postulated by Zelinsky would have it.3 Nevertheless, the experience of both the early industrializing countries in Europe, as well as many ‘late-comers’ elsewhere illustrate that industrialization universally leads to booming levels of urbanization and as a result in nearly all cases to an

1 Hill 2000; Hill & Narjoko 2010. 2 Riddell 1980. 3 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009 and 2011; Zelinsky 1971.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��4 | doi 10.1163/9789004271364_010 248 van lottum overall increase of population mobility. The latter applies to both internal migration and in-migration from outside national borders.4 In contrast, the migration effects of colonial rule, and to a lesser extent the subsequent process of decolonization, are much more ambiguous and make such generalizations more difficult. Although it is not the intention of this contribution, which concerns primarily the Indonesian case, to theorize the general effect of colonial rule and decolonization on migration as such, a few words on the possible consequences of colonization and its consequences for population movements may still be relevant. With regard to colonial rule, it is obvious that both in terms of quality and quantity of population movements, much depends on the colonial policies (i.e. the institutional framework) and the colony’s intrinsic characteristics, e.g. a colony’s physical and economic geography. Pertaining to the relative quantitative effects of colonial rule, there is some consensus however. It has been argued—most strongly in the path- breaking work of Australian geographer Graeme Hugo—5 that late nineteenth and early twentieth century colonies generally had lower levels of population movements than the European countries by which they were ruled. This was mainly because at a time when in (Western) Europe the process of industrialization was generally in full swing (or had already reached an advanced level), most of their colonies still had a largely agricultural character. The core of Hugo’s argument is that in contrast to most European countries, late nineteenth and early twentieth century colonies could not undergo a mobility transition, a process which is indeed closely related to industrialization and rapid urbanization. After all, as Hugo argues, colonial policy was aimed primarily at exploitation of natural resources and the production of commodities assisting or supporting industries in the home countries, not at establishing production of finished products away from the economic core. In other words, the introduction of new technologies (or the improvement thereof) commonly only benefited the colonizer. In sum, the lopsided growth of cities vis-à-vis overall population growth, which characterized Europe in the industrial era, did not occur to the same extent in most colonies. Nevertheless, as will become clear from the Indonesian case, increasing levels of urbanization were not a completely uncommon feature of pre-Second World War colonies. With regard to the characteristics of the migrant population in colonies, it is certainly much more difficult to make general statements as they could vary significantly between colonies.6 Still, there are ‘colony-specific’ aspects

4 United Nations 2009. 5 Hugo 1980. 6 Omvedt 1973. migration in an age of change 249 which to a certain extent shape the characteristics of migration in colonized areas, mainly as a result of the ‘capitalist penetration’ into areas where this did not exist before (or at least not to the same degree).7 As Bosma’s contribution on Java in this volume shows, a key feature of most colonies is the existence of a particular set of labor relations specifically designed to maximize (agricultural) output and which may indeed promote population movements. Although spontaneous migrations (for instance those based on pull and push factors) were certainly also a feature of colonial societies, it were in particular the specific policy measures designed to increase agricultural output which encouraged or stimulated internal migrations. This happened either by the application of force (e.g. slavery), semi-force (indentured migration), or by offering particular incentives (assisted migration). As all three variants are commonly linked to agricultural exploitation they may thus be linked in particular to the migration to rural or otherwise agricultural regions. But, of course, labor relations could vary hugely between different colonies (or even within one colonial empire), making it very difficult to generalize. Moreover, it may well be in the interest of a colonial ruler to adopt a (regional) mercantilist stance towards the labor supply and keep the population sedentary,8 for instance if the supply of labor is already closely situated to where the capitalist mode of production is introduced. As labor is a crucial factor input in such a capitalist enterprise, population movements have the potential to hamper maximization of exploitation of commodities. Apart from the institutional framework designed to maximize agricultural exploitation and the policy measures following from it, there are a plethora of factors which have the potential to influence the mobility and migration experience in colonies. To give some examples of the types of migration that play a central role in this volume: mobility levels of those involved in maintaining law and order (such as soldiers and/or police) are likely to be large in a colony with much social unrest and/or ethnic tension, or in those colonies where a threat from outside exists. In turn, seasonal migration may be an important category in colonies with plantations where seasonal crops are grown; and in some colonies even rural-to-urban migration can be relatively large in the absence of industrialization, for instance in an ‘externally oriented trading system’.9 In such colonies—i.e. colonies where international trade plays an important role—towns and cities often played a role as regional, or

7 Sassen 1988. 8 Sassen 1988. 9 Riddell 1980; see also Hugo 2006. 250 van lottum even international entrepôts. Here migrants were necessary in a wide array of occupations, ranging from dockworkers and ship-wrights, to seamen. The migration effect of the process of decolonization allows for a slightly higher degree of generalization, although (of course) much still depends on the extent to which colonial practises are retained with independence. Indeed, if industrialization is not (yet) an important feature of the newly-founded independent state, the possible scenarios sketched for colonial rule can also be applied to the era of decolonization—but again, the context, the character of the country and the policy towards migration of the new polity are also relevant. Nevertheless, the literature suggests that it is somewhat easier to make generalizations about decolonization. A number of shifts in the predominance of particular categories of migration are likely to occur as a consequence of independence. First, even with the absence of industrialization it is probable that rural to urban migration increases. As Riddell points out,10 decolonization tended to open up administrative jobs once dominated by Europeans or by those of mixed origin.11 As most of these jobs were located in cities, this led to a growth in urbanization, not only because these specific jobs needed to be filled, but also since it made urban cores more attractive for (potential) migrants because it was accompanied by opportunities in the lower segments of the urban economy. Moreover, political instability or even civil war emerging from the transition of power (or the struggle for independence) are also likely to lead to urbanization as urban cores are often regarded as relatively safe havens for refugees. Second, in many cases changing labor relations—for instance a dis- appearance or reduction in forced or semi-forced migration—are expected to lead to changes in the importance of migration to agricultural areas. Third, it is also to be expected that immigration and emigration levels show significant change. Immigration is likely to decrease as a result of a reduced influx of migration from the former colonizing country of groups such as government person- nel, soldiers, or engineers, or indeed lead to a decline in the number of contract workers from outside the colony. At the same time, emigration is expected to increase—albeit very briefly—as a result of repatriation of the latter groups, but also as a result of the autochthonous population (in particular those with a mixed ethnic background) taking up the opportunity to migrate to the country of their (former) colonial ruler.12

10 Riddell 1980: 119. 11 Bosma et al. 2012. 12 Miège & Dubois 1994: 9–22. migration in an age of change 251

As was established earlier, the aim of this contribution is to determine the extent to which migration in Indonesia was influenced by the political and economic transformation the country underwent during the twentieth century. What was the effect of colonization and subsequent decolonization on the composition and overall volume of migration? And how does this relate to the effect of Indonesia’s spectacular economic transformation? To answer these questions in this chapter we will adopt two different, though complementary, approaches. In the next section we will focus on the character of the migration flows by applying to Indonesia the four core categories of the CCMR- model, as explained in the introductory chapter to this volume: migration to cities or urbanization, migration to land (or colonization), immigration, and emigration. In the last section we will look at migration in Indonesia during the twentieth century from a different angle. Here, we will shift from the ‘visible’ migration effect, i.e. the effect one observes when measuring, estimating and categorizing migration flows over time, to the underlying mechanisms or determinants of migration. By applying a quantitative model which allows one to assess the effect of a set of determinants that may potentially influence the migratory levels, in this section we will look more closely at the correlation between the political and economic transformations and migration.

The Characteristics of Migration in Indonesia

As was pointed out above, it is commonly argued that distinctive colonial practises played an important role in explaining the size and characteristics of population movements in colonies. This is also a key point made by Hugo with regard to Indonesia.13 He argued that under Dutch rule the country was characterized by relatively low population movements, in particular in comparison to the Western World. Furthermore, migration rates in Indonesia only started to rise with the introduction of economic reform, which resulted in rapid industrialization of the manufacturing sector. Hugo argues that although migration in the colonial period was far from uncommon (as Bosma’s chapter also clearly shows) there was no real ‘take-off’ in mobility levels during the colonial period.14 The latter is confirmed when we look at inter-provincial migration levels derived from the national censuses which were held in 1930 and from 1960 more or less every decade.15 The census returns show that

13 Hugo 1980. 14 Hugo 1980: 95. 15 Van Lottum & Marks 2012. 252 van lottum interprovincial migration levels remained stagnant from 1930 to 1970 (which is the second census containing all relevant variables). In fact, migration levels only really increased after the economic transformation under the Suharto administration. Both the stagnant migration level during the period of decolonization and the ‘take-off’ in migration levels during the 1970s make it all the more relevant to look beneath the surface. Applying the CCMR-model for three survey years, 1930, 1960 and 2000, enables this. In other words, it allows us to determine the extent to which changes in the various categories occurred, and whether continuity or change in overall mobility levels can in fact be equated with stasis in its composition. Before turning to the estimates of the categories and the discussion of the separate categories, a few words on the way in which the estimates will be presented is useful—more specific information can be found in the Appendix. Because most data for the different migrant groups are derived from census material, the estimates in this chapter will be presented in absolute numbers as well as so-called migrant stock rates (MSR).16 MSRs show the share of a migrant population in the total population at a given moment in time; in other words, an MSR for a specific category represents the total number of migrants in that category divided by the total population in a country.17 The downside of using MSRs is that it only encapsulates life-time migration, and as such does not give a clear picture of the (short-term) dynamics of population movements. This contribution focuses, however, on long-term (macro) developments and effects, and MSRs are indeed very suitable for such an approach. Moreover, because of the nature of the sources, to avoid overlap, to allow for an optimal consolidation of the colonial and post-colonial estimates, but in particular to properly link the two approaches in this paper, only the four core categories of the CCMR-model will be applied. This means that we will only apply the categories of urban migration, migration to land, immigration and emigration. Although research has shown that in particular temporary migrations which cannot necessarily be equated with seasonal migrations were and still are an important feature of the Indonesian migration regime,18 the categories labelled ‘seasonal migration’ (including those participating in the Hajj) and ‘soldiers and sailors’ are not incorporated in the estimates and analyses. Finally, it is obvious that neither the categorizations, nor the sources they are based on, allow for a highly nuanced or detailed picture of migration in Indonesia. As in particular the work of Hugo has shown, relying mainly on (provincial) census

16 Van Lottum 2007: ch. 2. 17 This is slightly different from the CCMR-model for Europe, which is based on the overall volume of migration in periods of five decades. 18 Hugo 1980: 111, 124–130. migration in an age of change 253

returns to produce a picture of migration in Indonesia not only means one misses out on many important aspects of the phenomenon, it certainly also leads to an underestimation of overall migration levels. Nevertheless, as the aim of this contribution is to draw a rough sketch of the migration effect of political and economic changes on migration, the approach adopted here will still offer valuable insights. Below in Table 1 and Figure 1 the development of the categories of migration is given for the three survey years, 1930, 1960 and 2000; Figure 2 shows the development of the migrant population’s composition. When we start with the overall levels it becomes clear that migration, when approximated by the combined total of the categories, shows a similar development as the one based on the censuses sketched above.19 Figure 1 shows that overall migration rates remained relatively stable between 1930 and 1960, to increase substantially in the subsequent period. In other words, with the advent of economic reform (which did indeed lead to large-scale industrialization), Indonesia’s population became much more mobile. The development of the separate categories shows very clearly what drove this change: migration to urban cores in the latter part of the period. In fact, the levels of migration to cities were nearly stable between 1930 and 1960, and decolonization did not have a substantial effect on migration to cities. It was indeed the period between 1960 and 2000 which witnessed most change. The

Table 1 Migrant stock and migrant stock rate for the four CCM categories in 1930, 1960 and 2000

1930 1960 2000

Category Migrant Migrant Migrant Migrant Migrant Migrant stock stock rate stock stock rate stock stock rate Urbanization 1,165,841 1.9% 1,917,808 2.0% 13,554,128 6.6% Migration to 738,020 1.2% 1,350,000 1.4% 3,695,306 1.8% land Emigration 198,995 0.3% 256,817 0.3% 1,543,031 0.7% Immigration 530,222 0.9% 140,136 0.1% 149,761 0.1% Total 2,587,841 4.3% 3,664,762 3.8% 18,942,226 9.0%

Source: see Appendix

19 This is not surprising given that most of the estimates are in fact based on census returns. 254 van lottum

10% 9% 8% 7% 6% 5% 4% 3% 2% 1% 0% 1930 1960 2000

URBANISATION MIGRATION TO LAND IMMIGRATION EMIGRATION Figure 1 Migrant Stock Rate for the four CCM migration categories in 1930, 1960 and 2000 Source: See Appendix.

100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1930 1960 2000

URBANISATION MIGRATION TO LAND IMMIGRATION EMIGRATION Figure 2 Share of the four CCM categories in total migrant population in 1930, 1960 and 2000 Source: See Appendix. migration in an age of change 255 total number of migrants to cities increased more than six-fold between 1960 and 2000, a period in which the total population ‘only’ increased with 112 percent. The spectacular growth of urban migration after the 1960s is also reflected in the relative importance of the category. Figure 2 shows that although in 1930 urbanization already consisted of 45 percent of the combined total of the four categories,20 and in 1960 a little more than 50 percent, in 2000 nearly three-quarters (72 percent) of the combined total comprised of migrants to urban centres.21

Migration to Land (Colonization) The first category we deal with is that of ‘colonization’, as defined in the CCMR-model, but to avoid any mix-up with the political phenomenon of colonization, in the present study the more neutral term of ‘migration to land’ is perhaps more appropriate. This category comprises migrations ‘which crosses cultural borders’ to ‘sparsely populated territories’, with an aim to ‘develop and cultivate’.22 Although the estimates shown above make clear that this category developed much less spectacular than the category of migration to cities (urbanization), it is useful to start with the second-largest category because, as we will see later, many of the drivers behind this type of migration had an impact on the other categories. The estimates show that migration to land is the second-most important category in Indonesia in all three survey years. Interestingly, neither decolonization, nor the political and economic transformation of the 1970s did have any major effect on the relative size of this category; it remained relatively stable over time. Before looking in more detail at the changes that occurred in the category of migration to land, it is important to dedicate a few words to the definition of this category. In the Indonesian context the category of migration to land can best be approximated by estimating the Javanese migration to the Outer Islands. Firstly, the Javanese migration to the Outer Islands is in many aspects one that crosses cultural borders (a crucial aspect in the CCMR-model) and can

20 Again, it is important to realize that colonization excludes rural migrations between the Javanese provinces and between those in the Outer Islands. Had this been taken into account, the overall share of urbanization in the total migrations would have been significantly lower. 21 Of course, the estimates shown in the table and graphs need to be treated with care; certainly up until the 1970s rural-rural migrations constituted the largest part of all migration moves (Effendi et al. 2010: 154). Since rural-rural migration as such fall outside the categorization applied here, unless they are part of the colonization category (which indeed a relatively large part does), they are not captured in the estimates above. 22 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 357. 256 van lottum to a large extent be equated with colonization or settler migration. A second reason why migration to the Outer Islands constitutes as colonization is that the Javanese migration (which occurred mainly from central Java)23 for a large part involved genuine settler migration from densely populated Java to often scarcely populated lands in Sumatra and the other islands. This was mainly because of their agricultural potential and the availability of natural resources such as tin, coal, and later oil. Stimulated initially by (semi-) forced contract systems and assisted migration, but later also followed up by spontaneous migrations, the migrations from Java to the Outer Islands were substantial, making the category of migrations to land an important one. The changes that occurred in the latter half of the nineteenth century shaped to a large extent the level of migration in 1930 as well as its composition. Although they are dealt with in more detail in Bosma’s chapter, it is relevant to discuss briefly the decades leading up to 1930. Indeed, the origins of migration from Java to the Outer Islands go back to the nineteenth century, and to some extent the institutions that brought about (and further stimulated) this migration flow, such as the policy of transmigration, were retained after independence and even exist today. Initially, however, the Dutch were not specifically interested in developing the Outer Islands, and as a result there were relatively little inter-island population movements. On the contrary, early in the nineteenth century the Dutch took the initiative to concentrate most of their colonial activity on the core island of Java with the purpose, as Clifford Geertz worded it, to create a ‘mammoth state plantation’.24 The policy behind this initiative was called the Cultivation System, which governed Indonesia’s agriculture between 1830 and 1870. The system was predominantly aimed at increasing the agricultural output and was indeed particularly implemented on the island of Java. By stimulating the cultivation of particular export crops through having farmers grow them at their own land, or by forcing them to work for a set period of 66 days at estates owned by the government, the Dutch sought to increase the export of raw materials. For the policy to succeed it was in the interest of the government to circumvent population movements, or at least to suppress out-migration from producing areas (i.e. plantations). After all, a reduction in the labor force was likely to hamper overall output.25

23 McNicoll 1968: 58. 24 Geertz 1963: 53. 25 Although it is likely that as such the policy did in fact suppress mobility, the introduction of the Cultivation System did lead to population movements, in particular of those trying to escape it. Because the system was intrinsically unfair for the native population, not in the least because it meant the loss of autonomy, during its existence the most migration in an age of change 257

The post-1870 period, in particular the period 1900–1942—which is generally regarded as the ‘glory days’ of the colonial export economy—was one of increased economic activity, and as a result saw a strong growth in colonial exports (of semi-processed raw materials).26 Key to this transformation was the abolition of the Cultivation System and the introduction of the Agrarian Law of 1870.27 This law made available land to commercial (European and Chinese) planters on leases lasting up to 75 years. Even though it also gave indigenous Indonesians the possibilities to lease land, it was done under much stricter conditions and on shorter leases. The result of the new law was (as intended) the expansion of commercial exploitation of resources. Directly after 1870 at great speed capital intensive plantations were founded by Europeans (and Chinese), particularly on the islands of Java and Sumatra, although some commercial estates were established on Borneo and Celebes too. In Java most estates produced sugar, coffee, tea and tobacco, to later (at the start of the twentieth century) broaden to the production of palm oil and rubber. The agricultural estates on Sumatra initially focused on tobacco in particular, but later also began to produce palm oil, tea and rubber. Later in the nineteenth century mining too became an important part of the commercialization of the colony. Oil was drilled on Borneo, Java and Sumatra, Bangka and Belitung harbored tin mines, while coal mining occurred on Sumatra and Borneo.28 The abolishment of the Cultivation System, and the increased economic activity it brought about, led to a strong increase of migration levels; in particular—though as we will see later not exclusively—to an increase in the migration to the (largely rural) Outer Islands. Indeed, most of the population movements were directed to the newly established capitalistic agricultural enterprises, in particular to the sugar plantations, which were in dire need of workers. Initially, most of these new plantations were located in the central highlands of Java as well as in the province of East Java, which in the early 1870s received the bulk of these new migrants. Most of these migrants were in fact Javanese themselves. As a result, these migrations are not incorporated in the estimate of the category migration to land because they occurred within the relative densely populated island of Java and as such do not constitute as genuine settler colonies.

important migration flows were directed away from those regions where the system was implemented, in particular from central Java to the frontier province of East Java (Hugo 1980: 103–103; see also Bosma’s chapter in this volume). 26 Touwen 2001. 27 Fisher 1964: 259. 28 Gooszen 1999: 32. 258 van lottum

Because the agricultural exploitation took up speed from the beginning of the twentieth century, useable land on Java became increasingly scarce. Therefore, more and more plantations were established in the Outer Islands. Since the local labor supply on the Outer Islands was relatively limited, workers needed to be attracted from elsewhere. Planters first turned to Chinese coolies from Malacca29—see also the category of immigration below. But because these Chinese laborers were also a much cherished labor force for the British colony, many plantation owners were forced to recruit people from Java. This in turn led to a strong increase of migrations of contract coolies from Java to in particular Sumatra, the island with the second highest number of commercial estates. Many of the migrants involved were contract laborers whose contracts stipulated that breach of the agreement was punishable by law. This resulted in workers being forced to work for the full period (which was usually three years).30 Apart from the trek to the large-scale capital intensive plantations, also the aforementioned mines and oil plants were destinations for contract laborers. A second factor that stimulated the migrations to land has already been mentioned: the policy of transmigration. Even to a greater extent than the introduction of the Agricultural Law of 1870, this involved a true form of colonization as it constituted the settlement of people in ‘new’ territories. This policy was thought to be a very effective way to both optimize the exploitation of resources in the periphery of the archipelago, while at the same time releasing the population pressure on the island of Java. Ideas about combining redistribution of the population with (potentially profitable) frontier migration dated back to the mid-nineteenth century, but in 1903 the first real pro- posals were made to transfer Javanese to the Lampung district in southern Sumatra.31 Nevertheless, the transmigration programme, which was continued after Indonesia became independent (then called transmigrasi programme), only really took off after 1930.32 In contrast to the contract coolie system, these migrations were voluntary: no evidence of force exists.33 Migrant families were

29 Fisher 1964: 265; Breman 1987: 29–33. 30 Gooszen 1999: 32–33. As we will see later in the category of emigration, Javanese contract coolies were not only deployed within the colony itself, but were by any means part of a global migration system of contract workers moving to countries as far away as Suriname. 31 Gooszen 1999: 35. 32 Pelzer (1945: 202) mentions that in 1930 around 32,000 individuals lived in the two major colonies (the total population of transmigrants counted around 40,000 (Gooszen 1994: 14), a number that grew to 66,000 some six years later, to a little over 200,000 just before the invasion of the Japanese (by then Celebes and Borneo were also part of the programme). 33 Hugo 2006. migration in an age of change 259 provided with some money as a migration premium and could in addition get credit. But, as Gooszen points out,34 other people ‘followed’ trans-migrants without being part of the official programme. As the figures above show, the significant disruptions of the intermediate period, and the shift from the colonial to the post-colonial regime, did not bring about substantial changes in the category of migration to land. This was mainly the consequence of the fact that the key drivers behind the Javanese migration to the Outer Islands during the colonial period still existed in the 1960s. Firstly, with independence the necessity to transfer labor to the estates in the Outer Islands had not disappeared; as a result, the contract system was reinstated. It was now supervised by the Department of Labor and brought about (as it did before independence) a significant migration flow of migrants from Java to the Outer Islands. Secondly, as was just mentioned, in 1950 the transmigration programme returned. In contrast to the colonial initiative, which was mainly aimed at alleviating population pressure on Java, from the 1950s onwards much more emphasis was put on the economic development of the transmigration regions, not in the least as a means to create a market for Javanese consumers.35 At the time of the oil-boom of the late 1970s and early 80s, the post-war migrations from Java further stimulated by the transmigration programme, reached its peak. According to Manning it ‘probably lowered population growth [in Java] by 5 percent below that which would have resulted from natural increase alone’.36 Although the transmigration programme led to substantial population movements from Java to various parts of the Outer Islands, it was in particular rural Sumatra (especially the southern province of Lampung) that attracted the lion’s share of the Javanese migrants. Less impressive in terms of overall numbers, the more sparsely populated provinces were more impacted by the transmigration programme. In East Kalimantan for instance, net-immigration caused the population to grow by around one-third. Alongside the supported migrations, as was the case in earlier periods, spontaneous migrations were also a common feature of the migrations from Java to the rest of the archipelago, though in particular to the resource-rich provinces.37 Only in the 1990s, mainly as a result of falling levels of rural migration to the Outer Islands (in particular Sumatra) Java ceased to be a net-exporter of labor.38

34 Gooszen 1999: 35. 35 McNicoll 1968: 64–65. 36 Manning 1998: 79. 37 Manning 1998: 79; see also McNicoll 1968: 65–69. 38 Manning 1998: 79. 260 van lottum

Migration to Cities (Urbanization) Migration to cities, i.e. urbanization, was far from an uncommon phenomenon in colonial Indonesia. Although around 1930 Indonesia’s economy was still very much geared towards agriculture, and only 9 percent of the total population of the most urbanized region of Java and Madura lived in cities,39 the urban cores played a crucial role in the colonial economy. Not surprisingly, in-migration was an essential ingredient in the development of cities in Java and beyond. Indeed, Table 2 below shows to what extent in 1930 urbanization was dependent on in-migration. In both Java and Madura and on the Outer Islands, internal migrants (i.e. those born outside the cities) constituted around 40 percent of the total indigenous population of the urban cores. Urbanization in colonial Indonesia was closely linked to colonial exploitation, and indeed links-in with many of the factors underpinning the category of migration to land. With the overall expansion of the colonization effort, the latter quarter of the nineteenth century witnessed a strong population growth in coastal cities, which served as entrepôts for the agricultural hinterlands.40 Indeed, while the liberalization of entrepreneurship, the introduction of contract labor and the transmigration policy resulted in an increase in the category of migrations to land, this aspect of the colonial expansion led to a rise in the category of migration to cities. The growing demand for in particular tertiary sector occupations such as dockworkers, led to significant population

Table 2 Percentage of indigenous immigrants in cities of 10,000 or more in Indonesia, 1930

Total number of indigenous Total urban indigenous Immigrants (%) immigrant population

Java and Madura 968,072 2,578,967 37.5 Outer Islands 197,769 490,936 40.3 Total 1,165,841 3,069,903 38.0

Source: Volkstelling 1930, I: 36; II: 31; III: 37; IV: 38; V: 50.

39 Volkstelling VI: 7. Only places of 10,000 inhabitants or larger are regarded as cities. 40 Volkstelling, VIII: 19. migration in an age of change 261 growth in a number of urban centres in Java, like Batavia (present-day Jakarta) Surabaya and Semarang.41 It is important to note that during the nineteenth century Indonesia did not have one dominant port city. In fact, until 1905 the colonial capital Batavia was even smaller than Surabaya. Hugo explains the relatively balanced urban lay-out by the overall size of the colony and the nature of the archipelago. Because during the nineteenth century transportation and communication was limited, the Dutch operated from scattered ports around the colony. This meant that the hinterland of the port cities was relatively small. Batavia was focused on West Java, Surabaya on the eastern part, while Semarang focused on central Java. Similar roles were adopted by entrepôts in the Outer Islands, for instance in Pelembang, Makassar and Medan. However, Indonesia did witness an urbanization wave in the late nineteenth, early twentieth century. This led to a different urban landscape. In particular the rise of Jakarta (the city’s original name was again adopted after independence), developed from ‘just’ one of the largest cities in the colony, to clearly the most important urban core in the archipelago. Jakarta grew from 55,000 in 1850 to 533,000 in 1930; the second largest city of that time was Surabaya with around 340,000 inhabitants.42 As we will see below, the dominance Batavia developed at the beginning of the twentieth century would only take up pace in the years that followed; it would transform from simply being the largest city in Indonesia to a metropolis. Jakarta’s development in the twentieth century was indeed impressive, and would play an important role in the size and direction of the migration in Indonesia. By 1961 the capital had grown to nearly 3,000,000 inhabitants. The acceleration of urbanization levels happened country-wide; while between 1930 and 1961 the overall population grew by 60 percent, urbanization levels increased with 129 percent.43 Although the existence of employment possibilities (or at least the prospect of that) still comprised the main lure of Jakarta— something that was only strengthened by it now being the seat of power in the newly established state—urban migration to the capital in the 1950s was also, as Goantinag points out,44 driven by the fact that Jakarta was a much safer place than most of the interior. In other words, people would also move to the capital in search for stability and safety.

41 Hugo 1980: 114. For an overview of urbanization rates in nineteenth and early twentieth century see also Table 2 in Bosma’s chapter in this volume. 42 Hugo 1980: 112. 43 Goantinag 1965: 108. 44 Goantinag 1965: 104; see also Hugo 2006. 262 van lottum

With the advent of the New Order period (1965–c.1997), as the Suharto period is usually called, migration patterns changed to a great extent. This is also reflected in the estimates of the migrant patterns in Table 1. Although the estimates do not give a clear picture of the importance of ‘ordinary’ rural- rural migration (i.e. those of the non-colonization type), from the early 1970s migration in Indonesia became dominated by rural-urban migration.45 In the introduction the key causes for the rise in urban migration were already briefly touched upon. With the new economic policies of the Suharto regime, Indonesia developed from an agricultural economy to an industrial leader in the region, a development that was accompanied by growing job opportunities as (foreign) investments grew and economic growth accelerated. At the same time economic opportunities in rural Indonesia diminished, making the propensity for those living in rural areas to move to cities even larger.46 Although many migrants succeeded in accessing jobs in the formal labor market, others had no choice but to participate in the ever growing informal sector and to work as street hawkers, peddlers and food stall vendors.47 Recent figures for Jakarta show that no less than 68.6 percent of the labor force is employed in the informal sector,48 a very large percentage of them are likely to be migrants.49 The increase in rural-to-urban migration which had set in when Suharto came to power, accelerated throughout the 1980s. This was a direct effect of the growth of urban opportunities in this period, a development in which Jakarta played a central role. Economic activity, such as the important manufacturing industry, remained strongly concentrated in (West) Java, in particular in and around Jakarta. The continuing expansion of this sector (alongside the increasing imbalance in economic opportunities between rural and urban areas) resulted in migration levels to Jakarta rising strongly. But Jakarta’s role as attracting pole went further than just the lure of the (manufacturing) industry; in the last quarter of the twentieth century Jakarta became what is commonly called an urban primate. A primate city is the major city in a country, which as a result plays a dominant role on different levels. Jakarta encompassed, as the theory of urban primacy suggests,50 not only a large proportion of the urban

45 Effendi et al. 2010: 154. 46 Effendi et al. 2010: 154–155. 47 Effendi et al. 2010: 155; Steele 1981. 48 OECD 2010. 49 Alisjahbana & Manning 2010. Although such figures do not exist for the earlier survey years (including the colonial period), there is no reason to suggest that this would have been significantly different before independence. 50 Ades & Glaeser 1995; Henderson 2000. migration in an age of change 263 population of Indonesia, it was also its political, economic, cultural and transportation centre.51 In the last section we will look closer at the effect this may have had on the size and direction of migration in Indonesia, but it is clear from the evidence presented in the table and figures above that the increasingly central role of Jakarta functioned as an important driver in the overall population movements in Indonesia.

Immigration The category of Immigration is an interesting one because out of the four categories it shows the clearest effect of decolonization. In 1930 still about one-fifth of all migrants (i.e. the four categories combined) consisted of immigrants; in 1961 their number was almost negligible, around 4 percent. The dramatic fall in the number of foreigners in Indonesia had various causes. The Second World War and the process of decolonization played an important role, but in particular the nationalization of the economy in the 1950s, which was a reaction by the government to economic stagnation, was crucial. The latter resulted in mass repatriation of Dutch nationals (though many were born in the colony) and the expulsion of Chinese in the early 1960s. Although due to under-registration of foreigners in the Indonesian census their overall number will probably be somewhat higher than the figures shown in Table 1 and Figure 2, it is clear that in the post-colonial period this category had indeed become marginal. The figures show that in the second half of the twentieth century the overall share of immigrants in the combined categories continued to fall from 3.8 percent in 1960 to 1 percent in 2000. The censuses of 1930 and 2000 give a clear insight in the ethnic composition of the population of that time. Although the 1960 census does not provide this information (indeed, in the Appendix it is explained that the number of immigrants is extrapolated from the total number of foreigners in the 1971 census) it is still possible to draw a clear picture of how this group developed over time.

51 The general rule is that whenever the ratio of the size of the first to that of the second city exceeds two, the city size is said to be primate (Mutlu 1989: 611). Jakarta has indeed clearly been the primate city of Indonesia throughout the twentieth century. At the beginning of the twenty-first century it was more than twice as populous as the second largest city Surabaya (in the province of East Java). Jakarta’s population in 2005 was 8.8 million which is 3.2 times the population of Surabaya (2.75 million). Moreover, the combined population of Surabaya, Bandung (West Java) and Medan (North Sumatra) in 2005—the second, third and fourth populous cities in Indonesia respectively—was only 7.1 million: still well below the number of inhabitants of Jakarta (United Nations, World Population Prospects). 264 van lottum

Let us begin with the ethnic composition (defined as born abroad) in 1930, which is shown in Table 3 below. The table shows that Chinese-born immigrants were by far the most important group, and that the Chinese presence was particularly large in the Outer Islands. This illustrates that in many respects the causes for the growth of the category of migration to land are also important for this category. Indeed, as was mentioned earlier, Chinese coolies were an intrinsic part of the colonization effort, and this is clearly reflected in the large numbers of Chinese-born workers present in the Outer Islands. The census shows that Chinese were in particular employed on the tobacco plantations on the east coast of Sumatra, but there were also relatively large numbers working in administrative occupations or as regular laborers.52 Most of the Chinese-born in Java consisted of the latter group; they were predominantly (though not exclusively) active in the sugar plantations. The second largest group in this category were Europeans, not surprisingly most of them (72 percent) came from the Netherlands.53 It is important to note that this group does not include those Europeans born in the colony, whose number was more than three times as large (169,846). The fact that the latter group was relatively large has everything to do with the intensification of the colonial effort after 1870. Not only did the overall immigration of Dutch (and other Europeans) grow strongly from that moment onwards, Europeans increasingly settled for longer periods of time, something that is also illustrated by an increasingly less skewed sex ratio.54 The largest part of the European working population (including those born in Indonesia) were involved in the occupational categories of government and administration (including the

Table 3 Foreign-born immigrants in Indonesia in 1930

Java and Madura Outer Islands Total

Europeans 50,020 20,296 70,316 Chinese 120,205 313,637 433,842 Other Asian 8,654 17,410 26,064 Total 178,879 351,343 530,222

Source: Volkstelling 1930, VI: 22, 26; VII: 28.

52 Volkstelling, VII: 133. 53 Volkstelling, VI: 26. 54 Hugo 1980: 118. migration in an age of change 265

KNIL, the colonial army), and commerce and transport. These two groups accounted for about half of all occupations. The remainder worked in a variety of occupational groups, for instance in the primary sector (including mining and the production of raw materials), but also in education and the medical sector. The post-colonial period brought about significant change in the number of immigrants in Indonesia; the immigrant stock imploded to less than a third of its size 30 years earlier. This was, as pointed out above, not just a direct effect of decolonization, but mostly the effect of a later policy change of the Sukarno regime. In particular the nationalization of the economy and the expulsion of Chinese immigrants changed the immigration climate almost overnight. Crucial to the latter were the 1959 regulations which forbid aliens from engaging in retail trade. This led to a mass out-migration, or rather repatriation of foreign-born Chinese, who were involved in the (rural) retail trade in very large numbers. The total out-migration has been estimated at around 100,000 in 1960 and nearly 150,000 a year later.55 The repatriation of the Dutch occurred earlier than the expulsion of Chinese and happened in two waves. The first wave took place in 1949, and was a direct effect of the transfer of sov- ereignty: this involved mainly civil servants and their families as well as KNIL soldiers. The second wave followed from 1957 onwards when during a period of economic stagnation Dutch nationals were expelled and Dutch companies were nationalised.56 The peak of the exodus to the Netherlands occurred in 1957 when nearly 20,000 Dutch nationals (including those born in the colony) were removed from the country.57 The difference between the importance of the category of immigration before and after colonization becomes even clearer when we shift to the last survey-year. As Table 1 showed, in absolute terms the number of immigrants in 1930 was more than three times as large, while in relative terms the category had become quite insignificant in the last survey year—in 2000 foreigners consisted only of 0.07 percent of the population.58 The composition of immigrants in Indonesia also underwent change in the seventy years after the 1930 census. Although in the year 2000 Chinese immigrants were still the most important group amongst all foreigners, their share was not as large as it was in 1930—in 2000 around 63 percent of all foreigners came from China, against a little more than 80 percent in 1930. Not surprisingly, at the beginning of the

55 McNicholl 1968, 50; Skinner 1963: 99; Hugo 1981: 47. 56 Booth 1998: 65. 57 Hugo 1981: 47. 58 Indonesia’s Population Census 2000: 57. It is likely that this number is in fact larger due to registration problems (Suryadinata et al. 2003: p. 2). 266 van lottum twenty-first century the number of Dutch in Indonesia had become very small, now Arab immigrants were the second most important group (c. 7 percent). By 2000 the most important European group of expatriates were UK citizens (6 percent); all other nationalities (among which the Dutch) only had very small shares.

Emigration Emigration levels expanded significantly in the second half of the twentieth century. However, although this does not become visible in the estimates, the period between the first and second survey year also witnessed significant change. For instance, the invasion of the Japanese and subsequent occupation led to large scale repatriation of Dutch nationals, but also during the war the Romusha forced labor schemes led to large-scale deportations of Indonesians to different regions in Southeast Asia. An estimated 270,000 Javanese, Sundanese and Madurese laborers suffered this fate, and very few of them returned to the Archipelago after the War.59 Moreover, as a result of the developments discussed in the section on immigration, the category of emigration also witnessed a strong surge directly after the Second World War and in the latter half of the 1950s. The largest part of the Dutch contingent in Indonesia left the country, accompanied by large numbers of indigenous KNIL soldiers and their families from the South Moluccas (estimated around 12,500 individuals in total). What is captured in the estimates for the first two survey years is the emigration of indigenous Indonesians. In 1930, contract laborers were responsible for the lion’s share of the emigrant category. Although it is likely that nearby Malaya also attracted relatively large numbers of free migrations, before the war the international coolie contract system determined most of the out- migration from Indonesia. Malaya in particular, but also Suriname (where around 1930 more than 30,000 Javanese emigrants lived) and New Caledonia were the most important destinations, but contract laborers also ended up in Siam, British Borneo and Australia.60 In the year 2000 emigration to nearby Malaysia was still the most important destination for Indonesian emigrants, not in the least because since the 1980s Malaysia’s real wages became more and more attractive for potential Indonesian migrants. Hugo gives an estimate of about 1.2 million migrants to the former British colony, a number that is much higher than the official number.61 West Malaysia attracted migrants from Sumatra, Java, and Lombok,

59 Hugo 1981: 46–47. 60 Volkstelling VIII: 13; Hugo 2006. 61 Manning 1998: 81; Hugo 1993: 144–145. migration in an age of change 267 while the migrations to East Malaysia involved mainly workers from Flores and (South) Sulawesi.62 At the end of the century opportunities to find employment elsewhere in Asia grew strongly, however, although overall numbers were still trailing the migrations to Malaysia. The economic prosperity in Hong Kong and Singapore, but in particular the oil boom in the Gulf Region led to a strong demand for labor to which may Indonesians reacted. This involved mainly (though not exclusively) female workers, in particular domestic servants; the growth of this group of migrants contributed significantly to the category’s increase (in absolute and relative terms) between 1960 and 2000. Again, like in the case of migration to Malaysia, the total outmigration numbers are likely to under-estimate the total number of emigrants to this region.63

The Determinants of Migration64

In the foregoing section we have seen that whereas the migration effect of decolonization was relatively small—the only category that showed a sign of significant change was the category of immigration. Indeed, it was Indonesia’s economic transformation that appeared to have had the strongest effect; it led to large changes in migration levels accompanied by alterations in the characteristics of the migrant population. Figure 2 showed that the category of migration to cities evolved from being only 1.5 times larger than the second largest category, to becoming by far the most important migrant group; in 2000 it was more than 3 times as large as the migration to land category. To further understand how this change came about, in this final section we will shift away from the qualitative and quantitative effect of the political and economic transformation, and look more closely at the underlying mechanisms of migration in Indonesia. To what extent did the political and economic shifts result in a change in the determining factors of migration? In other words, which were precisely the drivers behind this change and what changes in their relative importance can be observed? One could argue that changes in overall population movements (both in terms of quality and quantity) can broadly be explained in two ways. The first possibility is that these are driven by a change in one or more existing factors.

62 Manning 1998: 81. 63 Although as is explained in the Appendix, non-registered emigrants to Malaysia are taken into account in the overall estimate, this is not the case with regard to the migration to the Gulf, which is therefore an underestimation of the actual number involved. 64 This section relies heavily on Van Lottum & Marks 2012. 268 van lottum

In the case of increasing migration levels this may best be typified as an intensification of factors (or even a single one). In other words, in such a scenario the determinants that existed before become more prominent, thus bringing about changes in the level and/or composition of a migrant population. A second way in which changes can be explained is to think of them as the outcome of a structural change in the underlying mechanisms. This would imply that a significant change with the past has occurred as a result of the rise in prominence of one (or more) new factor(s). This for instance also applies to the modernization thesis of Zelinsky, which was briefly dealt with in the introduction. After all, it proposes that modernization and/or industrialization brought about a significant break in the driving forces behind migration. In other words, following this line of argument, the urban migrations in Europe, in say 1860, were of a different character than that those that happened 200 years earlier. The thesis Lucassen and Lucassen proposed in their 2009 article (see the introductory chapter to this volume) emphasised a great degree of continuity when comparing modern and pre-modern migrations in Europe, indeed their argumentation can best be explained along the lines of continuity or intensification. The question of course remains to what extent this can be applied to (former) colonies, which have a different path of economic development. Looking at the changes that occurred in Indonesia in the second half of the twentieth century, it is tempting to conclude that Indonesia did in fact witness structural change. Migration rates took off with the modernization of the economy (indeed suggesting a Zelinsky-type transition), a development almost completely the result of the increase in urbanization levels. This does indeed suggest a clear break with the (much more sedentary) past. Nevertheless, it is risky to draw such conclusions based on the migration effect alone. After all, urbanization can be the outcome of a number of factors, many of which may have already been important in the past. To determine whether we can indeed speak of a structural break in Indonesia we need to shift away from the migration effect (which becomes visible in the migration rates and the composition of the migrant population as shown in Figure 1 and 2) and zoom in on the long term dynamics of its determinants. An effective, though somewhat crude way of investigating the long term drivers behind the population movements in Indonesia between 1930 and 2000 is to adopt a so-called gravity model. This is an econometric analysis designed to explain changes in the volume of migration by looking at the effect of a given set of (potential) determinants. Although such an approach is indeed a very basic way of establishing the mechanisms behind migration (qualitative surveys for each of the survey years would been a much more elegant and migration in an age of change 269 effective approach) it can give a good idea of the relative importance of the driving forces behind migration. Furthermore, the advantage of this method is that it not only makes it possible to distil the key determinants for different points in time, it also allows one to rank the determinants for each survey year, thus allowing a comparison of the importance of various factors diachroni- cally. The latter makes it possible to determine the extent to which shifts occur in the importance of particular determinants. The available data for Indonesia allow for only a limited set of (potential) determinants that explain migration between Indonesia’s provinces— migration from and into the country are not taken into account. The starting assumption of a gravity model is that migration is expected to be positively related to the population in the origin and destination. The more people there are in a source region, the more people are likely to migrate; similarly, the larger the population in the destination region, the larger is the labor market for immigrants. Therefore in the model the population size of both sending and receiving regions are taken into account. In addition, wage differentials between sending and receiving provinces are also likely to have an influence on migration patterns. Following the neo-classical assumption of the labor market model in which migrants are regarded as rational actors who want to better themselves, differences in wages are likely to trigger population movements. Of course, we have seen that contract labor was an important feature in 1930 and 1960, and in those cases the model is of course not as effective, but as we have seen earlier as well, this type of migration did not constitute all migration moves, and indeed organized migration flows were often followed by spontaneous migrations. The fourth factor we take into consideration is distance, which can be equated with costs of migration. One may assume that migration is negatively related to the distance between sending and receiving region. After all, migrants are likely to incur higher costs if they need to travel further. A further factor we control for is contiguity. Because most societies are to a large extent mobile, but most people move to places relatively close by, this factor tries to capture ‘common’ mobility of a population. In the model this is approximated by migration between neighboring provinces. The sixth factor the model takes into account is the transmigration policy. As we have seen, the transmigration policy was initiated under Dutch colonial rule during the early twentieth century and reinstated by the Indonesian government after independence. Finally, the model looks at the effect of the factor urban primacy. As explained in the previous section, a primate city is the major city in a country, which as a result plays a dominant role on different levels, thus making it an attractive place to which to move. 270 van lottum

So, what does the analysis tell us about the way in which the determinants of migration changed over time? Did indeed the underlying determinants of migration between 1930 and 2000 show significant change in their relative importance (suggesting structural change)? Or do we observe intensification of existing factors? To answer this question we need to turn to Table 4 which shows the ranking of the determinants. Firstly, the outcome of the regression analysis shows that with regard to some potential determinants, there is in fact considerable stability over time. This applies to population size in sending and receiving provinces, but also the effect of the transmigration policy does not change much between 1930 and 2000. Indeed, Table 4 shows that the transmigration policy appears not to have been an important determinant for internal migrations in all survey years. The analysis demonstrates that the effect of the transmigration policy is not only insignificant in 1930, 1971 and 1980, during these years the coefficients are also very small. The ranking of the determinants in Table 4 reveals that the effect of the policy—mainly due to massive financial input—became statistically significant from the 1990s onwards, and also shows that its effect was higher in magnitude compared to earlier years. Nevertheless, its impact remained relatively limited compared to other factors: the table shows that the rank of the transmigration variable was seventh for the years 1930, 1971 and 1980, and still only fifth for 1990 and 2000. In many respects the influence of the transmigration policy is not dissimilar to another (potentially) important determinant: wage differentials. The theory that underpins the basic gravity model predicts that wage differentials between sending and receiving regions are likely to be an important determinant in a well-functioning, open economy and labor market. Interestingly, the results of the quantitative analysis shows that this variable was not an important determinant of inter-provincial migration, neither during the colonial period, nor in the period thereafter. The most likely explanation for this is the fact that Indonesia was and is characterized by a so-called dual labor market. A relatively rigid formal market is combined with a widespread informal sector—a sector where migrants are likely to have ended up in very large numbers. There is, however, a factor that shows more than substantial change in ranking and magnitude: urban primacy. Table 4 shows that since Indonesia’s independence in the 1940s this variable became the dominant factor in explaining internal migration patterns. In fact, Table 4 shows that although Jakarta already played a role in determining migration levels in colonial Indonesia, this factor clearly became so much more important in the latter part of the twentieth century (outstripping the other factors in magnitude) that is justified to speak of a structural change in the underlying mechanisms. After all, during the colonial migration in an age of change 271

Table 4 Estimated beta-coefficient and ranking of determinants of internal migration in Indonesia

1930 1971 1980 1990 2000 Beta Rank Beta Rank Beta Rank Beta Rank Beta Rank

Popi 0.623 2 0.615 2 0.615 2 0.504 2 0.477 2 (Size of the sending region) Popj 0.227 4 0.195 6 0.206 5 0.268 4 0.274 4 (Size of the receiving population) Relw –0.139 6 –0.220 5 –0.116 6 –0.086 7 –0.113 7 (Wage differentials) Distance –0.215 5 –0.272 4 –0.358 3 –0.415 3 –0.424 3 (Cost) Contiguity 0.635 1 0.439 3 0.294 4 0.133 6 0.158 6 Jkt dummy 0.261 3 0.933 1 0.938 1 0.683 1 0.575 1 (Jakarta’s urban primacy) Transmigration dummy –0.085 7 –0.060 7 0.009 7 0.225 5 0.181 5 (Transmigration policy)

Source: Van Lottum & Marks 2012.

period Jakarta was not an urban primate, something it clearly became in the latter part of the century. So what explains Jakarta’s attractiveness for migrants (having ruled out higher wage levels)? Let us briefly look at three possible causes, all of which focus on the concentration of power and wealth in the capital. First, as Krugman and Livas have shown for Mexico City, net transport costs are lower for domestic goods in a central city because firms producing these goods are usually located in such cities.65 As a result, primate cities attract migrants wanting to benefit from the relatively low price levels. Another factor that explains the significant effect of Jakarta’s central role in Indonesian migrations has to do with trade and price intervention: the Indonesian government tends to protect manufacturing activities and tax agricultural activities. This has led to the protection of the urban sector of Java, and of Jakarta in particular.66 These measures encouraged the expansion of the Jakarta-based industrial sector at

65 Krugman & Livas 1992. 66 Garcia-Garcia: 2000. 272 van lottum the expense of rural opportunities, thus stimulating rural-to-urban migration. Finally, since its independence Jakarta has been Indonesia’s political core. As suggested by Ades and Glaeser, urban giant leaders often extract wealth out of the hinterlands and distribute this in the capital. This pulls migrants to the city not only because the concentration of wealth creates opportunities in both the formal and informal sector, the decreasing opportunities in the regions of origin of most migrants also forces them to move to the big city.67

Conclusions

In this contribution we have seen that migration rates in Indonesia only really took off with the advent of industrialization, a process that was closely linked to the New Order period under Suharto, and which (amongst others) comprised a new economic policy. The main driving force behind the increase in absolute and relative migration levels was urbanization. Central to this development was the rise of Jakarta as an economic and political hub, although as a result of in-migration also other cities in the archipelago grew at an unprecedented speed. When we look at the changes in the relative size of other types of migration, fewer—and certainly less intense—changes can be observed. For instance, emigration levels increased between 1960 and 2000 as a result of growing demand for workers in South Asia and the Middle East. Also, at an earlier stage, immigration levels fell as a result of the expulsion of Chinese in the early 1960s and the repatriation of Dutch nationals in the two decades after the country declared independence in 1945. Overall it became clear that the estimates of the four categories of migration we dealt with in this chapter (migration to cities, to land, immigration and emigration) show that decolonization did indeed not have a major migration effect on overall migration levels. Indeed, most of the driving forces behind the population movements that existed in the colonial era, such as the policy of transmigration, were retained after independence. As a result, overall migration rates (calculated as the total of the four migration categories) remained fairly stable between 1930 and 1960. This also meant that the levels of migrations to land category remained fairly stable after the shift from colony to independent country—as it to a large extent did when Sukarno’s regime was replaced by that of Suharto. This type of migration, which mainly involved migrations from densely populated Java to the largely rural Outer Islands,

67 Ades & Glaeser 1995. migration in an age of change 273 remained an important, but indeed stable contributor to overall migration levels, both before and after colonization. Finally, this chapter sought to investigate the extent to which we can speak of an intensification of existing factors as an explanation for the ‘sudden’ surge in the overall migration rate, or if the rapid rise in overall mobility could best be labelled as a structural break in the existing factors. Combining the quantitative analysis in the last section with the review of the four core migration categories, makes clear that a clear-cut answer to this question is difficult to give. The analysis of the descriptive statistics, as well as the econometric analysis showed that many of the factors that drove migration in the latter half of the twentieth century were already present during the colonial era. Nevertheless, despite the fact that the magnitude of most of the factors that explain intra-provincial migration did not change significantly during the century, the factor that did became more prominent over time, urban primacy, is the one that is directly related to urbanization, the category of migration that became so much more important in the second half of the twentieth century. Therefore, on balance, most of the evidence suggests that the key factor behind the surge in post-war migration levels constituted a break with the past. The increasing concentration of economic activity and political power in the capital was in many respects a feature of the second half of the twentieth century. Jakarta as a magnet for migrants became the most important driver behind the population movements in Indonesia. 274 van lottum

Appendix. Estimates of Migration 1930, 1961, 2000

Migration to Land (Colonisation) The estimate for the year 1930 is calculated by taking the total emigration of native born Indonesians from the Javanese provinces (including Madura) to the Outher Islands (Volkstelling 1930, VIII: 18, table 29) and deducting this by the total urban emigration of native born from Java and Madura to the Outer Islands (Volkstelling 1930, IV: 36 and Volkstelling 1930, V: 46). The estimate for the year 1960 is based on the number of Java born Indonesians to the Outer Islands, based on McNicholl, 1968 (p. 53). The year 2000 estimate is based on the Indonesian Census (2000) (Javanese rural migration to the Outer Islands).

Migration to Cities (Urbanisation) The estimate for the year 1930 is based on migration from the districts given in the 1930 census (1930, I: 36; II: 31; III: 37; IV: 38; V: 50). Only the migrations of natives to cities larger than 9,999 inhabitants are taken into account (which is similar to the Lucassen and Lucassen approach). As the census data for 1961 do not allow for a relatively straightforward calculation of migration to cities (McNicholl, 1968, p. 75), it can only be estimated by combining different sources. As we have just seen, the 1930 census provides a total of urban migrants, which I have used as a base figure. To estimate the growth in urban migrants between 1930 and 1960 I took two more steps. First, I used Goantinag’s (1965) calculation of urban growth (129%) as a basic growth figure. Obviously, this growth figure consists of a share of natural growth and one of in-migration. Estimates by the UN (2001b, cited in Hugo, 2003) suggest that the migration component in urban growth in the 1960s was 31.5% (meaning 68.5% of the growth was the product of natural growth). Based Nitisastro’s (1970, esp. Chapters 9 and 11) reconstruction of Java’s population structure between 1930 and 1960 and the subsequent increase in natural population thereafter, I have estimated this at 50%. If we take these two figures into account the estimated increase in urban migrants boils down to around 750,000, meaning the total number of migration to cities increased to a little over 1,900,000. For the year 2000 the estimate was based on the 2000 census. However, it is important to note that, as Hugo (2003: 9) points out, the Indonesian census migration data do not distinguish between urban and rural origins, and that as such the figures here do not necessarily capture rural to urban migrations.

Immigration The 1930 estimate is based on Volkstelling (1930, VI: 26, table 4); VI: 22; VI: 28). It comprises immigration numbers from Europe, China and from other parts in Asia. For 1960 I follow Hugo’s (1981 pp. 46–47) estimate for 1971: ‘The major causes of the net emigration, however, have been the large scale repatriation of Dutch and Chinese which have migration in an age of change 275 seen Indonesia’s foreign born population decline from 537,940 to 140,136 in 1971.’ I have taken the number for 1971 here, as this includes the exodus of around 145,000 chinese in 1961. For 2000 I follow Suryadinata et.al (2003), p. 2 Table 1.1.1.

Emigration For 1930 the total numbers for native Indonesians in British Malaya are based on the Volkstelling (1930, VIII: 18). The 1930 census also provides estimates for other destinations such as the Dutch Colony of Suriname, New Caledonia, Siam, British North Borneo (Volkstelling 1930, VIII: 45; see also Hugo, 2005: 17). As good figures for 1960 are lacking, I have used the number of emigrants for 1930, corrected by the overall population growth, to estimate the 1960 figure. The estimate for 2000 is based on Hugo (1993, 113, Table 7.3 and 114–115). In this estimate pilgrims participating in the Hajj are not taken into account (for information on this sizeable ‘seasonal’ flow see Bosma’s chapter in this volume, and Diederich, 2005 and Vredenbrecht 1962). section four East Asia

∵ Illustration 4 Poster of a female Chinese tractor driver, published in October 1964 and designed by Jin Meisheng and Jin Peigeng Sources: IISH, Amsterdam, Call number: IISG BG E13/880 A Different Transition: Human Mobility in China, 1600–1900

Adam McKeown

Is there a world history of migration? Or is migration best understood in the contexts of specific regional histories? Should we start from the assumption that each flow and each migrant experience is unique? Or can we find common trends and connections across the globe? Currently, we cannot properly answer these questions because we still do not have a clear outline of what a world history of migration might look like. Social science research on contemporary and historical migration provides tools to link universal understandings of migration processes with local spe- cifics. This research has posited a broad range of variable conditions that can generate and shape migration flows, including wage differentials, work opportunities, family structure, occupational structure, social networks, financial resources, state regulation, transportation and communication links and levels of coercion. Each migrant flow and experience then unfolds at a unique nexus of these conditions. This method of understanding migration suggests how local migration histories can be understood in terms of processes that are common around the world and across history. But it is still something different than a world history of migration. It provides tools to understand the proliferation of local histories and possibilities. It does not provide tools to map broad patterns that cross regions, or to perceive large scale similarities and differences that become most apparent over long time frames and by comparing large geographic regions. Moreover, these tools are largely the product of research on the historical transatlantic migrations or more recent migration. This sometimes leads to the inappropriate projection of assumptions about causes and effects onto other historical migrations without adequate research.1 The CCMR-model offers an excellent point of departure to embark upon a comparative global history of migration.2 The model attempts to quantify European migration with an eye towards the question of whether a significant transition in human mobility took place in nineteenth century Europe. This already takes us a long way towards proposing a long-term narrative about

1 For more detailed analysis in this vein, see McKeown 2010 & 2011a. 2 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��4 | doi 10.1163/9789004271364_011 280 mckeown the significance and changing nature of migration after the industrial revolution that can be tested in other parts of the world. The most useful part of the CCMR-model, however, is the distinction of several different categories of migration—emigration, immigration, colonization, urbanization, seasonal and labor (i.e. soldiers and sailors)—and the development of methods to quantify these categories that can be readily adapted to other contexts. By dividing mobility into different types, the CCMR-model moves beyond crude generalizations about relatively mobile and immobile societies or periods. This instead draws our attention to the diversity of mobilities, the possible relationships between them, and how the importance of these different forms may change over time. To be sure, as general descriptions of “migration,” the categories are somewhat incompatible. The short distances, temporary careers and repeated journeys of seasonal and itinerant migrants are very different, both quantitatively and qualitatively, than the epic journeys of early settlers across the Atlantic Ocean. Did the relocation of entire families to sparsely populated frontiers really have causes and effects that were similar to the labor strategies of single migrants moving to cities temporarily? Moreover, can soldiers and seamen really be treated as migrants? Recent migration scholar- ship has rarely considered them as such—although I suspect that is because they are hard to fit into prevalent models of assimilation and cultural contact (although “invasions” were a prominent part of an earlier migration literature). These issues only pose a problem, however, if we are evaluating the extent to which migrations measure up to some imagined archetypal or “classic” standard of migration, or if we lump them all together into a single category of “mobility.” If, on the other hand, we focus attention on the changing numbers, proportions and regional distribution of the different categories and their relationships to each other over time, we can develop much more nuanced histories and global comparisons. In the Lucassens’ work with the CCMR model, this has led to the conclusion that the increased mobility of the nineteenth century Europe was largely a result of the dramatic increase of transatlantic migration and urbanization. They also show that military migration, which had been the prominent form of mobility before the nineteenth century, decreased significantly in both relative proportions and absolute numbers over the nineteenth century. European society had not become more mobile per se, but had produced new flows of mass mobility related to technological changes that supported larger cities and longer travels. Attention to the changing composition of mobility also helps to better understand the relationship of migration to social and economic change. How does migration contribute to social and economic change, and how do those changes help produce mass migration? In terms of world history, these can be formulated into perennial questions revolving around the causes and a different transition 281 effects of the industrial revolution. Can mobility patterns before 1800 help us to understand divergent economic trajectories and the causes of the industrial revolution in Europe? How did the economic and political transformations of the nineteenth century transform mass migration? A bird’s eye comparative view built on local research will create a better understanding of long-term patterns. It can then direct us to new questions where new research would be most fruitful and necessary. Just as significantly, the difficulty of translat- ing and applying some of the categories of the CCMR-model outside Europe will provide insight into qualitative and institutional differences across regions, and generate ideas for the construction of new categories and methods. Hopefully, this knowledge can also be reflected back to better understand European processes and the methods used to understand them, so that we do not get trapped in the all-too-common habit of applying European categories to shape our knowledge of the world. This chapter will use the CCMR-model to quantify Chinese migration from 1600–1900, presenting the results in comparison with the results for Europe.3 East Asia is perhaps the region of the world outside Europe most readily sus- ceptible to such an analysis, both because of relatively accessible data and because forms of mobility were most similar to Europe. Historical research on migration in China still lags behind that on Europe, however, and even basic population numbers are still a mater of debate. All of my estimates must be understood as very provisional. Their presentation in charts and tables is not intended to produce an illusion of precision, but as a way to visualize possible trends, differences and similarities. At the very least, this preliminary comparison can help point the way for future research in China. One final caveat is that the basic units of comparison are quite distinct. China is an empire. Europe is a continent, the borders of which bisected at least ten empires. The definition of Europe in the original CCMR-model also includes places like Russia and the northern Ottoman that are often excluded from most understandings of “European” development. And while the borders of Europe are held firm over the 500 years of the original CCMR analysis, the borders of China shift along with the expanding political control of the Qing Empire (1644–1911). The problem of establishing units of comparison while still recognizing the historical processes by which entities such as Europe and

3 European data used in this chapter is from Lucassen & Lucassen 2010, plus revisions from their chapter in this volume that increased the number of temporal multi-annual migrants. I did not readjust for life expectancy because this is extremely speculative for China before 1900, and may have varied widely between core and frontiers where most of the population growth was. Sources for Chinese data are discussed in the body of the paper and footnotes. 282 mckeown

China are constructed in the first place is one of the greatest challenges facing world historical research. I will frequently return to the implications of these differing units of analysis below.

Population

The population of China was 40 to 50 percent greater than Europe’s for much of the period under consideration (Figure 1). Most significantly, the Chinese population grew more quickly than Europe’s in the eighteenth century, possibly reaching annual growth rates that would not be seen in Europe until the “demographic transition” of the nineteenth century. This population boom is key to understanding the scale and significance of Chinese migration patterns both during and after the eighteenth century. Specific numbers, however, are still speculative.4 Most Qing population figures are projections based on the Ming censuses of 1380 and 1393, the Qing household registrations of 1776 and 1810 that are believed to be relatively accurate, and the census of 1953. The starting point for most estimates of Qing population is about 150–200 million for the years 1600 to 1630, the last years of the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644). After that, estimates are very tentative until the late eighteenth century, due to uncertainty about how to register the effects of the mid-century wars of the Ming to Qing transition. Most estimates tend to assume that the population dipped in the middle of the seventeenth century, only recovering late Ming numbers and surpassing 200 million in the first half of the eighteenth century. For 1810, a number of 350–360 million based on household registrations is widely accepted. Depending on the numbers used for the early Qing and the evaluations of the demographic effects of the Ming-Qing wars, this can lead to estimates population growth over the eighteenth century as high as 0.7 to 0.8 percent a year. This was much higher than European rates 0.3 to 0.5 percent a year during that same century (but similar to European growth rates of 0.77 percent from 1800 to 1900).5

4 My population numbers are averaged from numbers in Cao 2001b: 832; Cao & Chen 2002: 44; Lavely & Wong 1998: 717; Marks 2002; and Perkins 1969: 192–216. See also Durand 1960: 249; Ho Ping-ti 1959; and Angus Maddison’s datasets on world population at http://www.ggdc.net/ maddison. 5 Lavely & Wong 1998: 719. The most notable dissent from the story of a eighteenth century population boom is Hejidra 1998. Based on research showing that the early Ming censuses undercounted the population by at least 25%, Heijdra projects an early Qing population of somewhere between 250 and 300 million in 1650. He combines this with evidence for a different transition 283

450 400 350 300 250 200 150 100 50 0 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 Europe China Figure 1 Populations of China and Europe, 1600–1900 Sources: See note 4; Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 8.

All accounts agree that growth slowed in the first half of the nineteenth century to 0.5 percent a year at the highest, and perhaps as low as 0.2 percent.6 A population of 430 million is widely cited for 1850. After that, population trends become murky once again. Death estimates for the rebellions (Taiping, Nian, Miao, Muslim) and famines from the 1850s to 1870s range from the commonly cited figures of 20 to 30 million up to Cao Shuji’s 118 million.7 Population estimates for 1900 range from 400 to 460 million, suggesting a population that grew little if any over the second half of the century.

decreasing life expectancy during the Qing to argue that Chinese population growth slowed after the late Ming. The greatest shortcomings of his analysis are his selective use of provincial life expectancy data and reluctance to assume significant population decline during the Ming-Qing transition. 6 Skinner (1987: 75) suggests an 1850 population as low as 380 million, based on his analysis of inflation in the household registers of Sichuan province. This would lead to population growth as low as 0.2 percent. 7 Cao 2001b: 690–772, Cao & Chen 2002: 43. Schran (1978) makes a case for the relatively minimal impact of the nineteenth century disasters, based on the implausibility of rapid population growth in the equally disastrous 1930s and 40s necessary to attain the high census numbers of 1953. In contrast, Cao (2001b: 703–7) shows that Yangtze delta provinces most heavily hit by the disasters of the mid-nineteenth and twentieth centuries still had not recovered their pre-Taiping populations by 1953, and population recovery was strongest outside of the core, especially in Manchuria. 284 mckeown

Colonization and Emigration

Colonization was the most prominent type of Chinese migration, a crucial dimension of Qing expansion.8 From 1680 to 1850, at least 12 million people moved to frontiers at the edges of the empire. Millions more settled the mountainous areas in the interior of China, with favoured destinations gradually shifting from the south to the northwest from the late Ming to the nineteenth century.9 Specific policies towards these migrations fluctuated over time and place, but in the long term colonization was part of an overall imperial strategy of using the wealth of the core regions to help subsidize the settlement, stability and security of the frontiers. Relatively coerced migrations in the early years of the Qing quickly gave way by the 1680s to encouragements that included subsidies, tax breaks and easy access to land and residence papers. Movement into interior hill regions was subject to the least regulation, either positive or negative. Some frontiers remained subject to restrictions, such as prohibition of female migrants to Taiwan and the (not entirely successful) prohibition of Han migration to Manchuria from the 1680s to 1860s. The general trend over the eighteenth century, however, was towards a tolerant approach with limited state intervention, which was largely an effect of the limited effectiveness of official attempts to encourage and restrict migration. Lower taxes in frontier areas were the most successful incentive, often staying in place long after most of the land had been successfully colonized. Government-led colonization began during the Ming-Qing transitional wars, when about 700,000 Manchu and Mongol soldiers and their families settled in China and about 1 million Han prisoners were moved to Manchuria and parts of northern China to resettle vacated lands.10 Residents of the south-eastern coast were also evacuated inland from 1661–69, to prevent

8 Kenneth Pomeranz (2010a; 2010b) has put colonization at the center of his most recent understandings of the Qing. 9 My estimates for colonizing migration are drawn from a broad review of the secondary literature (see notes 13 and 14) where the best estimates are usually based on household registrations and familiarity with local sources. Lee & Wong (1991: 54) uses land registration to estimate a total of 25 million migrant settlers to frontiers from 1650 to 1900. This is higher than my estimate of 17 million frontier migrants in this period, but lower than my estimate of 30 million that includes interior hill areas and the post-Taiping resettlement of the Yangtze delta. Cao (1997: 617) uses the 1776 household registrations to estimate 16.4 million migrants and their descendants living in China that year. In comparison, I estimate about 13 million migrants (not including descendants) from 1650 to 1776. 10 Cao 1997: 617; Lee & Wong 1991: 52. a different transition 285 collaboration with Ming loyalists based in Taiwan. Some returned when the evacuation was rescinded, although many remained in their new locations.11 Military and civilian colonies were also encouraged in parts of the empire that had been devastated by the wars.12 Frontier settlement did not begin in earnest, however, until after the wars died down in the 1680s. By the late eighteenth century, over 4 million migrants had moved to Sichuan province, which had been devastated by the Ming-Qing wars, and nearly 2 million to Taiwan. Migration to southwest China had roots in the Ming dynasty, but picked up steam in the middle of the eighteenth century with over 3 million migrants arriving there by the 1840s. Over two million people also moved to the far northwest of China and Mongolia, mostly after 1760 when the Qing conquests were finished.13 Equal numbers moved into the hill areas on the interior of China. Migration into the southern hill areas of Guangdong, Guangxi and Jiangxi was already common in the late Ming. By the early Qing, migrants were also moving into the hills and valleys of Hunan province in south-central China. Over the course of the eighteenth century the main destinations moved increasingly north, first to mountain regions on the southern side of the Yangtze river, and eventually north to the mountainous borderlands of Sichuan and Shanxi provinces. Often called “shack people”, the first migrants were often seasonal, moving to gather forest products or to grow low-maintenance American crops such as maize and sweet potatoes that did well on poor soil and uneven terrain. Over time, many settled in the hills, while others continued to migrate seasonally to work on lands claimed by earlier migrants.14 The most common sources of migrants were the southern provinces of Guangdong and Fujian, the plains of central Jiangxi and north China, and the north western provinces of Shanxi and Shenxi. Most quantitative information on colonization is based on household registration data that does not reveal the time of movement, so the division into fifty-year periods is somewhat crude (Table 1). But it is clear from many accounts that colonization decreased by the turn of the nineteenth century. Migrations to the southern hill areas, Sichuan and Taiwan were the first to

11 Hsieh 1931. 12 Zhang & Guo 1997. 13 Cao 1997: 619; Dai 2009b; Entenmann 1980; Ge, Cao & Wu 1993: 394–457; Guo 1990; Isett 2007: 131–132; Lee 1982b; Lin & Wang 1980; Liu 1994; Millward 1998; Shepherd 1993; and Xu 1985. 14 Averill 1983; Cao 1997; Leong 1997; Miles 2006; Osborne 1989: 142–188; Perdue 1987: 93–113; and Vermeer 1991. 286 mckeown

Table 1 Colonizing migrants in China and Europe, 1601–1900 (millions)

China Europe

1601–1650 3.0 0.13 1651–1700 4.0 1.76 1701–1750 6.15 1.62 1751–1800 6.5 3.0 1801–1850 3.25 3.0 1851–1900 10.0 2.9

Source: See notes 9 and 13 to 17; Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 18. dwindle by the late eighteenth century, and most other flows had seriously declined by the 1820s.15 Colonization picked up again to new destinations after the 1870s. Up to 5 million moved into the areas of the Yangtze delta that had been depopulated by the Taiping Rebellion.16 But the most significant movement came with gradual opening of Manchuria starting in the 1860s. This flow of migrants from the northern Chinese provinces of Hebei and Shandong boomed in the 1890s, becoming one of the largest mass migrations in human history with over 30 million migrants by the 1940s.17 At first glance, the mass numbers of Chinese colonizers seem to create an entirely different pattern of mobility than in Europe. Total numbers were more than double those in Europe before 1800. Chinese colonization rates (as a proportion of total population) were also significantly higher than for Europe (Figure 2). Moreover, colonization within the Russian empire accounted for 80 percent of European colonizers from 1600–1800, and all of them after 1800. Colonization within non-Russian Europe was an insignificant form of mobility. But this is a misleading contrast. It compares an empire to a continent. If we compare colonization rates across different empires (including to overseas colonies), Chinese colonization begins to look more moderate, sometimes higher and sometimes lower than those for European empires (Figure 2). Russia stands out as the most consistently aggressive colonizing polity. In more

15 Averill 1983: 89; Lee 1982a: 729–731; Lee & Campbell 1997: 46; Shepherd 2004; Skinner 1987: 66–67. 16 Cao (1997: 414–471) uses population data to count 5.6 million migrants to the Yangtze Delta. I use a number of 5 million, to avoid overlap with urban migrants. 17 Gottschang & Lary 2000: 171; Umeno this volume. a different transition 287

0 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 Qing Empire Continental Europe Russian Empire British Empire (Americas Spanish and Portuguese and Australia only) Empires

Figure 2 Colonization rates (% of the population) in various empires and continental Europe, 1601–1900 Source: See notes 11 and 15 to 18; Kessler this volume; McEvedy & Jones 1978; Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 18, 103.

general terms, a cross-empire comparison makes it clear that empires were the predominant spaces of long distance mobility before the nineteenth century. As Kessler suggests in this volume, empires seemed to share a similar repertoire of mobility that was somewhat different than that found in regions of small states. The CCMR-model counts these colonial migrants as “emigrants” who left Europe.18 These emigrants clearly surpassed the number of emigrants who left China. European emigration including overseas colonization averaged 1.3 million per 50 years before 1800, and 600,000 per 50 years without colonization. These rates expanded rapidly in the nineteenth century, up to nearly 27 million emigrants and 21 million non-colonizing migrants in 1850–1900. In comparison, migration from China rarely amounted to more than 300,000 migrants over any 50-year period before 1750, expanding to about 750,000 in the first half of the nineteenth century (as increasing numbers of laborers joined the merchants abroad). Emigration boomed about a half century later than European emigration, growing to nearly 8 million migrants from 1850–1900 (Figure 3).19

18 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 351; Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 11. 19 My emigration estimates for the period before 1840 are based on a variety of sources, including Chinese population estimates for Bangkok, Batavia and Manila, reports of 288 mckeown 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 From China From Europe From Europe excluding colonization Figure 3 Emigration rates (% of the population) from China and Europe, 1601–1900 Source: See note 19; and Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 16, 18.

But the attempt to estimate Chinese emigrants quickly brings us up against the arbitrary distinction between colonizers and emigrants. Did migration to Taiwan suddenly change from emigration to colonization after the Qing takeover in 1683? At what point did merchants traveling back and forth across land frontiers and political borderlands—both marked and unmarked—change from colonizers to emigrants? Similarly, did the merchants and settlers who moved to the Americas or Siberia really have more in common with European slave “emigrants” taken to the Ottoman than they did with the merchants and settlers who colonized Sichuan or the Ukraine? The basic processes of emigration and colonization—especially the mix of commerce and settlement—are often quite similar. In comparison, the political and continental boundaries used to distinguish the two are relatively arbitrary. If we further rearrange the colonization and emigration figures, migration patterns in China and Europe continue to look increasingly similar. If we remove overseas colonizers from the European emigration figures—i.e. count only the emigrants who, like the Chinese, left the empires—European emigration rates reduce by half during the years before 1850 (Figure 3). And Russia

Chinese junks to Java carrying hundreds of migrants, and immigration statistics for Singapore in the early nineteenth century. See Blussé 1979; Cooke & Li 2004; Reid 1996; Skinner 1957; and Wong 1960. For the period after 1840, see McKeown 2010: 120–123. See also the chapter by Ota in this volume. a different transition 289 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 China Europe Figure 4 Total colonization and emigration (% of the population) from China and Europe, 1601–1900 Source: See notes 11 and 15 to 19; Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 16, 18.

once again plays a huge role among those remaining emigrants, with Russian migrants to the Ottoman accounting for more than half of all emigrants before 1800. If those are removed, European emigration begins to trickle at a scale similar to Chinese emigration. Most of the remaining European emigrants traveled to North Africa, often kidnapped or otherwise coerced. If we combine all emigration and both interior and overseas colonization, mobility rates in China and Europe look even more similar in the years before the great European emigration boom of the nineteenth century (Figure 4). This process of reframing much emigration as colonization makes the emigration boom of the second half of the nineteenth century all the more remarkable as a new pattern in global migration that moved beyond imperial boundaries. Differences still lurk beneath these similarities. The absolute numbers of Chinese colonizers under a single polity is still remarkably high, and they moved into a much smaller space of habitable land than the Russian and European colonists. This colonizing pressure was maintained at a high pace during the eighteenth century while Western European overseas colonization stagnated (unless we add African migrants as colonists, an inclusion that, like Russian serfdom, highlights the much different social structures of these frontiers). One result is that European emigrants faced much more open frontier landscapes in the nineteenth century, precisely when the Chinese frontiers other than Manchuria were closing. 290 mckeown

To Cities

Calculations of urban migration vary greatly according to estimates for urban population and for urban reproduction rates. Several estimates of urban population in China from 1776 to 1893 make it possible to project urban population back to 1600 with some confidence. Virtually no data is available, however, for rates of natural reproduction and decline (the ‘urban graveyard’ effect) and I have created three separate estimates. Compatible estimates for the urban population are provided by Cao Shuji 1776 and 1893, G. William Skinner for 1843 and 1893, and Gilbert Rozman for 1820 (and less reliably for the mid-Ming and 1660).20 Only Rozman distinguishes cities above 10,000, which is the threshold used in the original CCMR-model, but it is possible to extract reasonable approximations from the data provided by Cao and Skinner. Despite Cao’s trenchant criticism of Skinner’s methods, the projection of their numbers to cities above 10,000 produces estimates within 7 percent of each other, Cao suggesting a population of 17.3 million in cities over 10,000 for 1893 and Skinner 18.5 million for that same year. Earlier estimates of 16.3 million for 1843 (Skinner), 15 million for 1840 (Rozman) and 14.1 million for 1776 (Cao) are broadly compatible. Rozman’s estimate of 6 million for 1660 is based on thinner evidence, but is also broadly compatible with Cao Shuji’s estimate of about 4 million for 1393 and his belief that urbanization rates declined by the late Ming.21 I followed the CCMR-model of estimating urban migration by first calculating the total growth in city size over each fifty-year period. They then added population loss due to natural decrease, by first calculating the average urban population for each 50-year period, multiplying it by an annual rate of natural increase or decrease, and multiplying that by 50. To estimate annual rates of increase and decrease, in the original CCMR-model many estimates of natural growth rates in European cities were collected that range widely from -64 per thousand population to +30. Even authors working on the same city at the same time give divergent estimates. They then averaged this out to annual growth rates of -9 per 1000 for 1601–50, -2 for 1651–1750, -1 for 1751–1800, and positive growth rates after that.22

20 Cao 1997: 829; Rozman 1973: 101–102, 282–283; Skinner 1977: 229, 248. Lee & Wong (1991: 56) note Chinese research that has raised the urban population for the Yangtze Delta area, but this mostly seems to be based on an increased number of small cities, many of which were not important immigrant destinations. 21 Cao 2001b: 369–70. 22 Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 19–32. a different transition 291

Table 2 Estimates for Chinese migration to cities over 10,000, 1601–1900 (millions)

Average Migrants European Urban Urban Population Low Medium High Migrants

1601–1650 6.5 0.6 1.6 2.3 4.6 1651–1700 7.75 3.9 4.6 5.4 2.2 1701–1750 11.25 4.0 5.2 6.3 3.2 1751–1800 13.75 2.9 4.2 5.6 4.6 1801–1850 15.75 3.5 5.1 6.6 17.8 1851–1900 17.75 6.9 9.6 11.3 43

Source: See notes 20–23.

I have made three models for Chinese urban migration, based on different estimates of natural decrease (Table 2). Overall life expectancies in China seem to have been similar or slightly lower than in Europe in the eighteenth century. They may have slightly declined in the core areas of China where cities were concentrated during the eighteenth century, and certainly declined throughout much of China in the nineteenth century.23 So I have assumed relatively high rates of decrease in the violent years at the beginning and end of the Qing, lower rates from 1650 to 1750, with a slight increase from 1750 to 1850. The column in Table 2 for “low” rates of decrease assumes cities that were healthier than in Europe, with rates of –5 per thousand in the violent years and -1 in the mid-Qing. The “medium” rates are –8 and –3 respectively, and the “high” are –10 and –5. Any estimate is extremely tentative. A slight increase of a couple of deaths per thousand each year can result in an increase of over a million and a half migrants over a fifty-year period. I will use the “medium” estimate in the chart of comparative urban migration rates below, based on the assumption that death rates were similar to European cities before 1800 but birth rates were lower, based on anecdotal evidence for high rates of male migrants who did much of their reproductive work back in their villages. Even with these tentative estimates, a trend of decreasing urban migration rates can be perceived. Like frontier colonization, urban migration declined by the end of the eighteenth century, picking up again after the 1870s. This trend would be weaker if we started with higher urban population for the early Qing,

23 Heijdra 1998; Lavely & Wong 1998: 720–4; Lee & Wang 1999: 39. 292 mckeown

0 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 China Europe Figure 5 Urban migration rates (% of the population) for China and Europe, 1601–1900 Source: See notes 20–23; Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 33.

but still present. The late Qing did see a relative expansion of small market towns, which may account for some migration that is missed with the 10,000 threshold. But this was probably not enough to impact the overall trend. These relatively high rates of urban migration are probably the most surprising results of this chapter, because it is generally recognized that urbanization rates in Europe were about twice those of China (Figure 5). These high migration rates reflect the necessity for large numbers of migrants to even maintain a slightly declining urban population in the context of the rapidly growing population of China. The effects of this intense migration can be seen in fact that Chinese cities were actually growing faster than other cities around the world in the first half of the Qing. From 1650 to 1750, the number of Chinese cities in the top 75 world cities counted by Tertius Chandler rose from 11 to 19.24 Europe had more top cities, but the number remained stagnant at 23 over this same period. Beijing also replaced Istanbul to be the largest world city from 1750 to 1800. Chandler also gives relatively low populations for Chinese cities. Skinner’s numbers would put at least 20 Chinese cities in the top 75 for 1850.

24 Chandler 1987. a different transition 293

Table 3 Number of Chinese and European cities in the global urban top 75, 1600–1900

China Europe

1600 12 24 1650 11 23 1700 15 25 1750 19 23 1800 15 29 1850 11 34 1900 6 43

Source: Chandler 1987.

The urbanization gap between China and Europe plays an important role in comparative economic histories. For many scholars, the ability of English agriculture to support growing English cities is key to understanding the industrial revolution.25 Focusing more specifically on migration, Pomeranz suggests that low wage rates in Chinese cities made frontier migration more attractive in China and inhibited urbanization.26 But, if the trends above are correct, frontier migration was only marginally more attractive than urban migration. And a decline in urban migration corresponded with the decline in colonization in the late eighteenth century. The problem to be explained is not the lack of urban migration in Qing China, but the high migration despite low wages, and the reasons for its decline in the late eighteenth century. The causes of urban migration may lie in factors other than wages, such as participation in family business, informal market work, or more stable employment opportunities and living conditions for unmarried men (“bare sticks”) than were available in home villages. And from there, the decline in urban migration should be understood as something specific to the period 1750–1850. After 1800, the gap between Chinese and European urban migration increased dramatically. European cities tripled and quadrupled in size, and the urban graveyard effect reversed. London replaced Beijing as the top city in 1850. Both urbanization and urbanization rates in Europe and North America reached levels never before seen in world history. Migration to Chinese

25 Brenner & Isett 2002: 636. 26 Pomeranz 2010a: 82. 294 mckeown cities only began to replicate these patterns in the second half of the nineteenth century, starting first with coastal cities and spreading to most cities in China by the early twentieth century.

Temporary Multi-annual: Soldiers and Sailors

In the CCMR-model soldiers and sailors other than temporary conscripts are counted as as multi-annual labor migrants. They fit the bill perfectly. They were predominantly young men intending to travel for temporary periods to earn wages but who often failed to return whether because of death, relocation and marriage to locals. What better description of people behaving similarly to the labor migrants of the nineteenth century that we know so well?27 In the original CCMR-model this category was labelled “soldiers and sailors” because they make up the great majority of the migrants counted in this category.28 In the refined CCMR-model used in this volume it has been renamed as “temporal multi-annual” migration, to include tramping artisans, domestics and other long-term laborers. But these kinds of migrations are difficult to count and they do not give explicit estimates for these non-military migrants. They have also not increased their estimates by more than five percent since expanding the category, and suggest that many of the long-term laborers were already caught in the calculations for migration to cities, seasonal and colonization. I have also assumed that the bulk of artisans and domestics are already caught in those other categories, and restrict my calculations in this category to military migrants and their supporting trains (although I am ignoring what may have been a very large number of pre-pubescent females who migrated as adoptees, “slaves,” brides and domestic servants). Only some Chinese soldiers, however, fit the picture of labor migrants. The Banner troops did not. They were elite troops of Manchus, Mongols and Chinese who inherited their positions. Bannermen were exhorted to remain distinct from the local populations, although there was some leakage and a gradual trend towards adopting Chinese language and customs over the course of the dynasty. Troop numbers varied from 180,000 to 300,000 during the Qing. Half were garrisoned in Beijing, and the rest were scattered in cities, garrisons and frontier settlements throughout China, especially in the Northwest and Manchuria. They were more similar to colonizers

27 See also Bosma 2009. 28 Lucassen 2009 and 2010. a different transition 295 than labor migrants, and their numbers have already been included in the colonization estimates (although their numbers are trivial compared to the non-military colonists).29 The Green Standard Army, on the other hand, depended on recruits who behaved more like labor migrants. The army probably originated in Ming troops that surrendered to the Qing during the Manchu conquest. Service was nominally for life, although soldiers could retire in cases of old age or injury, so a constant stream of recruits was necessary and provinces were sometimes required to provide a quota of recruits during wars. Many recruits were taken from the local populations next to a garrison and often lived at home with their families while serving. But soldiers were often transferred to frontier garrisons and war fronts, sometimes bringing their families with them.30 The Green Standard Army averaged over 600,000 troops over most of its existence. This made it four times larger than the largest European army, but all of the Chinese troops combined were still less than half the total of all European armies.31 Luo Ergang provides numbers for the Green Standard Army for selected years from 1686 to 1887 that can be used as a basis to estimate recruitment (Table 4).32 A low wastage rate of 10 percent a year is reasonable because the Army was rarely used in battle, although troops were often stationed in dis- ease-ridden areas.33 I have estimated wastage as 20 percent for the period 1785 to 1812, during the White Lotus Uprising, and 35 percent for 1850 to 1887 during the great rebellions. Estimates for the periods of intense warfare in the mid seventeenth and nineteenth centuries are more difficult, and I will have to rely on anecdotal estimates. The late Ming army of about 1.1 million troops was challenged in the 1640s first by at least 400,000 rebel troops from Sichuan, and then by at least 300,000 Manchu and Mongol troops from the north.34 During their conquest, the Manchus incorporated remnants of the Ming army into their armies and recruited new Chinese troops. Wars against remnant Ming loyalists and rebel armies continued until 1681, amounting to at least 200,000 new troops other than the old Ming forces. I will treat the Ming troops and their successors in the Qing armies the same as the Green Standard Army, with 10 percent wastage until 1640 and after 1681, and 35 percent during the years in between. For

29 Campbell & Lee 2001; Crossley 1990; Elliot 2001. 30 Luo 1984: 229–233, 287–288, 367. 31 Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 101. 32 Luo 1984: 62. 33 These are based on European wastage rates estimated in Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 367; and idem 2010: 72. 34 Elliott 2001. 296 mckeown

Table 4 Green standard army troops, 1686–1887 (000s)

Year Troops

1686 578 1727 585 1758 648 1785 599 1812 662 1821 638 1850 611 1887 467

Source: Luo 1984: 62. the other troops, I will assume a one-time recruitment and short life span (or, in the case of the Manchu and Mongol troops, eternal life as Banner troops). During the White Lotus Rebellion (1796–1804) the Qing started to recruit local militia, bandits and pirates into military service. This did not amount to a significant amount of troops until the Taiping Rebellion when Zeng Guofan formed the Hunan Army, the most famous of several armies recruited locally to fight the rebels. These armies accounted for at least 350 to 500,000 troops. In opposition they faced over 850,000 Taiping troops that cut a swath from the southwest into the Yangtze delta and beyond.35 The Nian rebellion of north China and Muslim rebellions in the southwest and northwest generated more military activity through the 1870s.36 Some of the newly recruited anti-rebel armies, such as the Jiangxi army, refused to leave their home provinces. Others eventually became the basis for the regional armies and four regional navies established in the last 40 years of the Qing, ultimately replacing the Green Standard army.37 I count the rebels as a one-time recruitment of 2 million, and the other armies as expanding from 0 to 350,000 by 1860, and then to 500,000 by 1900. Naval sailors are already included in calculations for the Green Standard Army and New Armies of the late nineteenth century. Merchant marine seamen are more difficult to estimate. The best clues are records of large junks that

35 Jen 1973: 109, 435. 36 Perry 1980. 37 Kuhn 1970; Luo 1997; Murray 2004; Worthing 2007: 62. a different transition 297 could carry as many as 100 seamen, and scattered records of 50 to 200 licenses for overseas junks being issued in years when trade was permitted. These do not include the many ships that sailed without licenses, ships that worked out of non-Chinese ports such as Ayutthaya or Hoi An, or for renegade traders such as the Zheng family, which continued to engage in merchant activities from the 1640s to 70s while simultaneously fighting a war against the Manchus. In any case, even in my most generous estimates it is hard to come up with more than 30,000 active seamen in most years. Using the original CCMR-model’s estimate of a 12.5 year life span for each sailor, this only amounts to 120,000 over any given fifty year period. This is barely a sliver compared to military migration and not of great significance in the overall calculations. Army supply trains provided much more significant numbers, but are equally difficult to count given the current state of our knowledge (although archival research should yield good results). Officers frequently hired retainers, families followed soldiers to their garrisons, and merchants, porters and families followed in the wake of campaigns. In the early Qing, the army often requisi- tioned porters and carriers from provincial governments. By the late eighteenth century, armies could hire over 500,000 men in local labor markets as laborers for expeditions into western Sichuan and Tibet.38 Campaigns became less frequent over the course of the eighteenth century, but trains became larger as the fronts grew more distant and the armies relied more heavily on labor markets. For Europe it has been calculated that the trains decreased from a peak of 50 percent of the total number of soldiers before the 1650s, down to zero percent in the professionalized armies of the late nineteenth century.39 A mid-point of about 25 percent—or about 1 million per 50-year period from 1700–1850—seems like a reasonable midpoint for the Chinese armies that were often immobile, but could accumulate massive amounts of followers on their campaigns. It also corresponds well with the estimates of 200–560 million laborers for some campaigns. Even if I have hugely underestimated military mobility, it is clear that even during periods of the most massive military activity in China military mobility took place at rates that were still lower than the most routine rates for early modern Europe (Figure 6). In periods of relative peace in China, soldier mobility was a fraction of that in Europe. It is not that the military was unimportant

38 Numbers for army supply trains and labor are in Dai 2009a, 2009b: 181; and Perdue 2005: 342–353. 39 Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 102. 298 mckeown 14

0 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒50 1751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 China Europe Figure 6 Military migration rates for China and Europe, 1601–1900 Source: See notes 32–35 and 38–39; Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 102.

in peacetime China. But its activities created the relatively peaceful and well- secured frontiers that supported colonization, rather than the continual strife that characterized so much of early modern Europe.

Seasonal Migration

This is the biggest wild card, both in my estimates and that of the outcomes of the CCMR-model for Europe. The Lucassens’ projection of seasonal migration is based on a survey of Western Europe in 1811 and regional data for the late nineteenth century. We do not even have this much skeletal data to rely on for China. The Lucassens cite Ken Pomeranz and Bin Wong in support of their doubt that seasonal migration was as significant in China as in Europe.40 I am less certain. Qualitative evidence of extensive mobility for wage labor and commercial agriculture exists to the contrary. Many villages specialized in skills and trades that required frequent migration.41 Secret brotherhoods of mobile men, often transportation workers, were increasingly common in south China

40 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 377. 41 Skinner 1976. a different transition 299 over the eighteenth century.42 The ability of Qing armies to recruit hundreds of thousands of workers by the late eighteenth century also points to the existence of extensive labor markets. Seasonal labor was also very common in migrations to the hill regions, especially in the initial years of settlement. During the down time on their farm work at home, seasonal migrants travelled to the mountains to gather forest products and timber, grow low-maintenance crops on hillsides where they had to shift locations every few years after they exhausted the soil, and to work on the larger farms claimed by the earliest migrants. Geographical variation may account for the contradiction between this anecdotal evidence of extensive temporary migration and the claims in the literature of relatively low seasonal mobility and wage labor. Most claims for low seasonal migration and wage labor focus on the highly commercialized, urbanized and densely populated core areas such as the Yangtze Delta and the Pearl River Delta near Canton. But this does not seem to hold for more peripheral regions. For example, wage labor was up to three times more common in poorly commercialized north China than in the Yangtze Delta.43 The majority of cases regarding wage labor that made it to the Board of Justice (about one-quarter of all cases) came from provinces at the edges of China.44 Pomeranz makes the case that Chinese migrants moved towards regions of low labor density rather than high capital density.45 He had frontier colonization in mind, but this could just as easily apply to seasonal migration moving to places where wages, forest products and land for low-maintenance crops were available. Changes over time are even more difficult to grasp. Large farms and wage labor were more prevalent in the late Ming than the Qing.46 During the Qing wage labor seems to have increased in the late eighteenth century. Cases before the Board of Justice increased sharply at the end of the eighteenth century, with those in the period from 1800–1820 nearly equalling all those of the previous 80 years.47 But it may have declined by the end of the century. Skinner argues that Chinese rural communities grew more closed in periods of stress and decline, such as the mid to late nineteenth century, and rural surveys of

42 Ownby 1996. 43 Huang 1990: 110. Pomeranz 1993: 70 calls the north more permeable than the south by the late nineteenth century, less dominated by a tight-knit elite. 44 Shi & Fang 2000: 142–143. 45 Pomeranz 2000: 83–85. 46 Huang 1990: 62. 47 Shi & Fang 2000: 42. 300 mckeown the early twentieth century often mention peasants who have rarely if ever gone far from their villages.48 The second half of the nineteenth century may have been a period of relatively low seasonal mobility. All we can do pending further research is to resist a priori assumptions about the connection between mobility and proletarianization, or even between mobility and commercialization. The evidence that does exist for China suggests that these things did not come hand in hand. For the sake of comprehensive estimates in the next section, I have suggested seasonal migration rates based on the CCMR trends for Europe, where seasonal rates rose from 1 percent from 1650–1700, then averaged 1.35 percent from 1700 to 1850, and finally jumped to 3.75 percent after 1850. I started with a high rate of 1.25 percent for the late Ming, declining to 0.5 percent in the early Qing (when much seasonal migration may already have been counted under colonization), and then growing to the average European rate of 1.35 percent by 1800–1850. Finally, I drop it back down to 0.5 percent after 1850. It must be emphasized that this is only a (potentially very erroneous) placeholder for the sake of being able to visualize the possible relationship of different kinds of mobility over time.

Mobility and Change

Total Chinese mobility was generally less than half that in Europe (Figure 7). From 1650 to 1800, however, the gap between Chinese and European military mobility accounted for nearly all of the difference between total mobilities. When the military is removed, the proportions of different kinds of migration (assuming emigration and colonization are essentially the same process) are quite similar for China and Europe before 1800 (figs. 8 and 9). The main difference is that in Europe urban and seasonal migration were slightly more important than colonization and emigration. Only after 1800 did the European booms in urban migration, emigration and seasonal migration (in that order) create a new and distinct migration regime. Most forms of Chinese migration also increased after 1850, but in a much different pattern dominated by effects of massive violence. What, if anything, can this tell us about the causes and effects of the great economic transformations of the nineteenth century? The massive military migrations within Europe catch our attention immediately as the most significant difference between China and Europe. The Chinese military from the 1680s until the 1840s was largely engaged in expanding and securing the frontiers

48 Huang 1985: 220–22; Skinner 1971. a different transition 301 35

0 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒501751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 China Europe Figure 7 CCMRs for China and Europe, 1601–1900 Source: Compilation of data from Figures 1–6; Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 105, and this volume.

100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒501751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 Emigration ColonizationTo Cities SeasonalSoldiers Figure 8 Shares of migration types for China, 1601–1900 Source: Compilation of data from Figures 2–6. 302 mckeown

100%

90%

80%

70%

60%

50%

40%

30%

20%

10%

0% 1601‒50 1651‒00 1701‒501751‒00 1801‒50 1851‒00 Emigration Colonization Immigration To Cities SeasonalSoldiers Figure 9 Shares of migration types for Europe, 1601–1900 Source: Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 105, 107, and this volume. of China, helping to make massive frontier migration possible. European armies were engaged in endless internal wars. They were the largest support- ers of wage labor anywhere in the world, and enormous consumers of industrial and agricultural products. Competition between armies also spurred great advances in the discipline, organization and technology. Among all forms of human mobility, this is probably the place to begin looking for distinct developments that contributed to the European economic transformation of the nineteenth century. Other differences are not immediately apparent in the aggregate numbers. From the late seventeenth century until the early nineteenth century, Chinese migration tended to move outwards towards the peripheries of the empire. More than half of Chinese migrants were colonizers, garrison soldiers and seasonal farmers moving into the hills. Tax breaks and the extraction of resources from wealthy core areas encouraged much of this colonization. Armies and colonizers worked together as part of state projects to produce food to support border armies and campaigns, which in turn provided more security for more settlers. In contrast, less than a quarter of Europeans moved outwards. The majority were migrants to cities, seasonal workers moving to core areas and soldiers a different transition 303 often drawn from peripheral villages into the constant battles between these cores.49 To put it differently, Europeans were more likely to move to places where they would die (whether in battle, in “urban graveyards,” or the relatively lethal frontiers of America and Africa). Chinese were more likely to move to places where they would be fertile and multiply. The populations of the peripheral provinces grew at least 50 percent more quickly than the core provinces.50 The effects can be seen in a Chinese population that grew more rapidly than Europe—at least until the frontiers became crowded in the early nineteenth century. These broad patterns can create a context for understanding developments in the core areas of Western Europe and the Yangtze Delta.51 European cores were shaped by higher levels of mobility than those in China. England, for example, had extremely high urbanization rates (24 percent in 1800, twice that for Europe) and extensive experience with wage labor as a destination for seasonal migration, and was a logistics center for military, naval and overseas migration. The Yangtze Delta before the 1850s, on the other hand, had little wage labor, attracted few immigrants, sent few colonists to the frontiers, and hosted relatively few soldiers. Movement to cities was the only significant form of mobility in what was the most highly urbanized section of China. To some extent, the differences between China and Europe can also be characterized as the differences between an empire and a conglomeration of states. The migration patterns within any European empire look more similar to those within China than those of Europe as a whole. Mass colonization in China seemed to have hit its upper limits by 1800, when the frontiers of China (except Manchuria) were already blanketed with farmers and miners and overall population growth slowed. This was accompanied by environmental degradation and growing political instability in some frontier areas where state and gentry institutions were still poorly established. Chinese policies that had long transferred resources and population towards the peripheries were now unable to grapple with the effects of these policies.52

49 On seasonal migration towards the European cores, see Lucassen 1987: 106–13. 50 Cao 2001b: 707. The provinces of Sichuan, the southwest and Manchuria, which only made up 10 percent of the total population of China in the late eighteenth century, now amount to 35 percent. See also Campbell & Lee 2001: 456. 51 Brenner & Isett 2002; Pomeranz 2000. 52 Pomeranz 2010b; Osborne 1994; Vermeer 1998. Lavely & Wong (1998) criticize the idea of Malthusian population pressures and argue that the rebellions and disasters are the result of exogenous causes such as climate. More generally, Goldstone (2002) and Pomeranz 304 mckeown

Urban migration did not take up the slack—which suggests that the declining attractiveness of the frontier was not the only factor behind decreasing migration. Perhaps only seasonal migration expanded in the place of these other forms of migration, although vagrancy also seemed to be on the rise in the late eighteenth century.53 The American and Siberian frontiers of Europe, by contrast, were still expansive and relatively unpopulated in 1800. After years of channelling much mobility into warfare, the demographic and geographic expansion of Europeans was just beginning in 1800. Over the next hundred years, mobility rates increased by nearly 50 percent, even as the significance of military migrations fell by over half. In the place of military labor, urban migration rates quadrupled, as did long distance migration that could now be properly called “emigration” (in that it left the borders of both Europe and its empires). The population of Europe doubled, cities tripled and quadrupled in size, and the standard of living continues to improve—a transformation that looks even more impressive if we include the ex-colonies in the Americas. The technological transformations of the industrial revolution shaped much of this transformation. But the relatively unsettled frontiers with their massive resources were part of the broader picture. New states and self-governing colonies on these frontiers offered the kinds of protections and stability that had once been available on the Chinese frontiers, without being a drain on the revenues of Europe as they had been on the Chinese core. After the stagnation of the early nineteenth century, China also underwent a mobility transition after the 1850s. Total numbers of migrants in China nearly tripled from the first to the second half of the century (compared to a doubling of the European rate) and all forms of migration, except possibly seasonal, increased in absolute terms. It was a different kind of transition than Europe, however, dominated by violence, destruction and refugees, and the repopulation of cities and agricultural regions that had been decimated by wars and famines. At the same time, however, some of this increased mobility was similar to and directly linked to the changes in Europe and the global economy, namely the rapid expansion of overseas emigration and the rise of coastal and riverine cities like Shanghai, Tianjin and Wuchang. But these changes expanded slowly to the interior of China, where new transportation

(2000) both talk of China hitting a subsistence crisis common to all successful agricultural states, and which only England was able to escape. 53 Kuhn 1990. a different transition 305 technologies and urban infrastructure did not make serious inroads until the first decade of the twentieth century.54 Despite this apparent isolation from the motor of technological change, the interior of China still experienced a mobility transition driven by the mid- century wars. If ever there was a period in world history when migration could be understood as a consequence of “war and natural disaster,” this was it. These migrations were not made possible by the same technological infrastructure as mass urbanization and emigration. The mass armies of nineteenth century China—like those of early modern Europe—mobilized huge amounts of people across vast distances with little benefit of modern infrastructures. Similarly, the data for the CCMR-model show that migration expanded more rapidly in Russia than in the rest of Europe after the 1850s, even though Russia was surely at the periphery of the European technological orbit.55 The extent to which mass military mobilization in China from the 1850s to 80s was a response to the same global transformations as coastal migration is unclear. Ecological and political pressures within China surely had a much greater importance. But China, Russia and the Atlantic world (and the Indian Ocean world as well) all share similarly timed transformations in their mobility regimes, although all of those transitions were of a different nature. We can begin to perceive the outlines of a global migration history here. Some of the main ingredients include the importance of empires in shaping early modern long distance migration; the unique importance of European armies and Chinese colonization; the divergent trajectories of regional migration patterns in the early nineteenth century; and their eventual convergence into a global migration transition in the second half of the century that took diverse forms but was clearly connected. By the 1890s, Chinese mobility began to fall into patterns more similar to Europe: mass emigration, rapid urbanization and movement to economic cores (including the newly developing industrial zones of Manchuria). In the first half of the twentieth century, it would also join Europe in the creation of enormous new armies and mass refugee flows. But this is far from a complete global history. The limits of this comparative exercise coincide with the borders of the Qing Empire. In part this reflects the limits of the data produced by the Chinese state. But it also reflects the limits of the categories in the CCMR-model, which are probably more applicable to the settled agricultural societies of East Asia and Europe than anywhere else in the

54 Rawski (1989: 220) calculates that from 1895 to 1907 modern forms of transportation in China increased from 16.8% to 31.6% of Chinese transportation, and 41.4% by 1936. 55 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009: 374. 306 mckeown world. They quickly lose their utility as we approach the nomadic and semi- nomadic peoples, roaming sea-folks, shifting agriculturalists, hill tribes, itinerant castes, hunter gatherers, itinerant long distance traders and caravaners, and many other kinds of mobile peoples that could be found at and beyond the frontiers of China.56 In the long run, the Chinese Empire was hostile to these kinds of mobility and contributed to their global suppression over the past three centuries. Indeed, our very ability to imagine and apply the categories of the CCMR-model is inseparable from the hard work of data-producing and -gathering states in Asia and Europe that created a world in the image of those categories.57 These mobile peoples at the edges of agricultural empires and states were not so significant in terms of their numbers, but were very significant in terms of their geographic span and the political and social alternatives they offered to the settled agricultural states over much of world history. These groups also underwent a mobility transition in the nineteenth century. But it was one in which their mobility was significantly reduced. If the modern world was an age of increased mobility for some, it was one of enclosures, restrictions and forced settlement for others. These restrictions were as much a product of new technologies, settler expansion and growing mass markets as was the increased mobility in other parts of the world. Perhaps the most significant world historical narrative to be found here is of the expansion of a certain kind of mobility regime across the world at the expense of another. In measuring mobility by the terms used in this chapter, we are contributing to that expansion.

56 Giersch 2006; Perdue 2005: and Yang 2009. 57 Beckwith 2008. Han Chinese Immigrants in Manchuria, 1850–1931

Yuki Umeno

Introduction: Chinese Migration in the North Asian System

This chapter studies a specific case of Han Chinese migration from North China to Manchuria (Dongbei, or northeast of the present-day China, shown in Map 1) from the Qing (1644–1911) to the Republican period (1911–1949), following Adam McKeown’s chapter on Chinese mobility across time and space. North China is estimated to have sent over 25 million migrants in total to Manchuria from the 1890s to the end of the Second World War. The volume is comparable to those of other major cross-cultural migrations including Chinese migration to Southeast Asia, and eclipses all other migrations to Manchuria from other states and regions including Russia and Japan. The sequential migratory flows can be conceived as part of a more globalized concurrent population shift toward North Asia, or what McKeown calls the ‘North Asian system,’ along with Russian colonization of Siberia and Central Asia. The present day northeast of the People’s Republic, comparable to Siberia of the Russian Federation, has now been completely incorporated not just in the political domain but also in the cultural sphere of the home state. Both Manchuria and Siberia, however, had long been independent tribal territories with their own cultures. The two regions were gradually transformed by the homesteading movement of the respective states within the context of international geopolitics. The Han Chinese migration to Manchuria in this North Asian system can therefore be regarded as a cross-cultural migration, without which Manchuria might not be a Chinese territory now. The Chinese migratory stream was largely spontaneous as shown by the dominance of free migrants, in contrast to coercive ‘rural resettlement’ in Siberia projected by Catherine the Great. The colonizing migration to Manchuria is also distinct from other Chinese overseas migrations in another respect. The transpacific and Southeast Asian migrations were mainly driven by political violence and disasters as McKeown observes with respect to the rather early mobility transition of China as a whole in the second half of the nineteenth century. Until that time migration to Manchuria was politically controlled and its sudden increase followed the introduction of railways around the turn of the twentieth century. The migration is in this sense comparable to the European transatlantic experience,1

1 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009.

Russia Russia (1858‒)

Heilongjiang

Mongolia (1924‒)

Jilin

Liaoning

Hebei Beijing Sea Korea of Bohai

Shandong

Map 1 Location of the sites under study: North China (Hebei and Shandong), Manchuria, and six sampled villages (1935) Notes: The solid and dotted black lines are the present-day state and provincial borders, respectively. The solid grey lines represent railways in operation in the first half of the twentieth century. The small black squares specify the locations of the villages under study in this chapter from a household-level perspective. The small grey squares are other villages sampled in the Manchukuo Farm Survey of 1935.

although the underlying causes were the unstable political and socioeconomic situation of the home region shared by other Chinese migrations.2 Migration to Manchuria was stopped in the post-Second World War period by the strict residential control under the communist production regime. After the economic reforms initiated by Deng Xiaoping at the end of the 1970s, it resumed but remained very modest due to the pull of eastern coastal cities such as Shanghai and Beijing, which offered many more opportunities to rural

2 See McKeown’s chapter. han chinese immigrants in manchuria 309 migrants. The present chapter will focus on the unique migration history of Manchuria, but also highlight the similarities with the Russian colonization of Siberia in the North Asian system, with other Chinese overseas migrations under the same driving forces, and also with postwar domestic rural to urban migrations.3 After describing the history of the migration and summarizing the overall trends in mobility and types of migrants, the second half of the chapter will deal specifically with Han Chinese immigrants (colonists), who played a crucial role in the ‘sinicization’ of Manchuria from the Qing to the Republican period. The migration between North China and Manchuria should not be seen as a unidirectional, irreversible flow. Return migration from Manchuria amounted to 16.7 million in 1891–1942, which equalled two-thirds the volume of in-migration. Most of those labeled as ‘migrants,’ in other words, may fit in the Cross Cultural Migration Rate (CCMR) category of seasonal and multi- annual labor migrants.4 Their contribution to the economic development of Manchuria was nonetheless considerable, as they formed an essential labor force for the mining, manufacturing, and the large-scale agricultural sector that boomed after 1900.5 This type of migration has also been observed in rural to urban migrations around the world in the past and present, including post-reform China. On the other hand, there were Han Chinese agricultural colonists who settled in rural centers in Manchuria, facilitated by homesteading politics in this North Asian system. In this chapter on Han colonists, the analytical scope is the household level, as it was the unit of decision making of migration in many cases. Observing household-level moves helps to reveal family networks that characterize most Chinese (as well as European) migrations.6 The source material is a household-level data set collected in the 1930s by a state agency of the puppet state of Manchukuo (1932–1945), published in ‘A survey of the actual farm village conditions’ (hereafter referred to as ‘Manchukuo Farm Survey’),7 almost all of whose interviewees are Han Chinese households. Information at the micro level is also indispensable for the sake of testing McKeown’s claim that violence and disasters were the trig- gers of an increased level of cross-cultural migration in China, as the impact of disasters and incidents is often localized at the county or even village level. The

3 See the next chapter by Shen in this volume. 4 Lucassen & Lucassen in this volume. 5 McKeown 2004. 6 Moch 2007. 7 The report to be used in this study is Manshukoku Kokumuin Jitsugyobu (1936). The actual year of investigation was 1935. Hereafter, the survey reports are identified by the year of investigation in the text. 310 umeno objective of the household-level analyses is to trace the process of Han Chinese settlement in Manchuria, which transformed the region into a Chinese land, in the period of free migration.

History of Migration to Manchuria and Economic Development

Manchuria, which originally included the present-day Liaoning, Jilin, and Heilongjiang provinces of China, together with Primorsky and Amur of Russia, had primarily been inhabited by the ethnic group of Manchus (formerly called Jurchens) until their conquest of the whole of China in the seventeenth century. It is geographically isolated from China proper by the Sea of Bohai and the heights and mountain ranges on the eastern outskirts of the Gobi Desert in Mongolia. Its western boundary to Inner Mongolia is a belt of steppes, but the remaining part of the region is considered to have been covered by forests before the large-scale agricultural development in the modern period. Its southern part, including Liaodong Peninsula, had been incorporated into the Chinese dynasty’s domain for limited and discontinuous periods (from the Qin through the early Tang, and the early Ming), but for most of the time the Manchus maintained their autonomy as well as their own language, culture, and tribal traditions. The long-time interaction with the Chinese civilization, however, had brought both material and cultural tools for strengthening their political unity and military power, and through gradual sinicization guided their interests toward China proper (traditionally the Han Chinese area, south of the Great Wall and east of the mountains of Tibet and Qinghai). The Jin dynasty (1115–1234) of their ancestor Jurchens conquered the northern half of China proper in the twelfth century, and accordingly moved their capital south of the Great Wall. In 1644 the army of the Eight Banners of the Manchu dynasty Qing (originally established by Nurhaci in 1616 as Later Jin and renamed in 1636), headed by the Aisin Gioro clan, reconquered China proper. This time they adopted most of the Chinese culture including the language, and the centralized governing systems, as well as relocating the capital from Shenyang (Mukden) to Beijing. The legitimacy of their rule was boosted by both the above-mentioned sinicization efforts and their defeat of the rebels who had destroyed the previous Ming dynasty (1368–1644). In the end the Qing has been widely regarded as an orthodox dynasty along with other Han Chinese empires, unlike the Jin and the Mongolian Yuan dynasty, which undervalued the Chinese civilization.8 The homeland of the ruling Manchus at the same

8 In contrast to the conventional view, Elliot (2001) stresses the ruling Manchus’ efforts to maintain Manchu identity and the resultant dualism of the empire between the Manchu and han chinese immigrants in manchuria 311 time was seriously depopulated by the long-lasting war of conquest and relocation to China proper, and facing difficulty in supporting the cultivation of the manor for the royal court. The court thus forced Han Chinese peasants around Shandong Peninsula to emigrate and settle in areas designated for cultivation exclusively in the manor under the supervision of banner officials. The political unification of land-rich Manchuria and densely populated China proper, on the other hand, motivated voluntary migrations of Han Chinese to this new frontier. Already in the late seventeenth century their over-cultivation of traditionally Manchurian land had become a concern, and as a result the Qing court banned Han Chinese immigration in order to preserve the Manchurian nomadic life style and meadows. The ban could not completely stop the migrant flow into the region, however, despite the harsh penalties for those who violated the ban. The population of Manchuria thus steadily increased during the seclusion period.9 Because of the seclusion policy and its severe climate, Manchuria was far less economically developed than China proper despite the political unity of the two under the Manchu hegemony. The backwardness of the region was taken advantage of by intruding foreign powers, after the defeat of the Qing in the Opium War in 1842. The weakly guarded northern borders of the empire were peacefully pushed southward by Russia in 1858, reducing the tribal territory of the Manchus (the territory north of the Heilongjiang (Amur) and Primorsky). The once strong Manchu Eight Banners were no longer of use after the century-long peace. To counter the foreign pressures, populating the frontier was a first step, and soon the Qing court decided to remove the ban of immigration in 1860, when one of the ports in the region, Yingkou (Newchwang), was opened to foreign trades. As a result Manchuria saw a rapid agricultural and economic development, and it was spurred, following the extension of foreign imperialistic influences, first by Russia and then, after the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905), by Japan. The Russian authorities constructed the city of Harbin

the Han. The Qing period on the other hand saw a peak of the prosperity of the traditional Han Chinese cultures, as it is also called the ‘late imperial period’ together with the Ming. 9 An estimate based on official head count returns shows the total population of Liaoning and Jilin Provinces (most part of Manchuria in focus here that also includes the populous eastern half of the present-day Heilongjiang Province) jumped from 961,000 to 2,898,000 between 1787 and 1850 (Ho 1959: Appendix 2). The annual growth rate is 17.7 per thousand, higher than the national average. This could not have been attained under the severe climate without a net increase of immigrants. Studies by historical demographers indicate low natural growth of the regional population. See for example, Lee & Campbell (1997), who studied demography of sedentary Han Chinese farmers of the manor in Liaoning, whose population mostly stayed unchanged over a hundred years. The rapid social increase of Manchuria suggests that population pressure was already high in China Proper by the early nineteenth century. 312 umeno for their base and the Chinese Eastern Railway to further extend their control over the region. Japan followed the Russian example by building the South Manchuria Railway, starting from a newly constructed city of Dalian soon after acquiring the right from Russia. Those railways enabled the transportation of freight that was essential to integrate Manchuria into international markets, making it a major supplier of agricultural products, especially soybeans.10 The industrial sector, such as mining and manufacturing, also boomed along the rail lines with the help of foreign capital investment, particularly from Japan. The extension of the railway system also reduced the cost of passenger transportation,11 resulting in larger migratory flows of Han Chinese settlers and laborers, stimulating the further sinicization of the region. Japanese colonizing authorities in charge of railways were also promoting emigration of Japanese and Korean peasants to Manchuria. Although the Japanese colonizers attempted to dominate the region in economic terms, by collective acquisition of real estates and frontier settlement by civilians from the home state, the core of the regional economy was controlled by the majority Han settlers.12 Han Chinese economic activities remained important even after the region was politically separated from China proper and put under control of Japan’s militant occupiers in 1931. The Japanese colonizers as well chose to rely on their contributions, particularly to agriculture, as Japan’s self-sufficiency of food production became difficult. Manchuria thus became the largest food supplier of Japan, which was under international sanction for military aggression against China. The statistics also show that the secondary and tertiary sectors were taking over agriculture in the share of GDP. The share of primary sector (agriculture and related production) decreased from around 50 percent in the 1920s to just above 30 percent in 1940, while the secondary sector (mining and manufacture) increased from 15 to 20 percent and the service sector (including transport and government service) from 35 to 45 percent.13 The changing GDP share

10 In Manchuria soybeans was produced more as a cash crop than a staple crop. Myers (1982: 22–23) mentions the importance of soybeans in the economic development of Manchuria, especially in its early stage since the 1860s. 11 The transportation cost per ton-mile in the 1930s was 0.30 by wheelbarrow, 0.14 by junk, 0.09 by railway, and 0.08 by steamer in silver dollars (Buck 1937: ch. 9, Table 5; and also quoted in Gottschang & Lary 2000), showing superiority of the modern carriers over the traditional ones. 12 Enatsu (2004: 48–49) reports a case in which a Japanese state-sponsored company for promotion of settlement failed to acquire real estates from descendants of a banner official. 13 Eckstein, Chao & Chang 1974: Tables 7 and 7A. han chinese immigrants in manchuria 313 of the three sectors is typically associated with economic growth concurrent with modernization, but the case of Manchuria in the 1930s was complicated by the politico-military aggression of the Japanese army and the international economy since the start of the Great Depression in 1929.14 The agricultural sector not only lost its share but also declined in absolute terms, directing the Japanese colonizers’ attention to farm villages.15 The authorities therefore conducted the nationwide Manchukuo Farm Survey, whose reports are used in the analyses below.

Mobility Transition by Improved Transportation

The CCMR data on Europe and the chapter by McKeown offer estimates of cross-cultural migrations in Europe and China since the Middle Ages. The statistics and related estimates on Manchuria vary in quality ranging from speculative population figures for the early Qing to the modern census returns of Manchukuo. None of them, unfortunately, fits quite the original CCMR model. For that reason, this chapter first derives estimates of cross-cultural migrations by using relatively reliable data for the latest period as benchmarks. The composition of migrant types is estimated in the next section using the same migratory estimates with some other auxiliary statistics. The benchmark estimates of migrant flows and mobility by Thomas Gottschang are presented in Table 1. The series shows a steady increase in the stock (Figure 1) and flow (Figure 2) of migrants to Manchuria between 1891 and 1942. The low point in 1931 reflects the temporary political instability due to the Mukden Incident caused by Japanese militants in September, whereas the high value in 1941 reflects the influx of refugees pushed by the devastation of North China during the second Sino-Japanese War (1937–1945). The population of Manchuria gained far more by these immigrations than traditional Chinese fertility levels could ever attain, doubling in the half century since 1891. The volume of migration and mobility, meanwhile, seems to jump around the turn of the century, when railways started to operate in the two regions. The high levels of return migration to North China presumably reflect foremost the improved transportation system (railways and boats),

14 Real GDP per capita of the time is nonetheless estimated to have grown from 69.2 yuan in 1934 to 103.4 in 1941, while that of China Proper stagnated around 59 yuan (Eckstein et al. 1974: 258). 15 Myers 1982: 74–79. 314 umeno 0.21 1.65 0.81 1.21 1.17 1.71 0.28 1.17 Annual mobility (%)* 47.2 647.2 394.9 215.0 377.1 443.6 784.5 16075.4 Migrants to North North to Migrants China (000s) 22.580 23.980 26.680 31.270 38. 050 45.790 Manchuria Population (millions) Annual mobility (%)* 0.04 0.34 0.47 0.70 0.62 1.35 0.14 0.81 24.7 227.4 322.8 499.7 459.1 893.8 1066.3 24538.3 Migrants to to Migrants Manchuria (000s) 64.710 66.640 69.250 71.240 73.720 79.090 North China North Population Population (millions) Estimated population and migrant flows between North China and Manchuria, 1891–1942 China and Manchuria, North between flows population and migrant Estimated 1901 1911 1921 1931 1941 1891–00 1901–42 Table 1 Table 1891 A.1 and A.3. Tables & Lary 2000: : Gottschang Source The origins and destinations of of The ratio include others but their shares * may as a percentage. the migrations number of population, reported to migrants negligible. considered are Years han chinese immigrants in manchuria 315

800000

700000

600000

500000

400000

300000

200000

100000

0 1891 1896 1901 1906 1911 1916 1921 1926 1931 1936 1941 -100000

-200000 immigrants – emigrations

Figure 1 Net number of migrants to Manchuria, 1891–1942 Source: Gottschang & Lary 2000: Table A.1.

0.0.25

0.02

0.015

0.01

0.005

0 1891 1896 1901 1906 1911 1916 1921 1926 1931 1936 1941 mobility to Manchuria mobility to North China Figure 2 Migrations between North China and Manchuria, 1891–1942 Source: Gottschang & Lary 2000: Tables A.1 and A.3. 316 umeno from which seasonal or other contract-term laborers benefited more than lifetime settlers who needed only a one-way ticket. The drastic increase in cross- cultural migration for both ways and its volatility indicate a mobility transition including a change in composition of different types of migrants as discussed in the next section. For a global comparison in the longer term, the volume and rate of migration are extrapolated to the past in Table 2. The estimate of 4.4 million in-migrants (probably mostly immigrants and colonists) for 1851–1900 is based on the same migration rate (0.14) as for 1891–1900,16 and is consistent with McKeown’s estimate of 3.5 million for 1846–1890 in his global comparison of migration systems in North Asia, Southeast Asia, and the Atlantic.17 Migration to Manchuria was officially banned or strictly controlled if any until 1860, and therefore veri- fication of a mobility transition by violence and disasters before modernization is impossible. Violence and disasters are nonetheless considered to have been structural factors for the perpetual migratory stream until the 1940s, as discussed later with regard to individual and household-level survey reports.

Table 2 Estimated migrations from North China to Manchuria, 1850–1940

To Manchuria

Migrants Annual migration ratea

1850–1900 4.4 million 0.14 1901–1940 22.3 million 0.78

Source: Ho 1959: Appendix 2; Gottschang & Lary 2000: Tables A.1 and A.3. a The ratio of number of migrants to population, reported as a percentage.

16 The population of North China on the denominator is the midpoint of the population figures for 1850 and 1900, the former of which comes from Ho’s report of 45.5 million for Hebei and Shandong (Ho 1959: Appendix 2). Number of migrants is derived so as to keep the mobility at 0.14. 17 McKeown 2004: 186–187. han chinese immigrants in manchuria 317

Migrant Types and Origins

The transformation of the Manchurian economy from the Qing to the Republic led to a transition of migrant types. During the seclusion period most of the migrants were probably state-sponsored or illegal agricultural settlers (colonists). The ensuing migration boom since the 1860s was triggered by the lifting of the ban and stimulated by imperialistic foreign investment. The composition of migrants changed accordingly to a mixture of agricultural settlers and laborers in modern sectors in urban areas. For an estimation of the composition of migrant types in the modern period, we used auxiliary statistics. Table 3 summarizes the number of in-migrants and out-migrants (of all origins and destinations) by occupation, as reported by the Security Commission of Manchukuo in the fiscal year of 1939.18 Assuming that out-migrants (or return migrants) were all seasonal or (short-term) contract laborers and that their vacancies were fully filled by in-migrants, the number of seasonal/short- term migrants can be considered to equal that of out-migrants. With the additional assumption that net numbers of in-migrants in agriculture, mining, and manufacture and service respectively correspond to those of colonists, (rural) laborers, and urbanites, and that the net numbers in construction and other industries were proportionally distributed over the

Table 3 Sectorial composition of migrants to and from Manchuria in the fiscal year of 1939 (April to March 1940) (000s)

Sector In-migrants Out-migrants Net

Agriculture, forestry and fishery 93.2 (9.5%) 34.7 (8.9%) 58.5 (9.8%) Mining and related industry 143.6 (14.6%) 18.5 (4.7%) 125.1 (21.0%) Manufacture 159.5 (16.2%) 50.9 (13.0%) 108.6 (18.3%) Service 230.5 (23.4%) 149.0 (38.1%) 81.5 (13.7%) Construction 277.4 (28.1%) 117.9 (30.2%) 159.5 (26.8%) Other 81.5 (8.3%) 20.0 (5.1%) 61.5 (10.3%)

Total 985.7 391.0 594.7

Source: Manshukoku Kokumuin 1940: 287.

18 Manshukoku Kokumuin 1940: 287. 318 umeno

Table 4 Estimated composition of migrant types in the fiscal year 1939 (000s)

Migrant type Migrants (000s)

Colonist (agricultural) 93.1 (9.4%) Laborer (rural) 199.1 (20.2%) Seasonal/short-term 391.0 (39.7%) Urban 302.5 (30.7%)

Total 985.7

Source: Table 3, this chapter. aforementioned three industries, a rough estimate of the composition of migrant types is obtained in Table 4. The composition does not apply to the entire modern period, however, because the same method produces an estimate of 14.5 million in total, or 65 percent of all those of North China origin, for seasonal/short-term migrants in 1901–1940. The estimate nevertheless seems plausible, considering the fluctuation of immigrant and emigrant flows over time. The fluctuation reflects temporary refugees from North China struck by disasters, who may also have been employed on temporary contract in Manchuria. The period before 1900, in contrast, would have seen a dominant proportion of sedentary colonists. The occupational category is a powerful means of classifying migrant types, to which special attention is paid using the household-level reports of a limited sample in a later section. The migrant counts by the Security Commission include those of all origins, which need to be analysed more closely. Table 5 presents the composition of ethnicities in Manchuria at the time of the census in 1940,19 which can be used as a proxy for the origin of the migrants. ‘Mongolian’ is safely assumed to represent native Mongolians in the incorporated eastern half of present-day Inner Mongolia, and is therefore excluded from the migrant stock. The category ‘banner man’ leaves some ambiguity since local gazetteers sometimes confuse banner soldiers of the Eight Banner system and Han Chinese peasants of the former Qing court’s royal manors.20 The Japanese investigators of

19 Guowuyuan Zongwuting 1943. 20 ‘Han banner man’ accounts for 17 % of the total population of Fengtian Province (most part of the present-day Liaoning) in 1908, according to Kanto Totokufu (ed.), Manshu Chihoshi (Gazetteer of Manchuria) (1911: vol. 1, 12) (cited in Enatsu 2004: 15). han chinese immigrants in manchuria 319

Table 5 The ethnic composition of migrants in Manchuria (puppet state of Manchukuo) in 1940 (000s)

Nationality/ethnicity Population Share in %

Native Banner man 2677 6.2 Mongolian 1066 2.5 Han 36871 85.3 Muslim 194 0.5 Japanese 820 1.9 Korean 1450 3.4 Other 124 0.3

Total 43702 100.0

Source: Guowuyuan Zongwuting 1943. Note: The population of Kwantung Province including Dalian, a leasehold territory of Japan, is not included. the Manchukuo Farm Survey, by contrast, were careful to separate descendants of non-titled cultivators from those of fully titled banner men, and the same principle was probably applied to the census. Those labeled as ‘banner man’ can therefore be regarded as descendants of genuine banner men of three ethnicities (Manchu, Mongol, and Han) incorporated into the system in the early Qing, and hence natives. Those in the remaining categories, roughly speaking, are descendants of immigrants after 1651 or first-generation migrants themselves. The census returns show that Japanese and Korean residents were a tiny minority (5.7 percent of all those of immigrant origin) compared with Han Chinese (92.3 percent). The migration of Koreans and Japanese into Manchuria started only after the 1900s with Japan’s takeover of control from Russia, and therefore their share in the migratory flow was probably higher than that in the population stock. The absolute level of their mobility was structurally lower than that of Chinese, however, with fewer and weaker push factors in the much safer home regions than in North China. Economic pull factors were also stronger for Han Chinese, with wider social networks thanks to the greater landowning population. Preceding homesteading by Chinese thus successfully secured the region from foreign colonizing movement. The two sets of underlying structures, pushes and pulls, then need to be analysed in more detail from a socioeconomic perspective. 320 umeno

Socioeconomic Instability of the Origin and Household Strategies: Push Factors of Mass Migration

The outbreak of the Taiping Rebellion (1851–1864) marked the beginning of the long-lasting destruction of political and socioeconomic stability in China. Violence and disasters that characterize the migration history of the period covered by McKeown, caused a series of mass exoduses from North China to Manchuria visible in the highly fluctuating migratory flows illustrated in Figure 1 and Figure 2. The underlying structure of migration is partly confirmed by contemporary studies that provide individual- or household-level push factors for migration. Table 6 shows the result of an investigation conducted by the Nankai Economic Research Institute in 1931.21 More than 90 percent of the respondent households were from Shandong Province and emigrated after the collapse of the Qing in 1911. Migrants at that time entered Manchuria either across the Sea of Bohai from Shandong Peninsula by steamer or junk, or by the land routes passing through the Shanhai Pass, at the eastern end of the Great Wall. The result shows that although disasters account for only 27 percent of the direct causes, the remaining economic factors are presumably heavily influenced by disasters as well. Such political and macroeconomic externalities as represented by large- scale political and ecological disasters must in principle have affected, more or less, all inhabitants. Thomas Gottschang’s statistical analyses of migration volumes and rates certainly prove the significance of macroshocks as push factors.22 Individual decisions by migrants, on the other hand, are directly linked to household economics. Gottschang and Lary also stress the importance of household survival strategies for deciding who would migrate and who would stay put, given the extreme uncertainty of the socioeconomic situation of that time.23 Figure 3 presents the distribution of the Manchurian population in 1940 by age and sex, exhibiting an unevenly greater proportion of males of working age. This points to the existence of a large number of migrants to Manchuria unaccompanied by a family. Given the large volume of return flows, migration may have been a life-cycle event to people in North China as a means of earning extra money or diversifying risks for uncertain family future. Their decision making regarding migration was indeed affected by a combination of those macroeconomic and household push factors.

21 Wang 1938, which is cited with a summary table in Gottschang & Lary 2000: 5. 22 Gottschang 1987. 23 Gottschang & Lary 2000: chapter 3. han chinese immigrants in manchuria 321

Table 6 Reasons for immigration to Manchuria (retrospective), surveyed in 1931

Reason Number of households Share in %

Economic (total) 793 69.0 Difficult living conditions 569 49.5 Land shortage 165 14.4 Other 59 5.1 Disasters (total) 314 27.3 Natural (floods, droughts, etc.) 139 12.1 Human (bandits, soldiers, etc.) 150 13.1 Both 23 2.0 Other 42 3.7

Source: Gottschang & Lary 2000: Table 1.1.

3500000

3000000

2500000

2000000

1500000

1000000

500000

0 1–5 6–10 11–15 16–20 21–25 26–30 31–35 36–40 41–45 46–50 51–55 56–60 61+ Han male population Han female population Figure 3 The distribution of the Han population of Manchuria (puppet state of Manchukuo) by 5-year age bracket and sex, 1940 Source: Guowuyuan Zongwuting 1943. 322 umeno

Han Chinese Colonists: A Household-Level Focus on China’s Homesteading Movement

The modernization of Manchuria since the end of seclusion in the 1860s was accompanied by the steady increase of in-flows of labor and urban migrants. Their contribution led to the further economic development of the region, which in turn attracted more migrants. This positive chain reaction is visible in the long-term macroeconomic statistics of the region. The numerical impact of other types of cross-cultural migrations, such as colonization, on the other hand, seems less important. Beyond its relative share in migrant flows and the economy in general, however, colonization was the very basis of sinicization, through which Chinese people acquired the Manchurian land and the Chinese state gained legitimacy and control. The rest of the chapter focuses on Han Chinese colonists in Manchuria, tracing their individual family history since they settled there. New settlers were affected by the local economy, and natural and manmade disasters, as well as individual household affairs. As a response they migrated from one place to another in Manchuria instead of returning to the home region, selling and buying farmland, and occasionally changing jobs. The analysis of their settlement (or colonizing) process after immigration will contribute to a better understanding of the history of migration to the region.

Data Source: Manchukuo Farm Survey The data source for the following analyses is a farm survey conducted by the research unit of the Ministry of Internal Affairs of Manchukuo.24 The objective of the survey was to investigate the agricultural sector based on village communities, whose norms as well as technology and land tenure system the Japanese colonizers considered the main reason for the stagnation in agricultural production in the early 1930s.25 The research unit sampled one village (hamlet) from each prefecture, interviewing all households in the village including those not engaged in agriculture. The survey was conducted over several years from one prefecture to another, but was terminated before completely covering the region, by the collapse of Manchukuo in 1945. The data set for this analysis is constructed from the tables in the survey reports that list the changing profiles of each household from its first immigration into Manchuria. The listed items are each household’s province of origin, lineage grouping if a relative lived in the same village, year of the immigration to Manchuria, post-immigration history panels (year, residence, occupation,

24 Manshukoku Kokumuin Jitsugyobu 1936. 25 Myers 1982: 74–79, 95. han chinese immigrants in manchuria 323 farm acreage and ownership, and household division if any; a new observation is added for a change in the profile, up to a maximum of eleven observations per household), the motive for settlement in the present village, and duration in years of stay in the current locality. These items are missing for a substantial proportion of the retrospective household panels, especially farm acreage and the corresponding year of the change.26 Some households, on the other hand, give detailed information on the past. The investigators are considered to have collected and crosschecked both public and private records on residence, lineage history (genealogy), and property trading. Although its accuracy remains questionable, the data set is most useful to get a better understanding of Han Chinese immigrant communities as homesteaders in Manchuria.

Villages under Study In the following analyses the data of six sampled villages from the survey of 1935 are used: Qiansankuaishi Tun of Liaoyang Prefecture, Huangjiawobao Tun of Liaozhong Prefecture, Erdaohezi Tun of Xinmin Prefecture, Chenjia Tun of Gaiping Prefecture, Qiansunjiawo Tun of Heishan Prefecture, and Mengjiapu Tun of Panshan Prefecture (hereafter referred to by name of prefecture for identification). Although the exact location of each village is not shown in the report, we know that they could easily be reached from the county seat or a railway station for convenience of the investigation. All of the six prefectures were located in a basin of the Liao River system in the southern part of Manchuria and relatively close to the old capital of the former Qing, Shenyang (then called Fengtian).27 The formation of the villages was accordingly relatively early, as the mean duration of stay in Table 7 shows. The villages of Liaoyang and Xinmin were first inhabited in 1651 under the Shunzhi emperor’s settlement policy to cultivate the royal manor. The household data used here

26 There are many observations for which the year was reported by number of generations. In the following analyses, they are replaced with an estimate on the assumption that one generation equals 25 years. Assuming a symmetric normal distribution of the errors, the mean values reported in Table 7 become unbiased estimates. By contrast, the regression estimates that produce the results of Table 8 are less affected by the missing data, as reporting was relatively complete for the recent past since the 1890s. The regression models themselves are also designed to minimize the bias arising from the incompleteness of the data. 27 See Map 1, in which the locations of the other investigation sites are also shown. Same format of dataset could be constructed for all of the villages, but some of the villages were not appropriate for the present study. As in the map, two villages are located out of so-called Manchuria. Another one near the border to Korea was entirely comprised of Korean immigrants. 324 umeno 70

0 Liaoyang LiaozhongXinminGaiping HeishanPanshan

Native Shandong Hebei other unknown Figure 4 Province of origin of the six sampled farm villages of Manchuria, 1935 therefore allow us to extend the analysis back to the first migration flow during the Qing dynasty. Table 7 presents characteristics of the households in the six selected villages. The majority of them trace their ancestry to Shandong, followed by those of Hebei origin, in line with the macro-level composition previously discussed. The predominance of Shandong was surely not the case everywhere. Figure 4 shows the uneven distribution of ancestral origins across villages as well. Households of Hebei origin outnumber those from Shandong in Panshan, while no household in Liaoyang is reported to have its roots in Hebei. This result is associated with group settlement and pull by the migrant stock of the same origin that are also observed in other parts of the world in the same period.28 Many residents of the villages of Liaoyang and Xinmin were descendants of early Qing settlers from Shandong, responsible for cultivating the manors, and those long-staying settlers indeed attracted further migrants as reported by them. A similar distributional pattern can be observed in the duration of settlement and occupational status. The big variance (standard deviation) in the duration of settlement implies a degree of openness of the village community, but more than 30 percent of the households in those villages in reality migrated because of personal ties, which include the presence of a relative or acquaint- ance and landholdings in the village (Table 7). The households also migrated

28 Moch 2003; Bade et al. 2011; Manning 2013. han chinese immigrants in manchuria 325

Table 7 A summary of the statistics of six sampled farm villages in Manchuria, 1935

Place of origin: Householes Share in %

Native 8 2.0 Hebei 85 20.9 Shandong 236 58.1 Other 17 4.2 Unknown 60 14.8

Duration in years of stay: Mean Std. deviationa

In Manchuria 190.8 67.64 (316) In the present village: Liaoyang 114.3 96.4 (68) Liaozhong 43.5 37.2 (51) Xinmin 158.7 125.2 (91) Gaiping 145.0 73.6 (57) Heishan 174.0 61.2 (65) Panshan 40.9 42.6 (57)

Push and pull factors at relocation to Households Share in % the present village (multiple answers):

Personal ties 127 31.3 Settlement policy 52 12.8 Natural disasters 28 6.9 Other exogenous shocks 14 3.4

Mean Std. deviationa

Frequency of intra-Manchuria 0.604 0.792 (404) migration, 1651–1935 Annual mobility within Manchuria, 1.00 1850–1935b

(Continued) 326 umeno

Table 7 (Continued)

Occupational status Households Share in % (multiple answers):

Landlord 46 11.3 Owner cultivator 263 64.8 Tenant cultivator 101 24.9 Agricultural contract worker 133 32.8 Employed in manufacturing 75 18.5 Employed in service 97 23.9 a Sample size in number of households is reported in parenthesis. b The ratio of the total number of cases to the number of observations in household years, reported as a percentage. A substantial number of migrations may be missing in the report, and people may have migrated more frequently at individual level.

(relocated) within Manchuria at an annual rate of 10/1000 households since 1850.29 Some descendants of the earliest settlers in 1651 finally settled in the present residence after having stayed elsewhere for three centuries. This is mostly a consequence of repeated property divisions over several generations living on the same farm. The Chinese rule of succession was partible inheritance, which meant that the farm land was divided equally between male heirs.30 Some heirs whose share was not sufficient to support a family sold their inheritance and migrated in order to obtain cheaper land. Wealthy family lines, by contrast, tended to stay within their neighbourhood by repeated division, forming a single-surnamed hamlet. Heishan, which had kept its homogeneity up to the year 1935, is a good example. Liaoyang and Gaiping are also relatively homogeneous, while Liaozhong, Xinmin, and Panshan have a variety of new settlers whose ancestral history in Manchuria is diverse. The observed difference by village indirectly confirms the dominance of the chain migration

29 Myers (1976) has done a similar analysis on frequency of relocations, but without removing double counts of common ancestry. This chapter removes double counting of ancestor households as far as past history and lineage relation are confirmed. 30 Although anomalies existed, partible inheritance was in principle practiced throughout China Proper. See the cases of Jiangnan in Fei (1939: 77) and those of south eastern China in Freedman (1958: 22–23). Lavely & Wong (1992) studies actual shares in inheritance of the farm land in three North Chinese villages, showing the prevalence of equal division in this home region. han chinese immigrants in manchuria 327 pattern. Push factors including disasters, by contrast, account less for intra- Manchuria migrations, attesting the relative peace of the region. Figures 5 and 6 show the distribution of occupational status (reported by farm ownership, contract type, or job) by village and origin, respectively. The survey reported multiple answers by many households, underlining the prevalence of by-employment and various occupations in Manchurian farm villages. A substantial number of households also report jobs outside agriculture, including those in manufacturing (termed ‘industry’ in the figure, such as miner, mason, carpenter, craftsman, factory worker, and ‘miscellaneous’ job) and those categorized in the service sector (peddler, tofu seller, cook, shoe repairer, rickshaw puller, teacher, police officer, and ‘miscellaneous’ job). Occupational distributions also differ considerably by village. The proportion of contract agricultural workers is remarkably high in Liaozhong, where the accumulation of landholdings prevailed and the demand for workers was proportionally high, while in the other villages the share of self-employed farmers (landlords, owner and tenant cultivators) stood out.31 The high proportion of the service category in Gaiping probably reflects its proximity to the port of Yingkou. Those village-specific characteristics mirror past migratory moves toward land and other economic opportunities. Occupational distributions by place of origin, however, do not vary a lot, except that a proportionally greater number of Shandong descendants were self-employed farmers, which is presumably a result of their earlier immigration.

Occupational Paths of Colonists A summary of the snapshot data boils down to the picture of a Han Chinese farm village in Manchuria composed of households of the same ancestral origin (and in the same lineage in some cases) and shows that household-level by-employment in both farming and other sectors was common. The statistics also indicate past migratory paths following personal ties as well as economic opportunities that presumably determined the degree of homogeneity (or diversity) of each village community. The remaining question is how the occupational status was determined through migratory moves. In other words, how did the economic consequences of migration contribute to further colonization of the frontier? The interviewees (or their ancestors) must have settled in

31 Technically landlord may not be categorised as farmer. All of the landlords in the sample, however, lived more or less on agricultural rents, and this chapter treats it as farmer to contrast with landless agricultural employees (workers) for the analyses below. 328 umeno

0 Liaoyang LiaozhongXinminGaiping HeishanPanshan

landlord owner tenant worker industry service Figure 5 Occupational status (multiple answers) in the six sampled farm villages of Manchuria, 1935

180

160

140

120

100

0 landlord ownertenantworkerindustry service from Shandong from other provinces Figure 6 Occupational status (multiple answers) by province of origin in the six sampled farm villages of Manchuria, 1935 han chinese immigrants in manchuria 329 the farming village in the hope of becoming a farmer. The diversity of occupations, on the contrary, indicates that farmer status was not guaranteed from the beginning. Many households entered the present village as agricultural contract workers and only later became self-employed farmers. The decision to migrate is also affected by current occupational status. In fact, many of those who failed to become farmers or who had to give up farming migrated to the sampled villages. The choice of occupation and the decision to migrate are simultaneously determined as described above, and therefore an analysis of the post-immigration history panels is necessary. Table 8 presents the results of this analysis for the period 1891–1931, for which macroeconomic estimates are available.32 The table shows whether and how the factors listed in the column furthest left affected the household’s action listed in the top row. The positive sign represents an increase in probability of the action being taken and the negative sign a decrease, whereas the blank indicates no significant effect. To disentangle the cause and effect, migration and occupational choice are considered separately against the background of the change in landholdings. Landholding itself can be both the cause and effect of migration and occupational change, and therefore household division is also taken into account as an instrument. That is, household division is assumed to change landholdings alone, and therefore only indirectly affects the decision to migrate or to change occupation.33 The effect of landholdings on migration/occupation is then disentangled from the reverse effects of migration/occupation on landholdings. As expected, household division significantly reduced each settler’s landholdings (its sign is therefore opposite to that of ‘increase in landholdings’). Decrease of landholdings, in turn, raises the possibilities of migration and becoming a landlord, but lowers that of becoming an owner cultivator. With regard to landlords, the result indicates that households that split up tended to lease out the remaining farmland so that they could gather additional income,

32 ‘Migrant stock’ is computed from Thomas Gottschang’s estimates of number of migrants introduced earlier in Table 1 and Figure 1, and ‘net trade per capita’ is also his estimates for 1891–1931 (Gottschang & Lary 2000: Table A.8). 33 Departure from household may be simultaneously decided with migration and choice of occupation at individual level. Division as reported in the survey (in principle) requires consensus of the other heirs. Inheritable pie was customarily equal among son heirs, and therefore it would have been a matter of timing. Although prolonged co-residence of heirs was not uncommon, division was probably an imperative over a generation, as shown by low frequency of household head’s co-residence with a cousin and his family line observed in Buck (1937: 367). Division is then assumed to be induced by exogenously occurring death of the household head in this family-line level analysis. 330 umeno

Table 8 Estimated determinants of migration and occupational change on a yearly basis, within southern Manchuria, 1891–1931

Migration Becoming Becoming Becoming (relocation) a landlorda an owner a tenant cultivatora cultivatora

Independent factors (macroeconomic factors): Increase in migrant stockb + Increase in net trade per capita

Simultaneously determined factors: Increase in landholdings – – + (Instrumental factor: ( + ) ( + ) ( – ) household division) Annual trend + + Number of observations (in 10,358 10,270 10,270 10,270 household years) Number of households 389 389 389 389

Note: Estimated by first-differenced instrumental variables regression (on a yearly basis). Only estimated signs that are statistically significant at the 10 percent level are reported. a By-employment in other categories (or multiple occupation) is not considered as a determinant. b Demographic increase by birth and death is not considered. on top of the rent. The positive annual trends of migration and becoming an owner cultivator respectively suggest an increasing mobility (consistent with the macroeconomic estimate as in Figure 2) and a stronger likelihood of becoming a farmer, both of which were consequences of new entries of households in the sampled villages (also consistent with the macro-level increase of the immigrant flow as in Figure 1). Macroeconomic conditions, on the other hand, do not seem to have affected individual decision making, except for becoming a tenant cultivator, which may have been a second best option, as acquiring land ownership became more difficult due to the growing migrant stock. The results of the above analyses, based on the history panels, show the importance of household economics for the colonizing settlers in Manchuria. Household-level decision making was little affected by a temporary change han chinese immigrants in manchuria 331 of macroeconomic conditions. As reported in the Manchukuo Farm Survey, their migrations were often based on local information provided by kin and acquaintances and well-organized with their help, reflecting family survival strategies. Perpetual presence of such immigrants in Manchuria, on the other hand, became a basis of the frontier colonization that pulled additional migrants from the home region through chain migration. Along with the successful colonization we see a lot of occupational (and partly social) mobility, inherent in Chinese society with the partible inheritance custom, which contributed to raising the spatial mobility (migration) as well.

Conclusion

This chapter discussed (mainly) Han Chinese migrations to Manchuria from the Qing to the Republican period, observing the macro-level trends in migration stocks and flows, the changing composition of different types of cross- cultural migration, and the micro-level foundations of colonizing immigrant communities that played a crucial role in the sinicization of this frontier region. The increase in the stock and flows of migration accompanied the accelerated economic development of the region, stimulated by the foreign influences that led to a huge demand for (seasonal) labor migrants in both the agricultural and industrial (urban) sectors. The great migration to Manchuria was facilitated by the introduction of efficient modern transportation including railways. The migration history, as well as its scale, is in this respect comparable to the transatlantic migration from Europe, but the underlying push factors of recurrent waves of migration from North China were disasters and secondary economic stagnation, as was the case with other Chinese overseas migrations. That aspect of migration was also reflected in the large volume of return migration and the increasing share of seasonal migrants or contract- term laborers, which can be regarded as a household-level survival strategy of peasants in North China in this turbulent period. Household strategy was equally important to colonists in Manchuria, who migrated within the region, changed occupations with the help of personal networks, and who through chain migration pulled new migrants from the home region. Their colonization based on family and home community networks contributed to secure Manchuria as a Chinese territory from Russian and Japanese colonizers, and also created communities characterized by high levels of social and spatial mobility. The combination of lateral kinship ties and partible inheritance custom guaranteed the formation of initially homogeneous but socially mobile communities that would remain spatially mobile 332 umeno for generations. The traditional Chinese family system thus provided a basis for a highly mobile society with strong networks. The cross-cultural migration to Manchuria from the three competing states, China, Russia, and Japan, thus resulted in the complete colonization by China, despite the temporary takeover of control and the similar homesteading policies by the other two powers. The two-millennium-long history of contact with the region, which kept the two cultures comparatively close, might have been advantageous to China. Considering the displacement of the Han population by the time of the Qing, however, the Manchu conquest and their two-century rule of China proper seem to have been the decisive step in reversing colonization by the Han. The subsequent large-scale and frequent migration in the age of free migration is characteristic of Han Chinese with wide kin and home community networks. The Han Chinese migration to Manchuria from the Qing to the Republic illustrates the homesteading movement into North Asia that consisted of mass migrations pushed by violence and disasters in the period, which were chaneled through Han Chinese migrant networks.

Appendix: Regression Analyses

The details of the data analyses omitted in the main text are presented here. The results of Table 8 are produced by the first-differenced instrumental variables regressions as outlined below. The system of equations to be estimated is as follows.

First stage: L(i, t)—L(i, t-1) = a1 × [S(t)—S(t-1)] + a2 × [T(t)—T(t-1)] + a3 × D(i, t) + a4 + [e(i, t)—e(i, t-1)].

Second stage for migration: M(i, t) = b1 × [S(t)—S(t-1)] +b2 × [T(t)—T(t-1)] + b3 × [L(i, t)—L(i, t-1)] + b4 + [u(i, t)—u(i, t-1)], and for occupation: O(i, t)—O( j, t-1) = c1 × [S(t)—S(t-1)] + c2 × [T(t)—T(t-1)] + c3 × [L(i, t)—L(i, t-1)] + c4 + [v(i, t)—v(i, t-1)], where i and t denote household ID and year suffixes respectively, L, S, and T denote acreage of land owned, migrant stock, and net trade per capita respectively, a, b, and c denote coefficients, and e, u, and v denote unobserved residuals (error terms). D, M, and O are dummy variables that take the value 1 if the household i is recorded to have divided, migrated, or had the referred job in han chinese immigrants in manchuria 333

Table 9 Detailed estimates of determinants of migration and occupational change on a yearly basis, within southern Manchuria, 1891–1931

Dependent variable: Migration Becoming a Becoming an Becoming a (= 1 if attained in the year / (relocation) landlorda owner cultivatora tenant = 0 otherwise) cultivatora

Independent variables (macroeconomic variables): – – – – Change in log10 value of migrant – 2.55×10 4 1.41×10 4 3.16×10 6 4.96×10 4 stockb (3.33×10–4) (3.21×10–4) (2.85×10–4) (2.83×10–4)*

Change in log10 value of net – 0.003 – 0.003 – 0.004 – 0.011 trade per capita (0.011) (0.007) (0.011) (0.011)

Simultaneously determined variable:

Change in log10 value of land – 0.226 – 0.122 0.202 – 0.056 holdings in mu (0.043)*** (0.024)*** (0.036)*** (0.036)

Excluded instrumental variable: First stage estimation resultsc:

Household division – 0.318 – 0.324 – 0.324 – 0.324 (= 1 if it occurs in the year / (0.017)*** (0.017)*** (0.017)*** (0.017)*** = 0 otherwise)

Constant term 0.011 1.51×10–3 3.11×10–3 2.61×10–4 (annual trend) (0.002)*** (9.71×10–4) (1.47×10–3)** (0.001)

Number of observations 10358 10270 10270 10270 (in household years) Number of households 389 389 389 389 p-value of χ2 0.000 0.000 0.000 0.000 p-value of F in the first stage 0.000 0.000 0.000 0.000 estimation R2 (overall in the panel) 0.049 0.023 0.620 0.006 Correlation of residuals and 0.017 – 0.649 0.567 – 0.110 variables

Note: Same regression results as in Table 8. Estimated coefficients and standard errors (in parentheses) are reported here. a By-employment in other categories (or multiple occupation) is not controlled. b Net number of migrants to Manchuria (in log10 scale). Demographic increase is not considered. c The macroeconomic variables and constant term are also regressed on together, whose coefficients are not shown here. ***, **, * Statistically significant at the 1, 5, 10 percent levels, respectively. 334 umeno year t, and value 0 otherwise. a4, b4, and c4 are constant terms that reflect the annual rate of change, other things being equal. Change in the migrant stock, [S(t)—S(t-1)], is substituted in the estimation by the net number of migrants from North China to Manchuria for each year, since time series data of birth and death rates of the settlers and their descendants are not obtained. The estimated coefficients by the regressions are shown in Table 9, with signs of statistical significance. From Mao to the Present: Migration in China since the Second World War1

Jianfa Shen

1 Introduction

The chapter by Adam McKeown convincingly shows that the Chinese population was far from sedentary or stable during the Qing period. This dynamic continued well into the twentieth century and found expression in both internal and international migrations. In the literature, however, there is no systematic overview of cross-cultural migrations and often only certain forms are highlighted, such as emigration, while the fact that many internal migrations share a lot of similarities when it comes to the impact for both migrants and the receiving and sending areas is overlooked. This chapter will concentrate on the second half of the twentieth century and discuss the major types of cross- cultural migration in the context of the political and economic developments during the People’s Republic of China.2 Before 1949 there was significant internal and external migration in China. It is estimated that about 30 million people moved from other parts of China to Northeast China from the late 1890s to the 1940s. About 20–30 million Chi- nese left China as emigrants in the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth centuries.3 Large-scale emigration from China ceased after 1949, although there was still significant internal migration. To understand the migration dynamics in China since 1949 we need to understand the political and ideological concerns of the People’s Republic. In the 1950s large-scale emigration came to an end, while initially a significant internal migration developed. However, during the Maoist period a rigid

1 The research on which this chapter is based was supported by a Research Grant from Research Grants Council of Hong Kong SAR (RGC Project No. 450107), National Natural Sci- ence Foundation of China (Approval No. 40971070) and a Direct Grant from the Chinese University of Hong Kong (Project Code 2021070). 2 Lucassen & Lucassen in this volume. The cross-cultural migration should be understood in very broad sense as a very large part of internal migration discussed in this section involves migration between regions where Han Chinese is the majority in both origin and destination. 3 Tian & Lin 1986: 289; see also the chapters by Adam McKeown and Yuki Umeno in this volume.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2014 | doi 10.1163/9789004271364_013 336 shen hukou (household registration) system was implemented.4 This system made a fundamental distinction between the ‘agricultural population’ and ‘non- agricultural population’ and required individuals to register in their place of residence. Moving from the countryside to cities was especially discouraged, not least because social and political rights (benefits, education) could only be exercised in one’s own administrative unit. From the mid-1950s until the mid-1970s internal migration, including rural to urban migration, was tightly controlled except for migrations initiated by the state. With the liberalization of the economy and the ‘open door policy’ under Deng Xiaoping the rigid hukou system has been relaxed and Chinese peasants have been permitted to move to other places temporarily without having to change their residential (hukou) registration. But one’s hukou ‘status’ remains important and many migrants lack a local hukou where they currently live and work, thus constituting what is often called the ‘floating population.’5 As a result, rural to urban migration in particular in China has increased spectacu- larly since the 1980s.6 As systematic migration data are only available for the total migration in the period from Mao to the present, the main focus of this chapter is first of all on the overall migration trends in China. Furthermore, the chapter will provide an overview of other major categories of cross-cultural migration in China. The chapter is divided into five major sections. Section 2 provides an overview of the major types of migration in China, followed in section 3 by an examination of the sources of migration data in China and the overall trend of migration rate in the period 1954–2005. Section 4 then discusses the migration under the hukou regime in 1958–1978, after which, in section 5, the floating population under the hukou system reform since the 1980s is examined. Finally, section 6 examines the changing patterns of inter-provincial migration in the period 1985–2005, for which detailed migration data are available. In the conclusion I will use the data on different forms of cross-cultural migration to calculate the total migration rate and relate this to earlier periods in Chinese history and developments in Europe.

4 Cheng & Selden 1994. 5 Shen 2005; 2011. 6 Institute of Population Research 1993; Chang 1996; Chan et al. 1999; Liang & Ma 2004; Liang 2001. from mao to the present 337

2 An Overview of Migration in China

Following the cross-cultural migration rate (CCMR) model, for China after 1950 the best data available pertain to internal migration and these will be discussed in the following sections.

Migration to Cities There has been a significant increase in urban population in both the pre- reform period and the reform period. In the 1950s to 1970s rapid population growth was predominantly a rural phenomenon. Since the 1980s, however, we have witnessed rapid urbanization. Based on the new census data for 2010, the size of rural to urban migration in the period 1953–2010 is estimated to be 4253 million (Table 1).7 This means that since 1953 about one-third of the current Chinese population has shifted from rural to urban areas. This is reflected in the share of urban population in China, which was only 12 percent in 1951, increased to 18 percent in 1978, and reached a staggering 50 percent in 2010.8 We should realize that the estimated size of rural to urban migration is conservative, as it assumes that the rates of natural increase in villages and cities were equal. Generally, however, the rural population grew faster, from which it follows that an even higher share of the rural population has become urban. On the other hand, we have to note the in situ urbanization in China,

Table 1 Urban population, rural population, and rural to urban migration in China, 1953–2010 (millions)

30 June 30 June 1 July 1 July 1 November 1 November Total 1953 1964 1982 1990 2000 2010

Total population 583 695 1008 1140 1268 1340 Rural population 506 564 793 826 798 674 Urban population 77 130 216 314 470 666 Rural to urban migration 0 38 26 70 120 169 423 from last census Urban population share (%) 13 14 21 26 37 50

Source: 1953–2000 based on adjusted census data by Shen (2005); 2010 based on census data (NBS, 2011a).

7 Shen 2005. 8 NBS 2011a. 338 shen

meaning that some rural areas have become urbanized. These two effects more or less counterbalance each other. The increase of the urban population via in situ urbanization is captured in the phrase ‘rural to urban transition’, and is not the result of natural population increase or rural to urban migration.9 In terms of government statistics some rural areas have been reclassified as urban areas. The population involved in the rural to urban transition would then be counted in urban statistics although they do not match perfectly. In short, the estimated rural to urban migration of 423 million in the period 1953–2010 did not always involve physical migration. Nevertheless, the actual rural to urban migration reached unprecedented levels.

Urban to Rural Migration When the People’s Republic of China was founded in 1949, the unemployment rate in cities was 50 percent, an equivalent of 4 million city dwellers. In an attempt to solve this problem the state decided to force many of these people to relocate to the countryside. In Beijing 1.3 million workers were moved out in the years 1950–1957, whereas about 300,000 workers and their families left Shanghai to cultivate land in Jiangxi. The same number returned from Nanjing to their rural hometowns, just like 150,000 from Tianjin, 59,000 of whom were sent to Qinghai.10 However, due to the ‘Great Leap Forward’ in 1958, millions of peasants tra veled in the opposite direction and fled to cities such as Changchun, Beijing, Tianjin, Shanghai, and Guangzhou. As a result the urban population ballooned from 99 million in 1957 to 130 million in 1960, an increase that was largely caused by the in-migration of 15 million peasants in 1958.11 The subsequent famine in the countryside also pushed peasants into cities. Facing the pressure of food supply in urban areas, in 1960 the Chinese government (again) decided to reduce the size of the urban population drastically and by June 1963, 26 million people had been moved out of cities, the overwhelming majority consisting of those who had settled there as temporary residents, with or without permission, from the countryside in the previous years. The expulsions of migrants without permission were carried out by some 600 especially established ‘custody and deportation stations.’ For Shanghai the exodus entailed 284,000 officials and workers, 84,000 of them returning to their home villages in 1961 and 1962.12

9 Shen 1995; 2006; Zhu 1999. 10 Shen & Tong 1992: 151–153. 11 Dikötter 2010: 230, 237. 12 Shen & Tong 1992: 185–186. from mao to the present 339

A few years later, during the Cultural Revolution, the state focused on a very different category of urbanites: young people who were born and raised in cities and who, according to the then prevailing Maoist ideology, had to be re-educated in the countryside. In the period 1966–1976, 17 million of them were moved to rural areas as part of the campaign ‘Up to the mountains and down to the countryside.’13 Most were sent to villages and farms in the same province, although 1–2 million ended up in provinces further away.14 Many families in Shanghai, Beijing, and Tianjin saw at least one child leave for the countryside. Some destinations were as far away as Heilongjiang and Guizhou. In Shanghai around 600,000 youths were mobilized in the period 1968–1976, with the majority (83 percent) ending up at farms in other provinces.15 The official reason for forcing young people to settle in the countryside was that they were contaminated by bourgeois values and had to be transformed into ‘new (socialist) men’; an example of social engineering that was later cop- ied by a number of other Maoist/communist regimes, especially in Cambodia under Pol Pot in the second half of the 1970s.16 Simple, unspoiled, peasants were to educate them and introduce them into the ‘real’ world of farming and other manual labor. An implicit practical reason, however, was the lack of job opportunities in cities due to the poor economy at that time. Most of these migrants returned to cities at the end of the Cultural Revo- lution in the late 1970s. According to statistics, in Heilongjiang 159,000 educated youths departed for Shanghai, while in the period 1970–1979, 110,000 still remained on farms.17 Adding together the various forms of urban to rural migrations, it can roughly be estimated that the total number of migrants who moved at least once from their city dwellings to villages and farms was about 45 million in the period 1949–1978.18

Migration to Border Areas The leaders of the People’s Republic prioritized the economic development in the inland regions of China. The state moved several million citizens from the urbanized east to new development regions and key construction areas in the

13 Hu & Zhang 1984. 14 Very few moved to other provinces after 1972 (Shen & Tong 1992: 187). 15 Most migration took place in 1969 and 1970 when 480,000 youths moved to these provinces. 16 Cheng 2009: chapter 2. 17 Shen & Tong 1992: 190. 18 This number is composed of 2–3 million urbanites before 1957, 26 million in the period 1958–1963 and 17 million during the Cultural Revolution. 340 shen northeast, west, and southwest from the early 1950s onwards. The main destination, however, was the northeastern area which was to develop into a major industrial center. Other organized migrations in the 1950s were aimed at agricultural deve lopment. About 2 million urban residents and veterans demobilized from the army were moved from the eastern region to sparsely populated frontier areas. The main destinations were Inner Mongolia, Heilongjiang, Xinjiang, Hainan Island, and Yunnan. For example 100,000 mobilized soldiers were moved to Heilongjiang to cultivate land in 1958, and 1.8 million rural peasants were moved from densely populated provinces such as Shandong, Henan, Tian- jin, Zhejiang, Hunan, and Hebei to Inner Mongolia, Heilongjiang, Gansu, and Qinghai in the period 1953–1962. These included 810,000 migrants who went from Shandong to Heilongjiang to cultivate land in the period 1955–1960. In the period 1959–1962, about 300,000 people arrived in Hainan to engage in planting rubber trees; half of them were demobilized soldiers.19 But large-scale organized migration of peasants stopped after 1960.20 Apart from organized migrations, there have always been spontaneous movements to less populated border areas. In the 1960s, about 1 million rural people relocated from Jiangsu to the northeast, the northwest, and Inner Mon- golia. In 1960, there was a net migration of 1.6 million people from Shandong, but less than half a million of them were state-organized migrants. On the other hand, Heilongjiang received 600,000 spontaneous migrants in the period 1955–1960 and Inner Mongolia another 870,000.21 Migration to Xinjiang is an interesting case.22 The population of this auto nomous region in the northwest increased from 4.3 million to 13 million in the period 1949–1982. The net migration was 2.9 million, accounting for 33 percent of the total population increase in this period. There was a significant net migration of over 1 million in the period 1957–1960. Many of these migrants were demobilized soldiers and students, organized in so-called ‘Production and Construction Corps.’ In 1954 the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps was established with demobilized soldiers. It was meant as a backup for the military, but also to engage in agriculture, mining, and industrial production during peace time. In subsequent years other students and migrants also joined this special organization. The main migration stream consisted of organized migrations of educated youths, demobilized soldiers, and some

19 Shen & Tong 1992: 176–178. 20 Tian & Lin 1986: 290. 21 Shen & Tong 1992: 192–193. 22 Shen & Wang 2004. from mao to the present 341

spontaneous migrants. For example, the state mobilized 300,000 students to migrate to Xinjiang to support the construction of the border areas in the period 1958–1962. Almost a million migrants were moved to Xinjiang from Jiangsu, Anhui, and Hubei in the period 1957–1960. Finally, since 1951 Xinjiang has been a destination for sentenced criminals, numbering about 100,000.23 A special case of frontier migration is Tibet. No migration data on migrants moving into Tibet were collected in the 1990 census. Based on the data from the 2000 census, the estimated numbers of migrants moving in and out of Tibet were 77,000 and 38,000 respectively in the period 1995–2000, after adjusting for undercounting in the census. In 2000, there were 2.42 million Tibetans among the total population of 2.62 million in Tibet. The Han population was 158,570, excluding the army in that year. Based on the above information, it is estimated that for China as a whole there were about 10 million migrants who moved into the border areas of China in the period 1949–1978, after which this type of migration became insignificant.

Soldiers During the Korean War (1950–1953), the only foreign war in which the Chi- nese army has officially been engaged in since 1949, some 3.1 million Chinese actively participated, of whom 2.5 million were soldiers. The casualty rate in Korea of over 1 million was enormous and included 152,000 deaths.24 In total the Chinese army consisted of over 6 million soldiers in 1952, which number was soon reduced to 4.2 million in 1953 and 2.4 million in 1958.25 From then on the numbers of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) increased again: 3.4 million in 1964 and 4.2 million in 1982. In the last three decades the Chinese government has reduced the size of the army: to 3.2 million in 1990, 2.5 million in 2000, and 2.3 million in 2010.26 The soldiers are recruited voluntarily and currently serve for two years. In addition, the PLA also consists of sergeants who are professional soldiers. The state often arranges jobs for army officers after their demobilization. Voluntary soldiers and lower rank sergeants normally return to their hometowns, but some settle down in cities or in border areas as members of Production and Construction Corps, mentioned earlier. Official

23 Shen & Tong 1992: 176–177. 24 Li 2007: 110–111. 25 Idem, 118–119. 26 Shen 2005; NBS 2011b. 342 shen statistics show that there were over 20 million demobilized soldiers in China in 1993.27 One significant migration associated with the advancement of the PLA from North China to South China around 1949 was that of some 130,000 (400,000 when we include family members) old and new officials and soldiers demobilized to become local officials of the new government.28 Next there were demobilized soldiers in the 1950s who were ordered to cultivate land in Xin jiang and Northeast China as members of Production and Construction Corps.29 After the liberation of Xinjiang in September 1949, 110,000 soldiers were put to work in manufacturing. In 1954, the Xinjiang Production and Con- struction Corps was formally established with 105,000 soldiers and officers and a total membership of 170,000, including family members and others. All soldiers and officers were formally demobilized by 1956. In the period 1954–1960, the Corps recruited many youths and demobilized soldiers, and it increased to over 700,000 by the end of 1960. Shanghai sent 150,000 educated youths to the Corps in the period 1962–1966. Its staff further increased to over 800,000, while the total number of people involved reached 1.5 million in 1966. The Corps was abolished in 1975 but restored again in 1981 with a staff of almost a million and a total membership of 2.2 million. By 2007, the proportion was 700,000 staff out of a total of 2.5 million.30 All in all, the Corps brought 1–2 million migrants to Xinjiang, or 2.5 million if we include their descendants. As in the case of Russia, there are good reasons to view all Chinese soldiers as cross-cultural migrants, considering the large ethnic and linguistic diversity in China and the distances traveled between the places of origin of the recruits, the barracks, and the faraway destinations where many finally settled. A rough conservative estimate of the total number of individual Chinese who served in the army during the second half of the twentieth century and thus became cross-cultural migrants is around 50 million, based on an average army strength of 3 million and an average length of service of 3 years.31

27 Hebei, Jiangsu, Shandong, Henan, Hunan and Sichuan each had over 1.3 million soldiers demobilized after 1958 (Department of Population Statistics 1994: 493). 28 The number of officials who moved with the PLA from north China to Hubei, Guangdong, Hunan and Guizhou were respectively 50,000, 20,000, 10,000 and close to 10,000. Another 10,000 moved from Shandong to Zhejiang Shen & Tong, 1992: 149. 29 Shen & Tong 1992: 176. 30 Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps 2007. 31 Based on Li 2007: 76, 110–120. from mao to the present 343

Emigration China has a long history of emigration to other countries.32 Before the 1950s, the main destination was Southeast Asia. The emigration to Southeast Asia was stopped in the 1950s and since that time more Chinese from both China and other (mostly Asian) countries have moved to Western countries, especially the United States. Over 90 percent of the overseas Chinese, about 10 million in total, were living in Southeast Asia at the end of the Second World War. However, this share decreased to 80 percent in the 1990s and 75 percent in the early twenty-first century.33 This section also considers the emigration from mainland China to Taiwan and Hong Kong. After the defeat of the Nationalist Party of Chiang Kai-shek in 1949, some 2 million mainlanders (soldiers, officials, businessmen, and family members) moved to Taiwan; at the time, the island had a population of about 6 million. The indigenous population in Taiwan before 1945 was small (less than 250,000 in 1989) and was overwhelmed by the various waves of migration from mainland China.34 Migration from mainland China to Taiwan was virtually impossible between the 1950s and 1980s but this has changed somewhat since the 1990s because of a growing migration of women from the mainland following marriage.35 Hong Kong has been a stepping stone for Chinese emigrants. Over 6 million emigrated through Hong Kong in the period 1850–1939, transforming the place from a fishing village to a metropolis of 3.2 million in 1961 and almost 7 million in 2006. Direct emigration to Hong Kong from mainland China virtually ceased after 1949, although some tried to leave without proper documents. About 10,000 moved to Hong Kong each year in the 1960s.36 The migration from mainland China to Hong Kong further increased with the adoption of an open door policy in China in the late 1970s. Net migration accounted for 38 percent of Hong Kong’s population growth in the period 1961–2006, with mainland China as the main source.37 Since 1980 Hong Kong has adopted a rigid immigration policy, sending back all illegal migrants to their place of origin, whereas for

32 McKeown 2010. 33 Wang 2009: 45. 34 Long 1991: 55–63. These earlier migrants and their descendants are called Taiwanese nowadays while mainlanders arriving at Taiwan after 1945 and their descendants are labelled as mainlanders (people from outside the province) (Lin 2011). 35 Lu 2008. 36 Skeldon 1996. 37 The proportion of the population born in the Mainland was 50.5% in 1961. But it was reduced to 34.4% in 1991 and 33.5% in 2006 due to an increase in the local-born population (Shen 2010). 344 shen mainland Chinese a quota system has been adopted. The current quota is 150 per day (about 50,000 per year) and mainly applies to family members of Hong Kong’s permanent residents. Emigration from China to foreign countries has increased since 1980. Based on the official data from Guangdong in 1977–1987, the index of emigrants (100 for 1977) peaked with 1712 in 1980, then fell back to 734 in 1984, to rise again to 1254 in 1987.38 Among the emigrants from China, students figure prominently. The number of Chinese students at American universities increased from only 28 in 1978 to 44,360 in 1993/1994. According to official statistics, a total of 1.6 million Chinese went abroad to study in the period 1978–2009. Half a million had returned by 2009, while over 800,000 were still studying or visiting overseas institutions and another 300,000 working or living overseas in that same year. Apart from students, it is reported that 1.5–2 million Chinese emigrated in the period 1995–2010. Many of them were wealthy elites who were quite welcome in countries such as Canada, where in 2004 36,000 had settled, constituting 15 percent of the total number of immigrants. Some of them invested considerable sums in the Canadian economy, RMB2.35 billion (470 million dollars) alone in 2009.39 Recently, Africa has become a new destination due to increasing trade and investment from China. According to an article in The New York Times on August 18, 2007, the Xinhua News Agency reported that 750,000 Chinese have ‘settled’ in Africa.40 Some local and international media estimate that this could even be 1 million. The main destination countries include Cameroon (300,000), South Africa (100,000–600,000), and Nigeria (100,000).41

Immigration China has not attracted significant immigration since the 1950s. During the period 1949–1978, when China was closed to the outside world, immigration was negligible. The only significant exception was the return of ‘Overseas Chi- nese,’ mostly due to ethnic tensions in their host countries, either because of resentment of their position in trade and business or as a consequence of anti- communism. Most of them returned from Southeast Asia in the 1950s. Many Chinese also turned their backs on Indonesia in the 1960s and Vietnam after

38 Chen & Liao 1994: 158–159. Based on the population of 55.76 million and emigration rate of 0.034% in 1984, the estimated number of emigrants was 18961 in 1984 and 2583 in 1977. 39 Ming Pao, 2010. 40 French & Polgreen 2007. 41 Asche & Schüller 2008. from mao to the present 345

1978. According to official estimates these returning Chinese amounted to about 1 million.42 After the independence of Indonesia, the government adopted a number of policies to restrict the business and trading of Chinese living in Indonesia. As a consequence, over half a million Chinese were affected by a new regulation that small retail shops owned by foreigners in towns and villages should be closed by January 1960. As a result, over 100,000 Chinese returned to China.43 Chinese citizens were also targeted in Vietnam, especially after the unification in 1976. Their properties and assets were confiscated and they were forced to move to poor new economic areas or to return to China. By 1980 this last option was chosen by 270,000 Chinese.44 In general, most Chinese who have remained in foreign countries have acquired foreign nationality. For example, among the 3 million Chinese in Indonesia before 1960, about 2 million retained Chinese nationality. After the introduction of ‘The agreement on double nationality between China and Indonesia,’ however, this number decreased to 1 million in 1965, and 200,000 to 300,000 in 1981.45 Since the 1980s a small but steady immigration flow developed along with the implementation of open door policies in China. These immigrants include returning students and scholars from abroad, businessmen and professionals moving to China in the wake of foreign direct investment, and a small number of foreign students and scholars. According to the State Administration of For- eign Experts Affairs, China admitted 2.3 million foreign experts for different periods of time during 2001–2005.46 Immigration is also closely related to investments, which is well illustrated by the case of Hong Kong which has been the largest source of foreign direct investment in mainland China. Along with the money flow, an increasing number of Hong Kong residents have been living or working in mainland China, especially in the Pearl River Delta. Their numbers tripled from 52,000 in 1988 to 157,000 in 1998 and almost quintupled to 238,000 in 2005.47 Surveys have also been conducted on the Hong Kong residents living in mainland China for over three months out of the six months before enumeration. The number of such

42 Wang 1991. 43 Huang & Wen 1999: 5. 44 Huang & Wen 1999: 276–279. 45 Huang & Wen 1999: 12–13. 46 Zhang 2011. 47 CSD 1999; 2005. 346 shen residents increased from 41,300 in 2001 to 61,800 in 2003 and 91,800 in 2005.48 The share of such population in the total Hong Kong population aged over 18 increased from 0.8 percent in 2001 to 1.1 percent in 2003 and 1.7 percent in 2005. Another group are businessmen from Taiwan who invested heavily in Dong- guan and Kunshan city in mainland China, attracted by economic opportunities while facing political and economic problems in Taiwan.49 Kunshan has even been nicknamed ‘Little Taipei’ for the important economic contribution of the Taiwanese. Over 20,000 Taiwanese now live in Kunshan permanently.50 Another significant inflow of immigrants came from Africa. The first Afri- cans visited China through the Chinese Export Commodities Fair, held every year in Guangzhou since 1957, which attracted hundreds of thousands of foreign merchants and entrepreneurs each year. More recently, and connected to the growing presence of Chinese in Africa, many Africans have engaged in trade with China and it is estimated that there were between 15,000 and 20,000 Africans living in Guangzhou in the late 2000s.51 According to the 2010 census,52 the resident population from outside mainland China that stayed for three months or more was a little over 1 million in 2010, 60 percent from abroad,53 23 percent from Hong Kong, 17 percent from Taiwan, and 2 percent from Macau. Guangdong (32 percent) and Shanghai (21 percent) received the largest share of these immigrants. Many of them are heavily concentrated in particular areas, for example the 60,000 or more South Koreans in Wangjing, a large-scale housing estate in Beijing which has become a South Korean enclave.54

3 Sources of Migration Data and Migration Trends, 1954–2005

There are two major sources that provide systematic migration data for China as a whole. One is the China Population Statistics Yearbook compiled by the National Bureau of Statistics. The Department of Population Statistics (1991) offers detailed data on the number of migrants moving in and out of the place

48 CSD 2006. 49 Lin 2011. 50 Po & Pun 2003: 80. 51 Li et al. 2009: 709. 52 NBS 2011c. 53 The largest sources of foreign immigration were South Korea (120,000), the U.S. (71,000) and Japan (66,000). 54 Li et al. 2009: 700. from mao to the present 347 they are registered for the period 1954–1989.55 These data were based on the hukou system administrated by the Ministry of Public Security and I will refer to such data as ‘hukou migration data.’56 The second major source is the Popu- lation Censuses in 1990 and 2000 and Population Sampling Surveys in 1995 and 2005, hence ‘census migration data.’ Before the annual migration rates in China are presented for the period 1954–2005, we will first outline the differences between these two data sets. In China the Ministry of Public Security is in charge of the population registration including births, deaths, and migration. With the introduction of the hukou system and the rigid migration controls since 1958, the hukou migration data provide a good account of people’s mobility. Migration refers to any change in the registered hukou between a city, a town, or a township.57 As there was little international migration to and from China during the period 1954–1989, the difference between the numbers of migrants moving in and moving out reflected the errors of registration rather than international migration. For example, the in-migration and out-migration rates were 2.4 percent and 2.3 percent respectively in 1979. As it is unlikely someone would register themself more than once at their destination, the error is likely due to under- reporting of out-migration. The in-migration rate is more reliable and will be used in this chapter to measure mobility. Before the 1980s, people needed approval in order to migrate and change their hukou registration accordingly. But since the early 1980s, Chinese have been allowed to move temporarily to various destinations (mainly urban areas) without changing their hukou. The hukou migration data since the early 1980s therefore miss the migration of the temporary population. The Department of Population Statistics (1991) only released hukou migration data up to 1989 for the whole country. It also published hukou migration data for 22 coastal cities in 1993 and 14 coastal cities in 1994, 1996, 1997, and 1998.58 The hukou migration rate based on these cities in these years was very close to the national levels in 1986–1989 (Table 2). These data are therefore used to represent the national hukou migration in these years.

55 Except for 1967–1969 which are available from Shen & Tong (1992: 143). 56 Shen 1996. 57 Shen & Tong 1992: 142. 58 Department of Population Statistics 1994, 1995, 1997–1999. 348 shen

Table 2 Annual migration rates based on hukou and census migration data, 1986–2005

Year Hukou data Census data Migrants (million) Rate (%) Migrants (million) Rate (%)

1986 18.4 1.8 13.6 1.2 1987 19.7 1.9 13.6 1.2 1988 20.1 1.9 13.6 1.2 1989 19.0 1.7 13.6 1.2 1990 n.a. n.a. 13.6 1.2 1991 n.a. n.a. 12.9 1.1 1992 n.a. n.a. 12.9 1.1 1993 n.a. 1.9a 12.9 1.1 1994 n.a. 1.7b 12.9 1.1 1995 n.a. n.a. 12.9 1.1 1996 n.a. 1.7b 25.8 2.0 1997 n.a. 1.7b 25.8 2.0 1998 n.a. 1.7b 25.8 2.0 1999 n.a. n.a. 25.8 2.0 2000 n.a. n.a. 25.8 2.0 2005 n.a. n.a. 29.1 2.4

Source: Department of Population Statistics, various years. Note: a based on 22 coastal cities; b based on 14 coastal cities.

The census migration data, on the other hand, refer to migration data collected by population censuses in 1990 and 2000 and by the 1 percent population sampling surveys in 1995 and 2005. The migration data for the period 1995–2000 include migrants moving between townships, towns, and subdistricts, whereas the migration data for the period 1985–1990 and 1990–1995 pertain to migrants moving between counties and cities. The census migration data define migrants as people who changed their place of residence, distinguishing between non-hukou and hukou migrants. The non-hukou migrants or temporary migrants do not change their place of hukou, whereas the hukou migrants or permanent migrants are able to officially register at their destination. The usual residents were defined slightly differently in the 1982, 1990, and 2000 censuses. The 2000 census considered the temporary population who had left their hukou registration place for more than half a year as usual residents in their destination. The 1982 and 1990 censuses defined only the temporary population who had left their hukou place from mao to the present 349 for more than one year as usual residents in their destination.59 Consequently the rise in the urban usual residents between 1990 and 2000 is partly due to changes in the definition of usual residents. In summary, there are two main differences between the hukou migration data and the census migration data. First, the hukou migration data do not include migrants moving between subdistricts of a city and, secondly, they fail to capture migrants who do not move their hukou. Both omissions, however, are included in the census migration data. As shown in Table 2, the hukou migration rate was 1.8 percent in 1986, higher than the census migration rate of 1.2 percent. This means that the census data may miss some migrants as multiple migrations within a five-year period are only counted once in the census migration data. The number of migrants who did not change their hukou was small in 1986 and such migrants are much better represented in the census migration rate. In 1998 the hukou migration rate was 1.7 percent, almost the same as in 1986. The census migration rate, however, increased from 1.2 percent in 1986 to 2 percent in 1998, due to the growth of migrants who did not change their hukou. If we assume that the number of migrants who did not change their hukou was small before 1989, then the hukou migration rate is a good measure of the changing population mobility in the period 1954–1989, whereas the census migration rate reflects best the changes in population mobility in the period 1990–2005. According to Figure 1, the migration rate increased from 3.8 percent to 5 percent in the period 1954–1960. The number of migrants who moved each year ranged from 22 to 33 million. This migration primarily concerned people who moved to frontier and urban areas (see previous section). As we have seen, the growing number of city dwellers was the major reason for the Chinese government introducing the hukou system. Soon this system proved to be very effective, as the migration rate dropped quickly from the peak in 1960 to under 2 percent (13 million) in 1963. From then on the migration rate remained stable until 1989. As explained above, this stable picture is misleading for the reform period, because the hukou migration data do not register those who move without changing their hukou registration. For these moves we have to turn to the census data, which show a significant increase from 1.2 percent in 1986 to 2 percent in 2000 and 2.4 percent in 2005. This makes the measurement of migration in the reform period significantly different from that in the pre-reform period when the hukou system controlled and captured almost all migration in China. Sections 4 and 5 will examine the major migration processes in the two periods.

59 Shen 2005. 350 shen

0 1954 1959 1964 1969 19741979 1984 1989 1994 1999 2004 Hukou migration rate (%) Census migration rate (%) Figure 1 Annual migration rates based on the hukou system and census data, 1954–2005

4 Migration under the Hukou Regime in 1958–1978

In the early years of the People’s Republic the freedom of citizens to move was firmly rooted in the first constitution of the country, adopted in 1954. But this would not last long and in 1958 the hukou system was formally introduced nationwide with the aim of controlling migration. Each person was registered in a particular place, and this divided the population into two categories, non- agricultural and agricultural; entitlements to grain rationing, employment, housing, education, and social welfare were linked to the hukou status of the non-agricultural population.60 The conversion of the hukou status of the agricultural population to the non-agricultural population, and rural to urban migration, was tightly controlled by the Ministry of Public Security. The hukou system was used as a key tool for central planning up to the late 1970s. In the pre-reform period of 1949–1978, most migrants moved from the eastern region to the center and the west (see also Map 1).61 Since the foundation of the People’s Republic the Chinese government has concentrated the economic development in the inland regions. The first aim was a more balanced regional economic development, as most of the old industrial bases were located in the coastal provinces. The second aim was to forge a more homogeneous Chinese nation, as most of the national minorities

60 Shen 2006. 61 Clarke 1994; Shen 1996; Tian & Zhang 1989; Tian & Lin 1986. from mao to the present 351

W E Heilongjiang

Jilin Xingjiang S Beijing Hebel Gansu Inner Mongolia Liaoning Tianjin

Ningxia Shanxi Quighai Shandong Jiangsu Shaanxi Henan Tibet Shanghai Chongquig Anhui Sichuan Hubei Jiangxi Hunan Zhejiang Eastern region Guizhou Central region Fujian Western region Yunnan Not Classi ed Guangxi Taiwan Guangdong Hong Kong 0 500 km Macao Hainan

Map 1 Three regions and provinces in China were concentrated in the inner provinces. Finally, there was a strategic aim: it was believed that the old industrial bases in the coastal area might be very vulnerable in case of a foreign invasion. Therefore, many transportation and industrial development projects were carried out in the central and western regions. As mentioned in section 2, several million people were moved from the urban east to new development areas in the northeast, west, and southwest. In the early 1950s, the main destination was the northeastern area which was regarded as the key construction area and designated as the industrial center. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, some newly industrialized cities such as Huhan and Lanzhou in the central and western regions also became main destinations of state-organized migrations. Sichuan and Guizhou in Southwest China followed in the mid-1960s, as part of the ‘third front’ construction stra tegy with the aim of establishing industrial bases in the relatively safe inland areas where there was a low risk of foreign invasion in the 1960s and 1970s. It is estimated that there were some 25 million net interprovincial migrations in the period 1950–1979.62 Eight provincial units—Shanghai, Jiangsu,

62 Hu & Zhang 1984. 352 shen

Zhejiang, Shandong, Henan, Hunan, Guangdong, and Sichuan—experienced net out-migrations. The net migration in Liaoning, Anhui, and Fujian was negligible. Other provincial units had net in-migrations, and Inner Mongolia (3.1 million), Heilongjiang (6.5 million), and Xinjiang (2.8 million) accounted for half of the total net in-migrations. Interprovincial migration accounted for a small proportion of the total migration, but it was the most influential migration flow in terms of population distribution and social integration.

5 Migration and Floating Population under the Hukou System Reform since the 1980s

Since the early 1980s, under the influence of an emerging market economy and stimulated by the aspirations for social mobility among the population in rural areas, the state has relaxed the enforcement of migration restrictions. One major step was the issuing of temporary residence permits to rural migrants who moved to cities. This opened the gate for many rural migrants, even though they only received a ‘temporary’ permit and were not granted local hukou status.63 This ‘floating population’ increased from 6 million in 1982 to 40 million in 1990, 109 million in 2000, 149 million in 2005, and a massive 221 million (exclu ding 40 million from the same urban district) in 2010 (Table 3), most of whom are concentrated in cities (78 percent in 2000). The temporary population was heavily concentrated in a few provinces. All of the top seven provinces with large temporary populations (over 6.5 million in 2000)—Guangdong, Jiangsu, Zhejiang, Shandong, Fujian, Shanghai, and Liaoning—were located in the eastern region. Annual growth rates for the temporary population were 17 percent, 11 percent, and 13 percent in the eastern, central, and western regions respectively in the period 1982–2005. In the 1990s, the most rapid growth of the temporary population took place in the eastern region, increasing from 16 million in 1990 to 63 million in 2000. Although the east was the prime destination, from the beginning of the twenty-first century onwards the center of gravity is slowly shifting to the central region. We should realize that the concept of ‘temporary population’ is different from the concept of migration. The size of the temporary population is larger than that of interprovincial temporary migration in a five-year period. The main difference is that the temporary population is defined on the basis of hukou status. Although they are migrants, many of them may have moved to their destination in the past five years or more and therefore the figures reflect

63 Shen 2006; Shen & Huang 2003. from mao to the present 353

Table 3 The temporary population in China, 1982–2005

Region Temporary population Absolute value (million)

Year 1982 1990 2000 2005 Eastern 2.5 15.9 63.4 91.9 Central 2.5 14.4 21.7 29.0 Western 1.6 9.3 24.0 28.4 China 6.6 39.6 109 149.4

Annual growth rates (%)

Period 1982–90 1990–00 2000–05 1982–05 Eastern 25.9 14.8 7.7 16.7 Central 24.5 4.1 6.0 11.1 Western 25.1 10.0 3.5 13.3 China 25.2 10.7 6.5 14.3

Source: Population Census Office of State Council and Department of Population Statistics, 1985 and 1993; Population Census Office of the State Council and Department of Population, Social, Science and Technology Statistics, 2002; Leadership Team Office of State Council for National One Percent Population Sampling Survey and Department of Population and Employment Statistics, 2006. an accumulated migrant population over time. If they move between provinces within the five-year period, they are counted as interprovincial migrants. Gen- erally, most interprovincial migrants are temporary migrants as one cannot change one’s place of hukou easily. According to a large micro data set from the 2000 census, which is extracted randomly from all households covered in the 2000 census with a sampling ratio of 0.1 percent, there were 123,267 migrants who moved in the five-year period before the 2000 census (Table 4).64 Among these migrants, 43,000 were permanent migrants who moved their hukou and 80,000 were temporary migrants. A total of 65,000 migrants had the hukou category of agricultural population and the majority of them (52,000) moved as temporary migrants. A total of 58,000 migrants had the hukou category of non-agricultural population and about half of them (30,000) moved as permanent migrants.

64 Excluding 1218 migrants who have missing data and 34 migrants who have invalid data on hukou categories. 354 shen

Table 4 Number of migrants by types of migration and hukou status in 1995–2000 (0.095% sample data)

Migration Type Interprovincial Intra-provincial Intra-county Total migration inter-county migration migration

Agricultural population 2,587 17,515 21,760 64,862 Permanent migration 1,848 2,996 7,905 12,749 Temporary migration 23,739 14,519 13,855 52,113 Non-agricultural population 7,038 19,191 32,176 58,405 Permanent migration 2,916 10,303 17,031 30,250 Temporary migration 4,122 8,888 15,145 28,155 Total 32,625 36,706 53,936 123,267 Permanent migration 4,764 13,299 24,936 42,999 Temporary migration 27,861 23,407 29,000 80,268

Source: Tabulated from the microdata of 2000 census.

A total of 33,000 were interprovincial migrants, 28,000 of them on a temporary basis, accounting for 85 percent of the total interprovincial migrants. The share of temporary migrants was higher than that of intra-provincial migrants and it is expected that the size of the temporary population will continue to increase unless the long-term settled temporary population are allowed to register their local hukou at their destinations. The annual number of migrants increased from 13.6 million in 1985–1990 to over 29 million in 2000–2005 (Table 5). Among the annual total of 25.8 million migrants in 1995–2000, 11.3 million moved within counties, 7.7 million between counties but within provinces, and 6.8 million crossed provincial borders.

Motives for Migration As to the motives of interprovincial migrants (Table 6) there is a great difference between permanent and temporary migrants. This applies to both the agricultural and the non-agricultural population. Among the former, marriage is the main motive, whereas urbanites who move permanently do so primarily to enlarge their human capital through education or training. The main migration reasons are education or training (30.9 percent) and marriage (20.6 percent) for permanent migration, while temporary migrants move to find work or do business (74.9 percent). from mao to the present 355

Table 5 Annual migration in China, 1985–2005 (millions)65

Intra-provincial Intra-county Intercounty Interprovincial Total migrants migrants intra-provincial migrants migrants

1985–1990 6.8a 4.6 11.4 2.2 13.6 1990–1995 6.5a 4.4 10.8 2.1 12.9 1995–2000 11.3 7.7 19.1 6.8 25.8 2000–2005 12.8a 4.5a 21.5a 7.6 29.1

Source: Office of National Population Sampling Survey, 1997; Population Census Office of State Council and Department of Population Statistics, 1993; Population Census Office of State Council and Department of Population, Social, Science and Technology Statistics, 2002; Leadership Team Office of State Council for National One Percent Population Sampling Survey and Department of Population and Employment Statistics, 2006. Note: a estimated using the ratio in 1995–2000 and the known number of migrants.

Table 6 Reasons for inter-provincial migration by hukou categories and migration types, 1995–2000

Hukou categories/ Reasons for migration (%) Number Migration types 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Agricultural population 75.2 0.8 0.1 0.7 0.5 5.8 8.7 4.2 4 25,587 Permanent migration 17.7 3.5 0.3 0.9 2.7 46.5 8.6 7.9 12.1 1,848 Temporary migration 79.6 0.6 0.1 0.7 0.3 2.7 8.7 3.9 3.4 23,739 Non-agricultural population 29.3 9.2 6.6 26.2 1.9 4.1 10.7 7.7 4.3 7,038 Permanent migration 3.8 11 11.7 50 2 4.2 10.6 4.3 2.5 2,916 Temporary migration 47.4 8 3 9.4 1.9 4 10.8 10.1 5.5 4,122 Total population 65.3 2.6 1.5 6.2 0.8 5.4 9.2 5 4.1 32,625 Permanent migration 9.2 8.1 7.3 30.9 2.3 20.6 9.8 5.7 6.2 4,764 Temporary migration 74.9 1.7 0.5 2 0.5 2.9 9 4.8 3.7 27,861

Source: Tabulated from the microdata of the 2000 census. Note: Reasons for migration: 1=Manual labor or business; 2=Job transfer; 3=Job assignment; 4=Education or training; 5=Demolition of old residence or change of residence; 6=Marriage; 7=Joining as dependants; 8=Joining relatives or friends; 9=Other.

65 The intra-county migrants, and inter-county and intra provincial migrants for the period 2000–2005 and the intra-county migrants for the periods 1985–1990 and 1990–1995 were estimated using the ratios in 1995–2000 and the known number of migrants. 356 shen

Thus, when we take motives as a point of departure there are four different migration flows: temporary rural migrants (1) are looking for manual labor or business opportunities, whereas permanent rural migrants (2) are mainly for marriage, mostly in another rural area. Temporary urban migrants (3), then, migrate predominantly to increase their human capital and look for education and training. Finally, permanent urban migrants (4) are, above all, motivated by seeking to improve their careers.

6 Changing Patterns of Interprovincial Migration 1985–2005

The changes in the migration mechanism and the economic reforms in China since the late 1970s have caused a reversal in the direction and magnitude of the internal migrations.66 The balanced development strategy adopted in 1949 failed as industrial production in the inland provinces proved inefficient. A coastal development strategy was then adopted in the 1980s which allowed the eastern region to make full use of its locational, economic, technological, and human capital advantages. Economic reforms and open door policies were implemented and many areas in the eastern region, notably Guangdong, Jiangsu, and Zhejiang, experienced rapid economic growth since the late 1970s. Such growth has certainly brought about many opportunities for migrants from other regions,67 including many of those who had moved reluctantly to the west and the center under state mobilization in previous decades.68 The reforms became immediately visible in the changing migration patterns. Figure 2 shows that most provinces in Eastern China had an in-migration rate considerably above the national average in the period 1985–2005. Shanghai and Beijing had an in-migration rate of more than 5 percent in 1985–1990 and 1990–1995, well above that of other provinces. Their in-migration rates then jumped to more than 13 percent in 1995–2000 and 2000–2005 along with that of Guangdong. Over time, Guangdong, Zhejiang, Tianjin, Fujian, and Jiangsu gradually joined Shanghai and Beijing as top destinations of in-migration. But this belt of high in-migration rates only includes the southern part of the eastern coastal region from Jiangsu to Guangdong, plus Beijing and Tianjin. Hainan, Liaoning, Shandong, and Hebei had low in-migration rates.

66 Cai & Wang 2003; Fan 2005; Shen 1999; 2006. 67 Yeung & Shen 2008. 68 Fan 2005; Shen & Wang 2004; Shen 2008. from mao to the present 357

20 18 16 14 12 10 8 6 4 2 0

China Hebei Beijing Tianjin Fujian Jiangsu Hainan Shanghai Zheijiang Liaoning Shandong Guangdong 1985–1990 1990–1995 1995–2000 2000–2005

Figure 2 In-migration rate in provincial units of the eastern region of China, 1985–2005 (%)

In the central part of China, on the other hand, almost all provinces had an in-migration rate below the national average in 1985–1990 except for Shanxi and Heilongjiang. This was also true for the western part of China, except Xin- jiang, Inner Mongolia, Qinghai, and Ningxia. If we leave out Xinjiang, in-migration rates in all provinces were below 2.6 percent in the period 1985–2005. As expected, most eastern provinces had an out-migration rate below the national average in the period 1985–2005. In the central region—Anhui, Jiangxi, Hunan, Hubei, and Henan—it was also below the national average in 1985– 1990 (Figure 3), but then increased steeply from around 1 percent to 4 percent, indicating that they had become major sources of migrants in China. On the other hand, Heilongjiang, Jilin, and Shanxi were too far away from the major economic growth centers, which reduced the volume of their out-migration. Some western provinces, such as Guizhou, Sichuan, and Guangxi (but not Yunnan), became an important source of migrants at the end of the twentieth century, similar to Anhui, Jiangxi, Hunan, and Hubei in the central region (Fig- ure 4). Others (Gansu, Inner Mongolia, Qinghai, Ningxia, and Xinjiang) saw their out-migration rates decrease as old migrants had moved out of these provinces in earlier periods. Overall, only some of the provinces in the central and western regions, including Anhui, Jiangxi, Hunan, Hubei, Henan, Guizhou, Sichuan, and Guangxi, profited from the growing economy in the coastal region by sending large numbers of migrants. Other provinces, including Heilongjiang, Jilin and Shanxi, Shaanxi, Gansu, Inner Mongolia, Qinghai, Yunnan, Ningxia, and Xin jiang, failed to establish such links. 358 shen

Jilin Anhui Jiangxi Hunan Hubei Henan China Shanxi

Heilongjiang 1985–1990 1990–1995 1995–2000 2000–2005

Figure 3 Out-migration rate in provincial units of the central region of China, 1985–2005 (%)

China Gansu unnan Hebei Guizhou Sichuan Guangxi Shaanxi Qinghai Y Ningxia

Inner Mongolia 1985–1990 1990–1995 1995–2000 2000–2005 Figure 4 Out-migration rate in provincial units of the western region of China, 1985–2005 (%) from mao to the present 359

7 Conclusion

During the second half of the twentieth century China experienced large-scale cross-cultural migrations which were caused by a combination of state and market forces. Using the CCMR model, explained in the introductory chapter of this volume, this contribution has tried to make a first preliminary reconstruction of the proposed six types of cross-cultural migration. As Adam McKeown has remarked in his chapter, the boundary between categories was not always clear-cut; think of soldiers becoming settlers in frontier areas. Nevertheless, the model by and large functioned well and based on the available data we conclude that between 1951 and 2000 almost 367 million Chinese experienced at least one cross-cultural migration in their lives, resulting in a migration rate of almost 46 percent.

Table 7 CCMs (in millions) and CCMRs in China, 1951–2000

1951–75 Rate (%) 1976–00 Rate (%) 1951–00 Rate (%)

To cities 54 200 254 To land 55 ? 55 Soldiers 20 30 50 Seasonal ? ? ? Immigration 1 1 2 Emigration 3 3 6 Total migrations 133 36 234 42.5 367 40.3 Average population69 738 1102 910 x Life expectancy70 55.9 69.0 57.0 Total migration rate 40.2 58.9 45.9

Source: paragraph 2 of this chapter. Note: The migration rates for the two subperiods (1951–1975 and 1976–2000) have been doubled because the standard period of 50 years has been halved.

69 Based on the NBS (2011d) where we took the first and last year of the period under research and divided the total by two. 70 Calculation based on the formula in Lucassen & Lucassen in this volume, taking the life expectancy in the first and last year of the period under research and divided the total by two. Life expectancy in 2000 from 2000 census and that in 1951 and 1975 from Hu & Zhang 1984: 128. 360 shen

The state had a considerable finger in the migration pie. It was of course responsible for the recruitment of some 50 million soldiers and organized, often forced, migrations from urban areas to sparsely populated frontier areas in the north and the west. But the state also initiated the ideologically driven organized expulsions of urbanites (including some 20 million peasants who previously moved into cities during the Great Leap Forward in the late 1950s) to the countryside, especially during the Cultural Revolution. After the death of Mao Zedong and the economic reforms of Deng Xiaoping in 1978, the state relaxed its control of migration, and—largely stimulated by the spectacular industrialization of the eastern region—unleashed an unpre cedented rural to urban migration of temporary migrants, who by 2010 constituted almost 20 percent of the total Chinese population. The succession of mass migrations ‘to land’ in the period 1950–1975 and ‘to cities’ thereafter can be considered as the master pattern of Chinese migrations in the second half of the twentieth century, in whose shadow the more conventional forms of immigration and emigration—at least numerically— shrink into insignificance. This transition from ‘land to city’ is well illustrated by Figure 5. Given the continuous increase of the floating population (221 million in 2010) it is expected that this transition will continue well into the twenty-first century.

100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1951–75 1976–00 Emigration Immigration To land To Cities Temporal multi-annual Figure 5 Shares of migration types for China, 1951-2000 from mao to the present 361

100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1601–50 1651–00 1701–50 1751–00 1801–50 1851–00 1901–50 1951–00 Emigration Immigration Colonization/To land To Cities Seasonal Temporal multi-annual

Figure 6 Shares of migration types for China, 1601–2000 Source: Lucassen & Lucassen 2011 and table 7 of this chapter. for the figures for 1901–1950 see lucassen & lucassen in this volume, the explanation of figure 7 and footnote 96.

When compared with the development of cross-cultural migrations in Europe and the estimates of Adam McKeown in this volume, one can conclude that the massive migration to cities in the last three decades resembles the urbanization process in Northwest Europe in the seventeenth century and that in Europe as a whole in the second half of the nineteenth century. The comparison with the developments in Europe, however, also highlights remarkable differences, which underline that China did not just follow West- ern master pattern. Not only is the share of migrations to cities (1980–2010) much higher than in Europe in the second half of the nineteenth century, but the Chinese pattern also diverges due to the lack of emigration to other parts of the world.71

71 See Figure 8 in Lucassen & Lucassen in this volume. Cross-Cultural Migrations in Japan in a Comparative Perspective, 1600–20001

Leo Lucassen, Osamu Saito, and Ryuto Shimada

1 Introduction

Similar to other parts of Asia, Japan plays a minor role in the historiography of global migration history. Only in the last decades have scholars become interested in the way Japan has dealt with the soaring immigration issue since the 1970s, culturally and economically.2 Some attention has also been given to Japanese emigrants in Hawaii, the west coast of the United States, and South America (especially Brazil), including the return migration of hundreds of thousands of nikkeijin to Japan since the 1980s. Furthermore the dramatic ‘repatriation’ of almost 93,000 ethnic zainichi Koreans to North Korea in the period 1959–1984 has drawn interest from historians and political scientists working on citizenship issues.3 Also relevant for our discussion on cross-cultural migrations are studies on the ethnic and cultural diversity of Japan itself and the nature of Japanese ethnocentrism,4 and on the emergence and decline of Japan’s formal and informal empire since the end of the nineteenth century (and the millions of Japanese involved in conquering, peopling, and guarding these new territories),5 resulting in the long run in the military presence of American soldiers since 1945, especially in Okinawa.6 Finally, our reconstruction builds on studies into state-led internal colonization projects, in the north (Hokkaidō) and the south (the Ryūkyū islands).7 Part of this historiography has fundamentally criticized the traditional (and Orientalist) idea of Japan as an isolated, culturally and ethnically homogeneous, entity on its own, and as a result the history of Japan since the early

1 We thank Ethan Mark, Kiri Paramore and Leonard Blussé for their useful comments on earlier versions. 2 Douglass & Roberts 2000a; Sellek 2001; Morris-Suzuki 2010. 3 Nowadays about 600,000 people of Korean descent live in Japan. Takaki 1988; Carvalho 2003; Masterson & Funada-Classen 2004; Tsuda 2005; Adachi 2006; Motomura 2006; Endoh 2009; and Morris-Suzuki 2007. 4 Lie 2001; Sharpe & Morris-Suzuki 2001; Batten 2003; Lee et al. 2006; Weiner & Chapman 2009; Chung 2010. 5 Weiner 1994; Watt 2009; Caprio 2009; Uchida 2011; Cohen 2012. 6 Höhn & Moon 2010; McLelland 2012. 7 Kerr 2000; Batten 2003; Walker 2006; Irish 2009; Frey 2007. See also Lie 2001: 90–101.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2014 | doi 10.1163/9789004271364_014 cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 363 modern period has increasingly drawn the attention of Western scholars working in the fields of migration, urbanization,8 state formation, and empire building. A logical step in this ‘normalization process’ is therefore to include Japan, as other Asian countries, in the booming field of global migration history.9 And this is what we will do in the following sections, which will map systematically cross-cultural migrations in, to, and from Japan in the period 1600–2000,10 thus providing the necessary building blocks for comparisons through time and space at a global level. By focusing on the six main types of cross-cultural migration in Japan since 1600 we will connect what until now have been rather isolated and often unconnected topics in the historical literature: migration, urbanization, economic history, imperialism, and military history. These provide the necessary data on the Japanese moving as soldiers and sailors, as colonists (within and outside Japan), as city dwellers, emigrants, return migrants, seasonal workers, and finally as immigrants from abroad. By reconstructing their mobility in the past four centuries we will provide benchmarks in the form of migration rates per fifty-year period, differentiated for the six main types of cross-cultural migration; benchmarks that can then be used to compare Japan with other parts of Asia and Europe.

2 Japanese Exceptionalism?

If we want to understand Japan’s long-term migration history we first of all need to address the issue of seclusion pertaining to the Tokugawa period (1603–1868) that has loomed so heavily in the historiography. Recent scholar- ship has shown extensively that isolationist tendencies were largely lacking in the medieval period, beginning with the establishment of the first warrior state, the Kamakura shogunate in the 1180s, followed by a transition in the 1330s which marked the start of two and a half centuries of internal warfare, until the commencement of Tokugawa rule at the beginning of the seventeenth century when the political situation stabilized. The constant fighting between warlords, the organization of which became increasingly complex and specialized, mobilized Japanese society, both socially and geographically. In that sense it resembled, albeit on a smaller scale, the constant fighting between

8 McClain, Merriman & Kaoru 1994; Van der Woude, De Vries & Hayami 1995. 9 Important examples being Hoerder 2002; McKeown 2004; Manning 2005 and Gabaccia & Hoerder 2011. 10 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009. 364 lucassen, saito and shimada

European states between the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries.11 This widespread social mobility accompanied economic changes such as monetization, the emergence of guilds and commercial institutions, and urbanization. The best example of the fundamental social effects of these changes on Japanese society is Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the second of three successive unifiers of the country in the civil war, who was born into a humble peasant family. Important for our topic is not only the effect of civil war on internal Japa- nese migrations (some claim that almost all men over the age of fifteen were recruited for battle in the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries),12 but also the degree of openness towards the outside world. (South) China, in particular, had a huge influence on the cosmopolitan form of Zen culture in Japan, which included artistic expressions, cuisine, and architecture as well as ideas, (medical) knowledge, and world views. Moreover, Japan became both the beginning and the end of a global trading network that linked North Africa and Europe to East Asia.13 This wave of globalization also brought the Japanese into direct contact with Portuguese traders and missionaries, who first appeared in 1543, followed by representatives of the Dutch East India Company (VOC) in 1609. By tapping into the existing Chinese maritime network, ports such as Hakata (close to Fukuoka in the west, both of which now form Fukuoka City) saw the arrival of foreign merchants and quickly developed into cosmopolitan communities, characterized by intermarriage and other forms of social interaction. When, at the end of the sixteenth century, Toyotomi Hideyoshi made domestic pacification his core political priority the constant fighting came to an, and his politics were successfully continued after his death in 1598 by his successor Tokugawa Ieyasu, the founder of the Tokugawa shogunate that lasted until 1868. Peasants had to hand in their weapons, and samurai warriors, who with their families constituted some 6–8 percent of the total population, were forced to leave their villages and settle in so-called castle towns. This meant not only a geographical, but also a socio-cultural transformation, which changed them from landowners into urban consumers. Although the Tokugawa shogun was an indirect ruler based in Edo (later Tōkyō),14 under whose rule each daimyo retained considerable autonomy in the economic and social management of the provinces, the central government of the shogunate brought about revolutionary changes which guaranteed a period of peace that lasted two and a half centuries.

11 Tilly 1990. 12 Berry 2012: 43. 13 Goble 2012. 14 McClain et al. 1994. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 365

3 Early Tokugawa Japan and the Age of Commerce, 1500–1635

Anthony Reid labeled the years between 1450 and 1680 as the ‘Age of Com- merce’ in Southeast Asia,15 and this characterization also holds true for East Asia. The China Sea bustled with vigorous international commercial activities. In addition to the regular maritime commerce based on the system of trib- utary trade, driven by the international political order of Ming China, wakō pirates became important traders in the sixteenth century.16 Initially, these pirates originated from Japan, but in the sixteenth century wakō pirates also welcomed Chinese and Koreans in their ranks. Somewhat similar to the sea nomads in Southeast Asia described in the chapter by Ota (this volume), they were in a sense borderless and stateless.17 Many of these pirates should be considered as cross-cultural migrants who fall in the category of temporary (less than one year) labor migrants, such as the Buginese in Ota’s chapter , who after their journeys returned to their pirate’s den. The majority of the Japanese among them came from the Kyūshū region, especially the current Nagasaki, Kumamoto, Kagoshima, and Fukuoka prefectures. Facing the China Sea they had several sea ports, but barely any fertile agricultural land. In 1592 Toyotomi Hideyoshi introduced the pass system of the go-shuin-sen (vermilion seal ship) trade, which was part of his program to centralize the Japanese state,18 and which should be seen as a symbolic message to its foreign traders, signaling that activities by wakō pirates were henceforth considered illegal. Moreover, with this trading system Hideyoshi hoped to profit directly from international trade. Provided with these passes, Japanese and foreign traders sailing to or from Japan were guaranteed the protection of the shogun in the ports in Southeast Asia, such as the booming port city of Hoi An in Cochin China, until the red (vermilion) seal ship system was discontinued by the Tokugawa regime in 1635.19 Until the 1630s thousands of Japanese must have left Japan at least temporarily as sailors and merchants, whereas some were expelled because they had converted to Christianity and others (especially young women) were taken as slaves by the Portuguese.20 It remains difficult, however, to quantify these emigrations. We have some information about Japanese settlers in a number

15 Reid 1988 and 1993a. 16 Matsuda 2012: 130ff. 17 Regarding the wakō pirate troops, see Murai 1993. 18 Iwao 1985: 49–50; Ishii 1998. 19 Iwao 1985: 50; Clulow 2013: 335–336. 20 Leupp 2003: 49–50. 366 lucassen, saito and shimada

Table 1 Estimates of Japanese settlers in Southeast Asia in the early seventeenth century

City Number of settlers

Manila 3,000 (1620s), 800 (1637), and some 70 in 1767 Ayutthaya 1,500 (Iwao 1966) or 800 (Wray 2005) Cambodia 350 Cochin China 300 Batavia 300–400 Total 5,150

Source: Iwao 1966: 331; Wray 2005: 87–88; see also Raben 1996. of port cities in Southeast Asia, where in the late sixteenth century Japanese quarters (nihon machi) were established, such as Cochin-China in present-day Vietnam (Bac-Bo), Ayutthaya in Siam (currently Thailand), and Manila.21 Japanese merchants also settled in other port cities, such as Hanoi in Vietnam, Patani and Ligor (Nakhon Si Thammarat) in Siam, Jambi on Suma- tra, Batavia (Jakarta) and Banten in Java, and Ambon in the Spice Islands. In the case of Batavia, the origins of some Japanese inhabitants—men as well as women—are known. The large majority (83 percent), in service of the VOC,22 came from the cities and towns such as Hirado, Nagasaki, and Tabira in the Nagasaki prefecture.23 For the moment we estimate that in the first half of the seventeenth century at least 10,000 Japanese, most of them from the Kyūshū island, settled abroad, albeit often temporarily.

4 The Age of Seclusion, 1635–1868

When the central government was re-established in the last decade of the sixteenth century, the central authorities began to control foreign trade as a source for revenues, but the Toyotomi regime as well as the early Tokugawa shogunate did not prevent the Japanese from going abroad in general. How- ever, in 1635 the Tokugawa shogunate government issued an act that prohibited Japanese people from leaving and barred overseas Japanese from returning.

21 Iwao 1966: 331. 22 Blussé 1986. 23 Iwao 1987: 310. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 367

Thus, those living abroad were left without any protection from the Japanese central government.24 Together with a set of other acts introduced in the 1630s and the 1640s to control foreign trade and migration, and a ban on Christi- anity (and Portuguese) in 1612, the country severely limited its contacts with the outside world.25 Nevertheless, the shogunate remained informed about what was happing in East and Southeast Asia, through regular contacts with sailors from Siam, Korea, China, Ryūkyū, and Ezo (present day Hokkaidō), while allowing limited trading contacts with the Dutch, from 1641 onwards in Dejima (Deshima island) in the bay of Nagasaki. Although this seclusion policy severely limited immigration and emigration, it did leave room for foreign traders at designated ports. The Japanese government gave permission for the conduct of business with Chinese junk (tōsen) traders and the VOC. Due to this selective policy foreign trade was concentrated in the so-called four gateways (yottsu no kuchi),26 which guaranteed a limited but continuous contact with the outside world. Within the four-gateway system the port of Nagasaki was used for trade with the Chinese and the Dutch. Different from the other three ports, Nagasaki was directly ruled by the shogunate who appointed the governor from his own vas- sals. Chinese junks were permitted to call at Nagasaki only since 1635.27 After the banning of the Portuguese in 1639, the VOC remained the only European merchants conducting business with Japan. Chinese merchants, until 1689, were free to reside in Nagasaki and enjoyed relatively few restrictions. More- over, the Chinese also handled Siamese ships and thus guaranteed ongoing trade with Siam.28 The island of Tsushima was a transit place for trade with the kingdom of Chosun Korea, but was also the only place from where Japa- nese could leave their country for shorter or longer periods. Tsushima sent out merchants to Busan (Pusan) in southern Korea, where they stayed regularly in a specific settlement in this port city. This quarter for Japanese traders was called wakan, which literally means Japanese buildings. It was established in order to severely restrict private contacts with Koreans and some five hundred people (all male) stayed in this special district in Busan.29 The third gateway was Satsuma in the south, the clearing house for trade with the Ryūkyū kingdom, which had good commercial links with China. Matsumae in the north

24 Wray 2005: 81. 25 Cassel 2012: 85. 26 Arano 1988: 6–8, 40–52. See also Ishii 1998. 27 Yamawaki, 1964: 8–11. 28 Wray 2005: 80–81. 29 Tashiro 2002: 151–152; see also Kang 1997: 147–148. 368 lucassen, saito and shimada on the island of Ezo (since 1868 Hokkaidō) had a similar function, where the Japanese interacted with the Ainu. These four ports were the only gateways to Japan until the mid-nineteenth century.

Urbanization For a long time, it was believed that the Japanese economy stagnated in the early modern period and that the majority of the population were confined to their villages. This notion of stability and immobility had been strongly accepted by Marxist historians of the Tokugawa period, who assumed that the economy relied heavily on the agricultural sector, which was burdened by high taxes on peasants.30 From the 1970s onwards, this image of inertia, which bears remarkable similarities to the interpretation of early modern France and Rus- sia until the 1960s, has been rejected.31 Similar to Northwest Europe, seventeenth-century Japan experienced considerable economic and societal change which led to a sustained increase in population (Figure 1) and also to rapid urbanization.32 As a result, Tokugawa Japan became one of the most urbanized societies in the world. At the end of the seventeenth century Edo was the largest of all world cities, while Osaka and Kyōto approached London and Paris in size.33 This seventeenth-century population increase has long been explained by the establishment of domestic peace as well as the extension of the acreage under cultivation. Indeed, the amount of farm land increased by 40 percent between 1600 and 1750, at about the same rate as the increase in population.34 Based on our knowledge of Europe,35 and given the scale on which land reclamation was undertaken, this could have involved tens of thousands of workers. Many of these must have come from outside the region, falling into our category of seasonal laborers, but this is a topic that requires more careful consideration and to which we will return in the second part of this chapter. If we include the Middle Ages, then the population growth becomes even more impressive, as the number of people in Japan increased fivefold, that is from 6 million in 1280 to 31 million in 1750 (compared with 5.9 to 6.2 million

30 Vlastos 1986: 34; for a critical discussion see Walthall 1991. 31 Already by Hanley & Yamamura in 1977; see further Hayami 2001a; Sorenson 2002; Berry 2006; and Howell 2012. 32 Davids & Lucassen 1995. 33 Nakai & McClain 1991: 519. 34 Sugiyama 2012: 69. 35 Lucassen 1987. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 369

140

120

100

0 1600 1650 1700 1750 1800 1850 1900 1950 2000 population Figure 1 Japanese population, 1600–2000 Source: Sekiyama, 1958: 112–113; Farris 2006: 261; Sugiyama 2012: 69; Saito forthcoming. in England and 72 to 270 million in China in the same period).36 Unlike Eng- land, both Japan and China were able to expand their arable acreage substantially, but with a factor of 2.4 in Japan which was not sufficient to match the population growth. Accordingly, many historians assume that in the long run it led to a deterioration of land productivity, so that population growth—following the Malthusian cycle—came to a standstill from the mid-eighteenth century onwards. However, the apparent decrease in the land to man ratio is due mainly to pre-1600 variations in the estimates, with wide margins of error.37 Moreover, the expansion of arable land was not towards the less fertile, mostly hilly, and marginal areas. The agrarian progress from late medieval to modern times took place in two stages. The first was more like the Dutch model of reclaiming coastal areas, marshes, and lowland river deltas. The driving force, however, was not always the daimyo and wealthy farmers with large-scale civil-engineering projects. Instead, from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries onwards, small peasant farmers were also active in converting those potentially fertile fields into wet paddies in a piecemeal, less costly, manner, as

36 Clark 2007: 267. However, one could see this process as Boserupian. See Boserup 1965. 37 According to recent estimates set out by Farris (2006: 212–3), population grew by 170% between 1280 and 1600 while the acreage increased only by 60%. 370 lucassen, saito and shimada we will see later.38 The second factor that increased productivity was investment in irrigation, tools, and fertilizers, from the eighteenth century onwards.39 Since population was more or less stagnant in this second stage, it meant a rise in productivity per unit of land. The post-1750 stage also saw the percentage of double-cropping increase with a greater supply to the market. As in Europe, net population growth was much larger in the countryside than in cities where death rates exceeded birth rates, which propelled hundreds of thousands of people into cities. Some argue that this rural to urban migration was stimulated by a change in the family system. Because of increased commercialization of the countryside, the traditional multi-unit farm household was replaced by a simpler family household, which might have facilitated the out-migration of country dwellers to the growing cities,40 a development we also witness in the economically most advanced regions of Europe such as the Dutch Republic and England.41 However, during the entire Tokugawa period it was the stem family that prevailed. What changed was the decrease in the size of the production unit: the traditional unit of production had often consisted of the master’s and subordinates’ families living together in the same compound, which eventually became identical to one stem family unit in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Under the stem family system only one son (or adopted son) stayed on, whereas other non-inheriting children had to leave the parental household before or soon after their marriage. These household formation rules must have had significant implications for labor-market and migration behavior.42 This brief sketch of the economic and demographic dynamics of early modern Japan is well summarized by Futoshi Kinoshita:43

1) Peasants were relatively mobile and sensitive to changes in non- agricultural wages. 2) Most peasant migrants moved to nearby towns, but some of the migrants travelled longer distances. 3) Due to the monetization of the economy and the rise of wage labor, (day and seasonal) workers and domestics became more mobile, independent and less subservient.

38 Saito 1998: 179–87. 39 Smith 1959: ch.7; McClain & Furushima 1991: 498; Nakai & McClain 1991: 538. 40 Nakai & McClain 1991: 539. 41 Lynch 2003 and De Moor & Van Zanden 2008. 42 Saito 1998, 2000, 2006, 2011. 43 Kinoshita 2000: 4–7. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 371

4) Large cities such as Edo, Osaka and Kyōto absorbed large numbers of immigrants. 5) As in Europe, until the mid-nineteenth century Japanese cities needed a continuous inflow of migrants just to sustain their size, because of the urban graveyard effect. Moreover, the average age at marriage in cities seems to have been comparatively high, which lowered fertility.44 Finally, unmarried young men and women left the village, and only a minority returned. In the case of Nishijō village, located in central Japan, less than thirty percent of people—predominantly men—returned, which is consistent with the rules of the stem family.45

Given the urban graveyard effect and the growth of cities, the number of country folk who flocked to the city must have been considerable. During the eighteenth century Edo had 1 million inhabitants and so did Osaka and Kyōto combined. In the case of Edo, at least 30 percent of the population were born elsewhere.46 If we apply this percentage to Osaka and Kyōto, approximately 400,000–600,000 people in the three metropolitan cities had their roots in the countryside.47

Proto-Industrialization By the end of the seventeenth century the urbanization wave was over. As a result cities stopped growing and even decreased in size, lowering the urbanization rate from about 15 percent in 1700 to 10 percent in the mid-nineteenth century, which decreased the total number of urbanites (people living in cities with over 10,000 inhabitants) from 3.5 to 3.3 million. Osaka, for example, grew from 279,000 to 501,000 between 1625 and 1743, after which a decline set in, leaving the city in 1862 with only 301,000 inhabitants.48 Much of this deurbanization was the result of a decrease in rural-to-urban migration and, to a lesser extent, of urbanites settling in the countryside,49 where a number of villages saw their population rise well into the nineteenth century.50

44 Nakai & McClain 1991: 592. 45 Hayami 2001a: 152. Hayami claims that more males returned but he left out returning females who married out soon after their return home. 46 Minami 1978: 14–26; Kinoshita 2000: 5. 47 There are differences between Osaka and Edo. From the mid eighteenth century to the mid nineteenth century Osaka’s population kept declining, whereas Edo’s population exhibited a slow recovery (Saito 2002: figure and table 5.1). 48 Hanley & Yamamura 1977: 106. 49 Rozman 1995: 66. 50 Smith 1988: ch.1. 372 lucassen, saito and shimada

These reversed mobility patterns were caused not so much by the premodern Malthusian restraints of economic growth; just as important was that cities became less attractive for merchants and artisans as commercial and production centers. Similar to Europe in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, rural industry emerged and offered opportunities of extra incomes for peasant families, who produced cotton and silk textiles for external markets. The center of gravity of manufacturing production thus moved to the countryside.51 This process of proto-industrialization could have stimulated people to migrate between villages, but since much of the rise in proto-industrial output was accounted for by the increase in farm family by-employments,52 we assume that proto-industrialization, as in Europe, put a brake on overall (cross-cultural) migration, retaining people in the countryside.53

Migration to Land As noted earlier, between 1600 and 1750 the total acreage of arable land increased by 40 percent. Much of land development in the Tokugawa period was carried out by daimyo administrations, shogunal intendants, wealthy farmers, and merchant contractors. Reclamation efforts made by rural samurai and intendants or village officials and wealthy peasants were generally on a smaller scale than government-led and merchant-funded works. In the former case labor was supplied by the settlers themselves, while in the latter case either corvée or hired labor was mobilized.54 The whole process during the period in question can be divided into two phases. In the seventeenth century, riverbed, bays, coastland, and marshes in alluvial plains were converted into paddy fields. If measured by acreage, the majority of these reclamation projects were carried out and funded by overlords, and each project required a huge amount of labor, whether corvée or hired. However, it should also be noted that from late medieval times, a number of smaller areas of land in the plains had been developed for rice cultivation by local farmers in ways that minimized the use of specialized navvies. For this, the adoption of an indica variety of rice, called Champa rice and introduced through Sung China, played a crucial role. The long-grain Champa variety, despite its unattractive taste for most Japanese, could withstand waterlogged conditions, which was a great advantage at that stage of agricultural evolution. Although the small-scale land

51 Hanley & Yamamura 1977: 103; Smith 1988: 24–28; Nakai & McClain 1991: 579; Wigen 1995: 95. 52 Saito 1983; Smith 1988: ch.3. 53 Moch 2003. 54 Kikuchi 1986. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 373 reclamation must have declined gradually in relative terms, as the civil engineering efforts by daimyo administrations or by merchant capital intensified, it is documented that even in 1725 21 percent of tax rice collected in the daimyo domain of Saga was still of the Champa type.55 Whatever the pattern of development, however, one common characteristic of the seventeenth-century phase was that reclamation often resulted in the formation of a new village. Indeed, 53 percent of the newly created villages date back to the period before the 1690s. Land reclamation in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries tended to target inland and sometimes drier areas, where new villages were rarely formed: only 11 percent were created in the 150-year period since the end of the seventeenth century, while the rest, 36 percent, were established in the last decades of Tokugawa rule.56 We know little about the origin of the settlers in the ‘new’ villages, but there are some pieces of evidence. The village of Ogawa shinden (literally, newly developed field), which is now one of Tōkyō’s suburban towns, was established in the late seventeenth century by the effort of a local notable. Its farmland was all cleared by the homesteaders themselves, who came from villages of the same province, especially from those located north of Ogawa shinden.57 Another seventeenth-century project in Yamadano, in the Ettchū province, created several new hamlets under the planning of Daimyo Maeda’s government. According to a selection report in 1673, 71 people were recruited at that stage: they came from 34 different villages, all in the same domain.58 A third example is a shinden village established in the river delta of the Osaka Bay area in the early eighteenth century with funds from Osaka’s wealthy merchant house of Kōnoike. Much of the village land was tilled by peasants living in other villages and their number seems to have reached 1,000. Most villages were nearby, with some three to five kilometers away, indicating that the peasants did not move at all.59 Finally, we are better informed about the origin of the incoming settlers of Tsukari, an area newly developed by the domainal government of Hiro- saki in the first decade of the eighteenth century. Of the 26 settlers in 1803, 12 were from within the domain and 14 from outside, presumably from Hirosaki’s adjacent domains in this northernmost region of Honshū.60

55 Saito 1988: 179–87. 56 Kikuchi 1986: 140–141. 57 Kimura 1964: 108–130; Robertson 1991: 81. 58 Kimura 1964: 172–175. 59 Kimura 1964: 158. 60 Ravina 1999: 144. 374 lucassen, saito and shimada

Some of the large-scale reclamation works were made possible by government-led public works of river dredging, diking, and even rechannel- ing operations in the area in question, which were sometimes carried out as daimyo-assisted public works (otetsudai-bushin). Because such otetsudai- bushin projects often mobilized peasants from the daimyo’s own domain (see Appendix A), some may have encountered a different culture and ecology. In fact, the above-mentioned Kōnoike shinden was a product of the 1704 rerouting of the Yamato River. The operation took eight months, during which period less than half of the length was completed (5.7 kilometers) by the shogunate itself and the rest (8.6 kilometers) by three small-sized daimyo in the Osaka area who were ordered to assist. Several samurai were probably sent from the domains as engineering specialists, but as far as peasant labor is concerned, these were most likely day laborers from in and around Osaka.61 It is, therefore, unlikely that the cross-cultural type of migration to land was significant in numerical terms.

5 Migration in the Period from 1868 to 1945

The restoration of imperial rule in Japan in 1868, known as the Meiji Resto- ration, influenced Japan’s cross-cultural migration patterns considerably. Not only did urbanization and emigration pick up again, but the imperialist policies also led to large-scale internal (Hokkaidō in the north and the Ryūkyū Islands in the south) and external colonization movements in Taiwan (1895–), Korea (1905–), and Manchuria (1931). Furthermore from the end of the nineteenth century millions of Japanese soldiers, who were the backbone of the rapid imperial expansion, were sent to China, Taiwan, Russia, and from 1931 onwards to Manchuria and a number of Asian destinations, paving the way for millions of Japanese settlers. These soldier and colonization migrations came to an abrupt halt with the defeat of Japan in 1945, and were immediately followed by an unprecedented return flow to Japan of almost 7 million people. Finally, the modernization drive in imperial Japan led to a new wave of urbanization that turned Japan—again—into one of the most urbanized countries in the world. Standard, myopic, migration studies, however, tend to deal only with a fraction of these massive population moves and are mostly limited to emigration outside of Asia, which fits the more general tendency to ignore internal Asian migrations.62 Before we offer the full picture of Japan’s cross-cultural

61 Yamano et al. 2008: 8. 62 McKeown 2004; Lucassen 2007. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 375

migrations, we briefly discuss the background to the political, economic, and social changes after the Meiji Restoration of 1868.

Forced Modernization After the forced opening up of Japan by Perry’s gunboat diplomacy in 1854, the new Meiji leaders decided that in order to avoid becoming dependent on foreign powers, as happened with China, the nation ought to become ‘rich’ and ‘strong’ by adopting Western technology and ideas. This decision had far- reaching consequences for cross-cultural migrations, as it stimulated migration to foreign countries and to cities. According to an 1879 regional census, 17 percent of males and 13 percent of females in the 15–24 age group seem to have experienced live-in service at least once in their lives, and there is evidence that since late Tokugawa times the market for rural-to-urban servant migrants developed rapidly.63 In other words, as in nineteenth-century Europe, long-standing traditions of internal migration in Japan, stimulated by forced modernization after 1868, greatly stimulated the decision to go and find (temporary) work in industrializing cities as well as abroad. The latter was stimulated by the policy of the Japanese state in 1885 to sponsor migration to Hawaii.64 Most of the migrants came from prefectures with maritime communities, such as Yamaguchi in the Chūgoku and Kumamoto in the Kyūshū region,65 whose emigration history dates back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, as we saw earlier in this chapter. As Table 2 shows, Kyūshū stands out as the most important emigration region in both relative and total numbers.66 In addition to the prefectures in the Kyūshū regions, the Hiroshima, Okinawa, and Yama- guchi prefectures also supplied significant numbers of emigrants.67 This is in sharp contrast to those in the eastern part of Japan. These state-sponsored labor migrants were preceded by a trickle of emigrants who had already left Japan as indentured workers in 1868, when 153 sailed for Hawaii with three-year contracts to work at sugar cane plantations.68 In the same years 40 people went to Guam and California each.69 This trickle

63 Saito 2009: 181–185; Saito 2010: 256–257. 64 Moriyama 1984: 258. 65 Nishikawa 2012: 148–149; Dusinberre 2012: 105. 66 Kaigai Ijū Jigyōdan 1952. 67 Formerly, Okinawa was an independent kingdom and it was called Ryūkyū. The kingdom of Ryūkyū was under the strong control of the domain of Satsuma between 1609 and the 1870s. In 1879 it was imbedded into Japan. 68 The Tokugawa authorities provided Japanese travelers with Japan’s passports since 1866. See Ishikawa 1969: 41. 69 Irie 1981: 9–10. 376 lucassen, saito and shimada

Table 2 The origins of state-sponsored emigrants from Japan by prefecture (1899–1941)

Kyūshū and Okinawa regions Chūgoku and Sikoku regions Kinki region Popula Popula % of % of % of tion in tion in Population Prefecture emi Prefecture emi Prefecture emi 1941 1941 in 1941 (000s) grants grants grants (000s) (000s)

Okinawa 12.81 564 Hiroshima 5.31 1.825 Wakayama 3.70 838 Kumamoto 5.16 1.321 Yamaguchi 3.56 1.269 Shiga 1.93 687 Fukuoka 1.69 3.030 Okayama 1.60 1.302 Hyōgo 0.26 3.187 Nagasaki 1.38 1.402 Kōchi 1.31 691 Ōsaka 0.17 4.662 Kagoshima 0.91 1.547 Ehime 0.75 1.158 Mie 0.51 1.173 Saga 1.36 690 Kagawa 0.61 709 Kyōto 0.11 1.696 Ōita 0.43 950 Tottori 0.89 472 Nara 0.20 601 Miyazaki 0.24 824 Shimane 0.38 718 Tokushima 0.22 699

Chūbu region Kantō region Tōhoku and Hokkaidō regions Popula Popula- % of % of % of tion in tion in Population Prefecture emi- Prefecture emi- Prefecture emi- 1941 1941 in 1941 (000s) grants grants grants (000s) (000s)

Niigata 0.78 2003 Tōkyō 0.12 7284 Fukushima 1.64 1584 Shizuoka 0.47 1976 Kanagawa 0.38 2191 Hokkaidō 0.70 3226 Aichi 0.25 3124 Gunma 0.19 1277 Miyagi 0.63 1240 Fukui 0.96 624 Ibaraki 0.15 1591 Yamagata 0.40 1086 Nagano 0.36 1652 Chiba 0.13 1557 Akita 0.31 1026 Yamanashi 0.73 624 Saitama 0.09 1581 Iwate 0.25 1075 Toyama 0.40 805 Tochigi 0.11 1181 Aomori 0.19 984 Gifu 0.24 1236 Ishikawa 0.28 737

Source: Kaigai Ijū Jigyōdan 1952; Sōmushō Tōkeikyoku 2006. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 377 of emigrants, organized by foreign merchants, was followed by a massive outflow in the 1880s when the Japanese government took over and in 1885 signed an agreement with Hawaii.70 Within a decade 26 ships carried 29,000 workers overseas.71 In addition to men, women also left Japan. Whereas men found jobs as manual laborers in agricultural and mining sectors, women in the late nineteenth century were mainly engaged in the service sector and in prostitution. These karayuki-san (girls who go abroad) settled in China, Siberia, Southeast Asia, North America, Australia, the Pacific islands, and Africa. Most of them came from maritime towns and villages in Shimabara in Nagasaki prefecture and in Amakusa in Kumamoto prefecture, both of which are located in Kyūshū.72 For a full understanding of migration during the Meiji period, we should not only concentrate on emigration, but also on the acceleration of rural-to- urban moves and large-scale movements of soldiers and colonists as agents of empire, starting at the end of the nineteenth century with the Sino-Japanese war of 1894–1895, followed by the ensuing occupation of Taiwan and ten years later by the war with Russia. Japan won both wars, thereby laying the foundation of its formal and informal empire in East and Southeast Asia, in which millions of soldiers and settlers would soon be involved.

6 The Postwar Period

After the loss of empire in 1945, colonization, immigration, and emigration dropped to an all- time low, except for the emigration of almost 200,000 Japa- nese to South and North America,73 and the establishment of American armed forces on bases in Okinawa and elsewhere. Most foreigners, especially Chi- nese, Taiwanese, and Koreans, left Japan and until the late 1970s immigration would remain at very modest levels. This is first of all explained by the massive return migration from the former empire and the relatively high participation of women in the labor market, which until the 1970s was higher than that of their European counterparts.74 Secondly, Japanese cities could draw on a considerable reservoir of agricultural labor.75 Finally, although the percentage decreased somewhat in the 1950s and 1960s, the proportion of employed

70 Irie 1981: 57–59. 71 Moriyama 1984: 248–249. 72 Shimizu 1997: 95–97. 73 Endoh 2009: 36. 74 Lie 2001: 9. 75 Douglass & Roberts 2000b: 6–7. 378 lucassen, saito and shimada

women older than 15 years (50 percent) remained much higher than in western Europe.76 In the 1970s the pool of rural workers had dried up, as only 1 percent of the population was still living in villages smaller than 5,000 inhabitants, and urbanization levels approached 75 percent. In the 1980s increasing labor scarcity and the rising value of the yen made it attractive for medium-sized manufacturing and construction industries to recruit foreign workers, especially return migrants from Latin America (nikkeijin) and Koreans, but also Japan’s domestic sex (‘entertainment’) industry drew tens of thousands of Asian women (especially Filipinos). In the 1990s it involved well over 50,000 annually and although they only received short-term visas, many overstayed and remained much longer. In the second half of the 1980s the domination of female immigrants declined, as men also entered the country for kitanai, kiken, and kitsui (dirty, dangerous, and difficult) jobs.77 Table 3 summarizes the main origins of Japan’s foreign residents in the past decades, including the nikkeijin from Latin America. Although the numbers increased rapidly, especially of those coming from China, the Philippines, and Brazil, the percentage of foreigners remains rather low in comparison with western Europe and North America. A most remarkable, dramatic, and tragic episode in Japan’s postwar migration history is the repatriation of 93,340 Koreans between 1959 and 1984 to North Korea. Initially many Koreans were glad to resettle in North Korea, although most of them originated from the South, because after the war Japan had made it perfectly clear that the so-called zainichi Koreans were unwanted. In 1952 they were stripped of their Japanese nationality and as foreigners they

Table 3 Registered foreign residents in Japan, 1985–2008 (000s)

Koreas China Philippines US Brazil Peru Other % of total population

1985 683 75 12 29 2 N/A 49 .7 1990 688 150 49 38 56 10 83 .9 1995 666 223 74 43 176 36 143 1.1 2000 635 335 144 45 234 46 225 1.3 2008 589 655 210 53 312 60 337 1.7

Source: Chung 2010: 5.

76 Brinton 1993: 27–29. 77 Douglass & Roberts 2000b: 7. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 379 lost most of their welfare benefits as well as the right to public housing. Nor did they have a right to re-entry if they left the country. Because of this deliber- ate policy of ‘Verelendung,’ and a much too rosy picture of life in North Korea, many zainichi Koreans at the end of the 1950s welcomed Japanese plans to repatriate them, although it soon became clear that for many their hopes for a good future were thwarted. North Korea appeared in a worse state than expected and many fell victim to persecution by the North Korean regime, which increasingly suspected them of capitalist leanings.78 At the present time about 600,000 zainichi Koreans are still residing in Japan.

7 Cross-Cultural Migrations 1600–2000

Following this brief sketch of the historical background, in the remainder of this chapter we will attempt to map the number of migrants by 50-year periods over the past four centuries, differentiated for the six major types of cross-cultural migration, applying the CCMR method as explained in the introductory chapter of this book.

Immigration As we have seen, until the twentieth century immigration to Japan was very limited. As a result of the expansion of Japan and the building of the informal and formal empire from the end of the nineteenth century onwards, however, a great demand developed for (unskilled) workers from the mainland, the majority coming from Korea. Weiner lists 1.8 million entries in the period 1917– 1935,79 and 724,000 in the years 1939–1945.80 Apart from this group, Chinese and Taiwanese immigrants also settled for varying periods in Japan. Cohen estimates that over 1 million “Taiwanese, Koreans and Chinese” left Japan after the war,81 whereas 2 million others seem to have stayed on.82 Other sources claim that of the 2 million Koreans in 1945, 1.6 million left within seven months and 600,000 stayed.83 A problem in assessing the total number of individual immigrants is the possible double-counting of those entering and leaving. Weiner also offers annual entries and returns of Koreans between 1917 and 1945,84

78 Morris-Sukuzi 2007: 11 and 67. By the end of 1960 almost 52,000 had left for North Korea. 79 Weiner 1994: 63 and 123. 80 Weiner 1994: 198. 81 Cohen 2012: 155. 82 Mori 1997: 3. 83 Weiner & Chapman 2009: 172. 84 Weiner 1994: 63, 123, 198. 380 lucassen, saito and shimada

Table 4 Immigration to Japan, 1851–2000 (000s)

Unspecified Koreans Chinese Taiwanese Rest Total

1851–00 2.4****** 10**** 12.4 1901–50 2* 150** 25 plus ? 2828 153.5**** 1951–00 34 (1965–73)***** + 3834 3300*** (1975–1996) + an estimate of 500 for 1997–2000

Note: * Weiner 1994: 198; ** Mori 1997: 34; and the numbers of various categories (students, merchants, workers) mentioned in Vasishth 1997: 125–130; *** Douglass and Roberts 2000b: 23. **** Vasishth 1997: 124– 125. We estimated a number of 5000 Taiwanese students in the period 1922–1942 with an average stay of four years. Finally, between 1938 and 1943 153,500 Taiwanese went to Japan for military service; ***** Mori 1997: 62; ****** Pletcher 2001: 163, footnote 15.

which—together with our own estimate of 300,000 for the missing years 1936– 1938—bring the total to over 2.8 million. On the other hand, sources list the number of Korean residents in Japan in 1945 as 2.1 million, which does not include those who had returned (or died) before 1945. Our estimate of 2.5 million is somewhere in the middle of these extremes. These Koreans are part of a predominantly Asian postwar immigration wave, including Chinese, Taiwanese, Iranians, Filipinos, Thai, and Malay,85 resulting in an Asian component of 75 percent, while the remaining quarter consists mainly of descendants of Japanese emigrants to Brazil.

Emigration Emigration on a large scale only took off in the Meiji period when labor migrants and settlers headed for Asian destinations and the Americas. Figure 2 shows the annual numbers of Japanese emigrants to foreign countries from 1881 to 1945. The annual number of emigrants increased steadily from almost zero in the 1880s to over 50,000 in the 1940s. The first two large peaks in Japa- nese emigration (1899 and 1906) were caused by the emigration boom after the Sino-Japanese war (1894–1895) and the Russo–Japanese war (1904–1905). The first boom ended with the American prohibition of Japanese immigration into Hawaii in 1900, whereas the end of the second peak was caused by the

85 Mori 1997: 71. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 381

60000

50000

40000

30000

20000

10000

0 1880 1890 1900 1910 1920 1930 1940 emigration from Japan

Figure 2 Annual number of Japanese emigrants to foreign countries, 1881–1945 Source: Ishikawa 1969: 40. Note: The data from the year 1932 includes the emigrants to Manchuria.

American and Canadian limitation of Japan’s immigration in 1908. The rise in emigration since the mid-1930s ended with the Pacific war in 1941.86 Figure 2, however, tells only part of the emigration story, because the conventional approach on which it is based tends to leave out Japanese migrants going to Asian destinations that came under Japanese influence from the end of the nineteenth century, such as Korea, Manchuria, Siberia, and Taiwan. For a total estimation of the number of Japanese who left Japan proper the settlers in these new formal and informal imperial spaces (from Taiwan to Korea) should be included. Although one could also characterize many of them as colonists (migration to land), we decided to define them as emigrants, due to the short-lived empire and the fact that many settled in cities. As Table 5 shows, the major destinations of Japanese emigrants—among whom a large share were women87—were Manchuria, Korea, China, and Taiwan. Only in the early twentieth century did the United States and Hawaii constitute the most important destinations, after which East Asian destinations and Brazil took over.88

86 Ishikawa 1969: 40–43. 87 Xu Lu 2013. 88 Myers & Peattie 1984; Duus 1995. 382 lucassen, saito and shimada

Table 5 Japanese emigration, 1880–1942

1880 1900 1914 1924 1934 1938 1942

Siberia – 2,621 4,563 3,297 2,492 56,821 Manchuria 166 3,243 51,385 93,223 243,868 874,838 China & Kwantung89 70,571 131,530 201,678 318,160 Taiwan 37,954 385,000 Korea 835 15,289 250,000 400,000 600,000 753,000 Hong Kong & Macau 1,555 1,649 1,478 British Malay 5,166 5,424 6,659 British India, Burma, 845 1,177 1,416 & Ceylon Dutch Indies 2,249 3,799 6,538 The Philippines 5,298 8,390 20,838 Australia, New 7 3,296 6,661 3,879 2,852 Zealand, & Pacific islands USA 23 32,493 80,773 131,357 146,708 Hawaii 57,486 90,808 123,036 150,832 British Canada 2,651 11, 959 19,160 21,062 Mexico 2,737 3,310 5,360 Peru 694 5,381 9,864 21,127 257,000 Brazil 9 15,462 41,774 173,500 Argentina 683 2,383 5,492 European countries 1,231 3,804 2,961 Japanese Pacific – 4,957 39,885 96,00090 islands South Sakhalin 398,838 Rest 1,384 2,598 3,582

Total 1,031 155,736 608,711 994,611 1,658,328 2,564,497

Source: Ishikawa 1972: 27–28; and (1880 and 1900) Duus 1995: 290 (based on Kenji 1978); Azuma 2011: 421–422; Duus 1995: 290; Goto 2007: 26; Uchida 2011: 65.

89 Kantōshū (Japan’s Kwantung leased territory in the southern part of the Liaodong peninsula). 90 Micronesia. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 383

Because for most destinations we have no good data that represent the total outflow (except for Latin America), we took 1942 as the base line, assuming that the number of Japanese living abroad in that year constituted the bare minimum for the first half of the twentieth century. In reality this number must have been higher, due to earlier return migrations, mortality, and permanent settlement. In Table 6 we have used the stock of emigrants in 1942 listed in Table 5 and added these with the stock in 1938 for those areas for which we have no 1942 data.

Table 6 Emigration from Japan, 1601–2000 (000s)9192

US & Canada South China Russia Korea Taiwan SEA Total Hawaii America

1601–50 2.5 10 12.5 1651–00 10 – 10 1701–50 10 10 1751–00 10 10 1801–50 10 10 1851–00 90 3 0.7 3 3 16 38 155 1901–41 298 21 607* 119391 45692 912** 385 139 4011 1951–00 87 79 93 259 (No)

Note: SEA= Southeast Asia, Oceania, and Micronesia. * numbers based on total outflow since 1900 ** stock in 1944 Sources: See Table 5; and furthermore Mori 1997: 33–34; Gotō 2007: 26; Carlvalho 2003; Endoh 2009: 18 and 36; Daniels 2006: 31; Van Sant 2000: 3; Azuma 2011: 421–422; Morris-Suzuki 2007: 20; and Uchida 2011: 65. For the early modern period see paragraphs 2–4 in Uchida 2011 The numbers for early modern Korea are a guestimate, based on the permanent colony of some 500 Japanese in Busan.

After the end of the Pacific war, millions of overseas Japanese, including soldiers and settlers in the empire, returned to Japan: 6,249,908 up to 1950. Among them, over a million and a half left China, a million Manchuria, some 900,000 South and North Korea, and almost half a million Taiwan, while another

91 Of whom 874,000 to Manchuria, 223,000 to Kwantung and 96,000 to China outside the Japanese sphere of influence (Azuma 2011: 421). 92 Of whom 399,000 to South Sakhalin and 57,000 to Siberia. 384 lucassen, saito and shimada

890,000 returned from countries in Southeast Asia.93 Among them were more than 3 million soldiers.94

Migration to Land In contrast to China and Russia, Japan seems to have abstained from large- scale colonization projects to its border territory until the late nineteenth century. With the Meiji transition, Hokkaidō in the north, populated by Ainu, became a particular target area for Japanese settlers, and to a lesser extent the Ryūkyū Islands in the south. The Ainu in particular were considered culturally and racially inferior to the dominant wajin group, and were confronted with forced assimilation.95 In total, organized colonization to Japan’s frontier regions brought some 1 million mainstream Japanese to the island in the second half of the nineteenth century, followed by another 2 million in the first half of the twentieth century. As a result, the native population was soon mar- ginalized (Table 7).

Table 7 The number of Ainu and Japanese colonists in Hokkaidō, 1807–1936

Ainu Japanese colonists Total Hokkaidō

1807 26,256 1821 23,536 1854 17,810 1873 16,272 94,924 111,196 1878 17,098 174,074 191,172 1883 17,232 235,720 252,952 1888 17,062 337,759 354,821 1893 17,280 542,679 559,959 1898 17,573 837,666 853,239 1903 17,783 1,059,497 1,077,280 1913 18,543 1,803,181 1,821,724 1923 15,272 2,401,056 2,416,328 1936 16,519 3,060,577 3,077,096

Source: Siddle 1996: 59; Frey 2007: 115, table 7; and Harrison 1953: 61.

93 Kōseishō Engokyoku 1963: 417. 94 Hikiage Engochō 1950: Cover figures. 95 For Hokkaidō see Siddle 1996: chapter 3. Lie (2001: 91) mentions that many of them became object of forced assimilation, relocation and transformed into farmers. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 385

In total, in the second half of the nineteenth century, 910,000 mainlanders settled in Hokkaidō.96 The native population of the Ryūkyū Islands met with a similar fate,97 receiving 93,000 Japanese settlers in the nineteenth century and another 1.6 million in the first half of the twentieth century.

Migration to Cities As we have seen, Japan has a long history of urbanization and urban areas in the seventeenth century in particular witnessed a population increase that was four times as high as in the surrounding countryside.98 This spectacular increase leveled off in the eighteenth century and even decreased between 1825 and 1875, with 3.67 million and 3.32 million people respectively in cities with more than 10,000 inhabitants. This deurbanization was partly caused by the decline of the so-called castle towns ( jōkamachi), which functioned as the domainal capitals under the decentralized Tokogawa regime.99 Of the 37 cities larger than 10,000, only 4 saw their populations expand. With the opening up of Japan in 1859 and the start of industrialization (especially in textiles), urbanization picked up again in the later decades of the nineteenth century. For the period 1600–1900 we applied the same method as has been applied to Europe. Given the fact that in Japan also, cities could not reproduce themselves, we estimated the volume of city ward migrants as the total increase of the urban population plus excess deaths.100 As cities became healthier in the twentieth century we estimate that two-thirds of the total increase in the urban population above 10,000 were accounted for by migrants in the first half of the century and 50 percent in the second half.101 In 1900 15 percent of the total Japanese population (44 million) lived in cities and in 1950 37.5 percent (83 million).102 This is an increase of 6.6 million urbanites to 31.1 million, resulting in an increase in the urban population of 24.5 million people. If we assume that two-thirds of this increase was caused by migration from the countryside, this would result in 16.3 million migrants.

96 On the basis of Frey (2007: 115, table 7) and Irish (2009: 141) we estimate that half a million arrived before 1900 and 1.4 million in the first half of the twentieth century. 97 Ishikida 2005: 20: The population of the Okinawa prefecture increased from 150,000 in 1881 to 396,000 in 1914, on average 9,000 per year. This would make a total of 186,000 for the period 1880–1900. If we assume that at least two thirds were migrants from mainland Japan we arrive at 124,000 colonists. 98 Rozman 1995: 63. 99 Rozman 1995: 64–66. 100 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009 and 2010. 101 Following White 1978. 102 84 million in 1950. 386 lucassen, saito and shimada

Table 8 Urbanization in Japan, 1550–2000

Year Population in cities Total urban population Total population (millions) >10,000 (%) (000s)

1550 1600 3****** 360 (estimate) 17 1650 13.4* 2410* 22.4 1700 15****** 4050 27 1750 11.2* 3460* 31 1800 11 (estimate) 3300 (estimate) 30 1825 11.7** 3670 31.4 1850 10.2* 3260* 32 1875 10.4** 1890 13.1*** 1900 +/- 15% 6600 (estimate) 44 1920 18.1**** 56 1950 37.5***** 31500 84 2000 78.5***** 99695 127

Source: * Saito 1984: 53–54; ** Rozman 1995: 65; *** Flath 2005: 39; **** Kuznets 1966: 272; ***** Ding & Zhao 2012: 908; ****** Berry 2006: 27–28. For the total population see Figure 1 (this chapter) and Tōkeikyoku 2006: 88–89.

However, in order to calculate the number of Japanese villagers who ended up in cities, we have to realize that part of the urban growth consisted of return migrants and immigrants from countries such as Korea (600,000),103 China, and Taiwan. By far the largest group were those who had left Japan as soldiers, emigrants, or colonists and who came back after the war. If we assume that half of the returnees had urban roots, this would mean that apart from the Koreans another 3 million have to be subtracted, resulting in 12.7 million net-migrants to cities. If we use the same method for the second half of the twentieth century (subtracting 4 million immigrants), then we arrive at the estimates given in Table 9.

103 Mori 1997: 3. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 387

Table 9 Rural to urban migrants in Japan, 1601–2000 (000s)

Urbanization Urban Plus urban graveyard Minus immigrants Total number (>10,000) (%) growth effect* and urban returnees of migrants

1601–50 8.2 2050 366 – 2416 1651–00 14.2 1640 807 – 2447 1701–50 13.1 –590 563 – 563 1751–00 11.1 –160 557 – 557 1801–50 10.6 –40 348 – 348 1851–00 11–15 3340 Multiplied by 0 – 3340 1901–50 15–37.5 24900 Multiplied by 2/3 = – 3600 13000 16600 1951–00 37.5–78.5 68195 Multiplied by 1/2 = – 4000 30000 34000

Source: see Table 9. Note: * 5 pro mille for the period 1600–1700; 3 pro mille for the period 1700–1800; 2 pro mille for the period 1800–1850; 0 pro mille for the period 1850–1900.

Temporal Multi-Annual In contrast with the late medieval period of warring states, and also with the outside world, the Tokugawa period was a two-century long peaceful inter- lude. This does not mean, however, that the samurai class did not travel. Under the so-called alternate-attendance system, every daimyo was obliged to move with his retinue every two years to Edo, the shogunal city. The journey from a small castle town to one of the largest cities in the world (1 million inhabitants) must have had a tremendous impact on these samurai migrants’ psychol- ogy, and thus should be considered cross-cultural migration. According to our estimates for the five 50-year periods from 1600 to 1850 (see Appendix A), on average 41,000 retainers may have accompanied their masters to Edo and back, with a peak of 92,000 in the second half of the seventeenth century. The pattern of soldier migration changed dramatically in the period 1850– 2000, starting with the Sino-Japanese war of 1894–1895, shortly followed by the Russo-Japanese war of 1904–1905, which heralded the ambition of building an Asian empire, and the Siberian intervention in the years 1918–1922.104 A major tipping point was the invasion of Manchuria in 1931 after the Mukden incident, which signaled the start of large-scale expansion in East and Southeast

104 Tsuzuki 2000; Dunscomb 2011. 388 lucassen, saito and shimada

Asia and ended with the defeat of imperial Japan in 1945. For much of the period after the war Japan’s Self-Defense Forces were not allowed to leave Japan,105 and only foreign occupation armies (mostly Americans) contributed to the numbers of soldiers as cross-cultural migrants in the second half of the twentieth century. The second important category of temporary multi-annual migrants were sailors. Unfortunately we know little about Japanese sailors venturing beyond Japanese waters. Before the ‘seclusion’ period, there must have been thousands,

Table 10 Soldiers as cross-cultural migrants in Japan, 1851–1950 (000s)

Soldiers

Sino-Japanese war 120 Occupation of Taiwan (1895) 37 Total 1850–1900 157 Manchuria 1904–1905 1100 plus 945 civilians Siberia 1918–1922 73 Manchuria 1918–1922 60 Manchuria 1931–1945 664 China 1127 SE and SW Asia 1084 Korea |(1905–1945) 336 Taiwan 232 Chishima and Karafuto 91 Total 1900–1950 5712 American soldiers 1400 Total 1950–2000 1400

Source: Ono 2007: 255; Young 1998: 89; Cohen 2012: 158; Watt 2009: 39; Höhn & Moon 2010: 9; Morris-Suzuki 2010: 125; Tsuzuki 2000: 206; Ishikida 2005: 20–21; Stolberg 2005: 1012.106 Note: Double-counts are possible in cases where soldiers have been deployed in more than one country in the period 1931–1945.

105 After 1992, however, the SDF have been engaged in international, non-combatant peace- keeping operations. 106 Until 1957 there were some 151,000 US soldiers in Japan, which was reduced in 1957 to 77,000 and then to 48,000 in 1960 and 35,000 in 2005. This would lead to a total of 2,8 million soldiers who stayed on average 2 years, leading to a total number of individual Ameri- can soldiers that spent time in Japan to 1.4 million. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 389 given the trading contacts of Japan with other countries, but—apart from the pirates mentioned earlier—numbers seem to have been very low,107 also for the modern period. Between 1870 and 1900 the tonnage of merchant marine ships increased from about 50,000 in 1870 to almost 600,000 in 1900, which would translate to some 8,000 sailors for the period 1870–1900, half of whom were involved in voyages abroad and the rest in coastal sailing.108 In the first half of the twentieth century Japan’s merchant marine expanded quickly to over 5 million tons, of which in 1939 some 1.7 million tons were engaged in foreign trade, which would translate to some 40,000 sailors.109 Finally we have subsumed 53,500 temporary construction workers in Jap- anese cities during the early seventeenth century in the category temporary multi-annual.110 In total this results in the numbers given in Table 11.

Table 11 Total number of temporal multi-annual migrants, 1601–2000 (000s)

Temporal building Temporal alternate Sailors Soldiers Total workers in cities attendance in Edo

1601–50 53.5 49 ? – 102.5 1651–00 ? 92 ? – 92 1701–50 41 ? – 41 1751–00 41 ? – 41 1801–50 41 ? – 41 1851–00 10 8 157 175 1901–50 – 40 5712 5752 1951–00 – 40* 1400 1440

Note: * Guestimate (to be substantiated by further literature search).

107 One of the few indications for the presence of Japanese sailors abroad are the 465 graves in Hong Kong, the oldest of which dates back to 1845 (Lim 2011: 522). 108 For tonnage see Maxey 1909: 69–71: for the productivity we took Sagers estimate for the North Atlantic (15 sailors per 1000 tonnage) (1989: 305). The division between coastal and foreign sailing is based on Trewartha 1960: 318. These numbers have then to be multiplied by four as we assume that the average career lasted 12,5 years (Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 63). 109 Averaging 300,000 ton in 1900 with 1.7 in 1939 (Trewartha 1960: 320) (both exclusively for foreign trade) and assuming that the productivity in the first half of the twentieth century increased to 10 sailors per 1000 tonnage and the average career lasting 12,5 years. 110 See Appendix A, part 2. 390 lucassen, saito and shimada

Seasonal Migration Few historians have ventured to estimate the quantitative significance of seasonal migration. The phenomenon has long been termed ‘dekasegi’ in Japa- nese, which literally means ‘going out to work for wages’, but with the intention to return home.’ The term is often regarded as synonymous with seasonal migration, but can also be used for any sojourner. For example, pre-Second World War female textile workers, most of whom were recruited from farming areas, and who normally returned home after two or three years, have been described as dekasegi.111 By the beginning of the twentieth century, seasonal migration of the household head to off-farm employment had been established as part of the annual cycle of the farm household, especially in single-crop regions. Although little is known about its historical origins, this pattern is believed to have emerged in the eighteenth and have become established during the nineteenth century. Fisheries (including whaling), construction, and sake or soy-sauce brewing were the major employers of those traditional seasonal workers. Although they were seasonally active, most of the workers in those trades were nonetheless regarded by their employers as a regular workforce. Industrialization changed this pattern. In particular, the textile industry emerged as an important employer of unmarried farm girls. Those mill girls’ out-migration was no longer seasonal because their contract was for a year or longer, but they too were considered dekasegi since the vast majority of them wanted to return home after the end of the contract period. Until the Second World War, most of these workers came from agricultural prefectures throughout Japan, but after the war the push areas became restricted to districts in the (north) east. In the western part of the country the pool of seasonal migrants had run dry by the 1950s. The destination of the dekasegi also changed. In the pre-Second World War period, even when the impact of industrialization was being felt, the migrants found employers in many regions across the country, from Hokkaidō to Kyūshū. After the war, however, the main target area was the industrial belt stretching from northern Kyūshū to the Osaka-Kobe area and then to the Tōkyō-Yokohama district. Dur- ing the post-Second World War period of strong growth (kōdo seichō), while the traditional employers of seasonal workers in fisheries and sake brewing declined in absolute terms, huge investments in heavy industry and chemi- cal plants as well as motorways and railways, including bullet train lines for the 1964 Olympic Games in Tōkyō, made the construction industry particularly dynamic as a sector, attracting a number of seasonal workers from the rural

111 Kanazaki 1967; Oshiro 1984. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 391 regions. Finally, the recession following the 1973 oil shock, together with the shrinking of the farm sector since the 1960s, led to a dramatic decline in seasonal labor migration from the countryside. Although there are usable government statistics, any effort to build consistent series of seasonal migrants has been plagued by the inconsistent definitions taken by government ministries. However, based on a close look at sectorial distributions of both pre- and postwar statistics, it is possible to provide a time series of the number of dekasegi workers between 1800 and 2000, which may be extended back to 1600 (details of our estimation along this line are set out in Appendix B). The results of our reconstruction are summarized in Table B.5: the total number of cross-cultural seasonal migrants increased over time—from 30,000 in the early seventeenth to 300,000 in the early nineteenth, then to 990,000 in the early twentieth, and finally reaching 1,750,000 in the late twentieth century. This final half-century saw both an unprecedented rise and a similarly unprecedented fall in the number of seasonal migrants. Much of the sharp increase in seasonal migration during the 1960s was accounted for by a series of construction booms associated with concurrent manufacturing growth. A similar building fever took place at the very beginning of Tokugawa rule, but the above estimate of 30,000 for the first half of the seventeenth century does not reflect the impact of that boom. It was triggered by the building of castles and associated town infrastructure by the first shogun and his successors. In particular, the construction of grand castles in Edo, Osaka, and Kyōto required a massive input of manpower, all supplied by daimyo administrations under the shogunate-ordered schemes of ‘service for the realm.’ As explained in Appendix A, these building activities must have mobilized an additional 53,500 seasonal migrants in the first half of the seventeenth century (Table A.3).

7 Conclusion

This preliminary overview of cross-cultural migration in, to, and from Japan between 1600 and 2000 produces a highly interesting picture. Total migration rates were relatively high in the seventeenth century, equaling those of Europe, especially in the first half of that century. 392 lucassen, saito and shimada

0 1601–50 1651–001701–50 1751–00 1801–50 1851–00 1901–50 1951–00 Emigration Immigration Colonization To Cities Seasonal Temporal multi-annual Figure 3 Cross-cultural migrations (CCMs) in Japan, 1601–2000 Source: Table 12.

Table 12 CCMs and CCMRs in Japan, 1601–2000 (000s)

Immi Emi Colo To cities TMA Seas** Total AP PALE CCMR CCM

1601–50 12 2416 102,5 90 2621 19.7 28.1 9.4

1651–00 10 2447 92 210 2909 24.7 35.3 8.2

1701–50 10 563 41 420 1034 28.5 40.7 2.5 1751–00 10 557 41 600 1208 30.5 43.6 2.8 1801–50 10 3 348 41 900 1302 31 44.3 2.9

1851–00 12 154 1003 3340 175 1280 5965 38 54.4 11

1901–50 2800 4186 1606 13000 5752 1980 29324 64 80 36.7 1951–00 3834 259 30000 1440 2625 38158 105.5 87.5 43.6

Note: Immi = Immigration; Emi = Emigration; Colo = Colonization; TMA = Temporary multi-annual; Seas = Seasonal; AP = Average Population; PALE = Population Averaged for Life Expectancy (See Table 5 in the Introduction of this volume). For the late Tokugawa period we follow Saito 1997: 137, 143. ** 1600–1900: estimates cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 393

Between 1700 and the mid-nineteenth century, however, the rates decreased significantly, which is explained partly by the fact that Japan waged no external wars (in contrast to most European states). Furthermore, it was only marginally involved in shipping, and therefore had very few sailors who crossed cultural boundaries, especially after the 1630s. Finally, as we have seen, urbanization came to a sudden halt. And although the country was bustling with movement, between villages and from cities to villages, this mobility falls outside the CCMR cross-cultural definition. Notwithstanding the low rates in the period 1600–1900, the developments in Japan bear more similarities with northwestern Europe than with the Chi- nese and Russian empires. Similar to the Netherlands, Japan experienced a process of slight de-urbanization and a rise of proto-industrialization in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, which in both countries slowed down migration and lowered the cross-cultural migration rate.112 Furthermore, as in Europe, until the mid-nineteenth century there was virtually no initiative to populate frontier areas. Instead, land reclamation prevailed, although in contrast to the Netherlands this consisted mainly of draining riverbeds, marshes, and coastal bays, which did not necessitate large-scale, long-distance movements of workers and settlers. Between roughly 1850 and 1950 in Europe and Japan this internal variant was replaced by external expansion which Rus- sia and China had already been practicing for centuries. Whereas Europeans left for American (and Oceanic) frontiers, Japan ‘discovered’ its northern and southern frontiers and soon thereafter started its own territorial expansion in East and Southeast Asia. It was only after the Second World War that Japan diverges from western Europe (and North America), by opting for the internal mobilization of labor instead of resorting to large-scale immigration. As Figure 4 shows, the absence of colonization-related migration in the early modern period highlights the differences between China and Japan. The low tide came to an end after 1850, when a dramatic reversal took place and the cross-cultural migration rate more than tripled in the first half of the twentieth century through the cumulative effects of war, colonization, emigration, and urbanization. After the Second World War it was predominantly the further acceleration of urbanization and industrialization that led to an all-time high of almost 44 percent, thereby for the first time surpassing Europe.

112 Lucassen & Lucassen 2010: 22. 394 lucassen, saito and shimada

100% 90% 80% 70% 60% 50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1601–50 1651–001701–50 1751–00 1801–50 1851–00 1901–50 1951–00 Emigration Immigration Colonization To Cities Seasonal Temporal multi-annual

Figure 4 Shares of migration types for Japan, 1601–2000 Source: Table 12.

Table 13 CCMRs (% of the population) and 50-year increase (%) in Europe (without Russia), China, Japan, and Russia, 1801–2000

Europe China Japan Russia

CCMR, including CCMR, excluding CCMR CCMR CCMR internal cityward internal cityward migrations migrations

1801–1850 16.1 16.1 3.6 2.9 15.4 1851–1900 24.8 24.8 8.1 11 27.7 1901–1950 61.7 47 24 36.7 74 1951–2000 41.6 29.1 45.9 43.6 63.8

Source: See Figure 6 of the Introduction by Lucassen and Lucassen (this volume). cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 395

More generally, the comparison between Europe, Russia, China, and Japan in the past 150 years shows an interesting sequence (Table 13). The peak time of cross-cultural migration started in Europe in the second half of the nineteenth century and reached its height in the ‘age of extremes.’ Japan displays a somewhat different picture, starting with very low rates in the early nineteenth century and then experiencing a similar jump in the first half of the twentieth, for partly the same reasons (mass warfare and ongoing urbanization). After the Second World War, Japan’s rates—in contrast to Europe—kept on rising, albeit at a much slower rate. China, finally, has the slowest growth of the three, catching up in the last three decades of the twentieth century (and continuing in the twenty-first century) with a spectacular increase in cross-cultural migrations, largely caused by massive internal migrations to cities. These estimates of the overall Japanese cross-cultural migration rates (CCMR) and their breakdown into the six types can serve as the starting point for further exploration. To what extent social, cultural, and political changes through time can be explained by the exposure to new ideas and cultures; and how the imperial expansion and shrinking, as well as emigration and return migration, and, last but not least, internal rural to urban migration in the past 150 years influenced social change in Japan are questions that we cannot answer in this chapter, but which hopefully will be addressed more systematically in the future. 396 lucassen, saito and shimada

Appendix A. Notes on the Estimation of Cross-Cultural Migrants under Two Systems Instituted by the Tokugawa Shogunate

Introduction Tokugawa Japan was organized on a status-specific notion of ‘one’s duty.’ Appropri- ate kinds of state service were thus imposed according to status—samurai with military service, peasants with tax payment, and so on. The so-called sankin kōtai system, under which every daimyo was required to make Edo, the shogunal city, his alternate- year residence, was considered a kind of military service. The procession to and from Edo was thus a military pageant, involving a large number of samurai and non-samurai retainers. The system remained effective until 1862, the late Tokugawa period. Another state service-related mobilization was organized for civil engineering works whose benefits and costs would go beyond daimyo boundaries. In such cases, the shogunate turned to selectively chosen, usually large daimyo for help by bringing manpower to the designated site of maintenance work. While the number of daimyos involved was low for each project, those mobilized by the domainal government must have received a kind of cross-cultural experience. This form of daimyo-assisted public works (otetsudai-bushin) characterized the shogunate’s policy in the eighteenth century, and was applied, for example, to the 1704 rerouting of the Yamato River of the Osaka plain and a similar but larger-scale project for the Nōbi plain from 1754 to 1755.113 Smaller daimyo were assigned river maintenance and recovery works within the province (called kuni- yaku-bushin) in the eighteenth century, but this does not seem to have had a major impact on migration as labor was recruited locally. These eighteenth-century policies were modifications of the scheme that had been used for massive construction projects in earlier periods.114 As soon as the House of Tokugawa came to power in 1603, the building of grand castles and associated town facilities started. In particular, when the building projects were carried out in the name of tenka-bushin (construction service for the realm) an individual daimyo was required to supply a team of workers—samurai-engineers with specialist knowledge, craftsmen with skills, and many peasants with corvée service—for the building of a designated castle and related civil engineering works, which resulted in a stream of cross-cultural migration. As for the estimation of cross-cultural migrants by period, alternate-year processions and the mobilization of workers for the building of castles are particularly important. So far, however, no systematic attempt has been made to estimate the number of people involved. Shogunal regulations determined the size of processions to and from Edo, and the supply of manpower for building works was dependent on the domain size. The former’s correlation with domain size seems to have been loose, because financially poor domains often cut back budgets for the alternate-year proces-

113 Totman 1993: 300; Kasaya 1993: 351ff. 114 Totman 1993: 300. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 397 sion. In the latter case, while the assignment of construction manpower was rigorously carried out, concession was sometimes granted on the value of domain size, on which the actual calculation was made. In both cases, the domain size was expressed in terms of kokudaka, that is aggregate koku (capacity measure) of the domain’s putative yield. Since the kokudaka data are available, estimates of cross-cultural migrants are possible if we can find relevant information about the actual procession size, and the number of daimyos involved for a specific construction project. Case studies can reveal to what extent corvée service was exchanged for the employment of day laborers by daimyo who, from the very beginning of Tokugawa rule, thus opted for market-based solutions.

Migrants to Edo under the Alternate Attendance System The alternate attendance requirement was instituted in 1635 but even before this law it had been an established custom, which lasted until 1862. First, we should realize that a number of samurai retainers never joined the journey to Edo. A case study of the Tosa domain makes clear that a small group of samurai families supplied only one member to the journey to Edo over generations,115 which implies that the vast majority were stuck in their provincial castle town and, in the case of a minority group, in Edo. Sec- ond, the group size of retainers who went to Edo with the lord could vary from period to period despite the regulation set out by the shogunate. In early years, it is likely that many took the opportunity to show off their wealth and power with a grandi- ose procession to Edo, employing a large number of non-samurai attendants, but with increasing financial difficulties, they must have cut down their numbers.116 Fortunately, Constantine Vaporis has collected various pieces of information on actual numbers of samurai retainers who joined the lord’s journey for selected domains in various periods.117 What a slightly revised and enlarged version of Vaporis’ list (altogether 68 entries with 3 for the period before 1635) shows is that even counting the actual numbers the correlation with the kokudaka size was close (r = 0.82). However, there was an unmistakable tendency to downsize the journey after about 1700. With these observations, a multiple regression analysis has been conducted with kokudaka being the predictor of the number of samurai and non-samurai members of the journey to and from Edo for an average-size daimyo, assuming that its coefficient varies from the pre-1700 to the post-1700 period (for details, see notes to Table A.1). As the table shows, the estimated numbers of retainers who traveled to and from Edo were not particularly high: even at the peak in the late seventeenth century the total of both samurai and commoner attendants numbered less than 100,000, representing just 5 percent of the samurai population. In the course of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, their numbers were more than halved.

115 Vaporis 2008: ch.4. 116 Maruyama 2007. 117 Vaporis 2008: table 3.1. 398 lucassen, saito and shimada

Table A.1 Estimates of the annual average of alternate-attendance travellers by period (000s)

Early seventeenth 49 Late eighteenth 41 Late seventeenth 92 Early nineteenth 41 Early eighteenth 41 Late nineteenth 10

Source: Vaporis 2008: table 3.1. One entry for Ushiku domain is corrected after checking the original reference. Six more entries for Tosa domain are added from table 2.1 of Vaporis 2008, while a total of seven (for five domains) are taken from other sources (Maruyama 2007: 129–130, and Ueda 2011). Note: 1) The specification used for estimation of the number of samurai and non-samurai attendants who accompanied the lord’s alternate-year journey is: S = αZ + β (D×Z), where S denotes the number of those samurai and non-samurai travelers, Z the daimyo’s kokudaka (in thousands), and D a dummy variable which takes 1 if the journey took place in the seventeenth century and 0 otherwise (note that there is no intercept). The OLS regression results are: S = 2.22 Z + 2.83 (D × Z), (10.02) (5.62) The values in parentheses are t-ratios while R2 (adjusted) is 0.755 with 68 observations. 2) The above results are for an average daimyo. A complete list of daimyos compiled for the year 1821 gives 263 as the total number of daimyo domains existing in that year and 18,312,000 koku as the aggregate kokudaka of 263 daimyo domains (Chihōshi Kenkyū Kyōgikai 1985: 197–201). By using these figures, we can arrive at the total number of samurai and non-samurai attendants who accompanied their lords to and from Edo for an ‘alternate attendance’ year in a given half- century, before and after 1700. 3) For the pre-1635 period, however, not every daimyo made an alternate attendance in Edo. In my sample, the appearance rate was 3 in one decade for the years after 1635, while the rate was 1 for the pre-1635 years. I therefore used 0.333 to calculate a weighted average for the entire 1600–1649 period. As for the post-abolishment period, all the years after 1862 were given 0 to calculate the 1850–1899 average. 4) Half-century totals are calculated by multiplying 25 as it was an alternate-year journey.

Mobilized Workers Who Traveled from Daimyo Domains to Metropolitan Cities Under the ‘Service for the Realm’ Schemes In the first half of the seventeenth century Japan experienced a building boom, which in fact was a continuation from the 1580s, the period in which Tokugawa’s predecessor, Taikō (Toyotomi) Hideyoshi, had lavishly financed the construction and restoration of donjons and temples in Kyoto and surrounding areas. After 1603, however, Shogun Ieyasu and his successor started to build even more castles and associated town infrastructures. The early modern castles and their adjacent town areas were generally much larger in size than their medieval counterparts as the location had shifted down from hills to lowland plains. Of all civil engineering works conducted in this period, the construction of grand castles in Edo, Osaka, and Kyoto was particularly labor intensive. Those construction projects were all carried out by manpower mobilized by daimyo administrations under the schemes of ‘service for the realm,’ suggesting that many, if not all, of the workers mobilized had to travel to a remote urban site of construction and stay there for a while, so that we should include them in our category of cross- cultural migration. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 399

The early seventeenth-century building boom consisted of two separate waves. The first—disrupted by the Siege of Osaka, a series of battles in 1614–1615—was generated not just by the construction of the shogunal city of Edo, but also by various smaller- scale castle town projects for relations of the Tokugawa family. The second wave, on the other hand, was created by the virtually simultaneous construction of the castles of Edo, Osaka. and Kyōto’s Nijō. Table A.2 lists phase-specific construction works of individual castles and the number of daimyos involved in each project. As for the size of a workforce, there are two different kinds of information available. One is a computation basis introduced by the shogunate for mobilization as early as 1603, when the first civil engineering work for Edo was assigned to 66 daimyos (see Table A.2). According to Tokugawa jikki, the official chronicle of the shogunate, the mobilization was conducted on a basis of ‘one worker per thousand koku.’118 This means that when, for example, a daimyo with 100,000 koku was ordered to supply labor for the shogunate’s project, he had to send 100 men to the construction site, a principle which remained in force throughout the early seventeenth-century construction boom. The other is a couple of figures suggested for two individual domainal cases. In 1620, Daimyo Date of Sendai is estimated to have employed as many as 423,000 workers for their assigned task in Edo,119 while the number suggested by Osamu Wakita for Daimyo Kuroda of Fukuoka is 349,000 for the same year’s Osaka castle construction work.120 A close look at the way in which the calculation was made by Wakita reveals that these figures are estimates calculated on a person-day basis by using wage quotations and the domainal government’s expenditure data. Accepting Wakita’s guesstimate that the average number of days actually worked by the employed was 200 per year, and given the size of the two daimyos’ domains as being 625,000 and 523,000 koku respectively, both figures imply that on average 3.35 person-days per 1,000 koku were employed. This calculation is, on the face of it, at odds with the computation standard the shogunate imposed. However, what Wakita’s case study of Kuroda domain tells us is that while a daimyo did send a team of his retainers and peasants in accordance with the ‘one per thousand koku’ principle, he often substituted troops of urban casual laborers employed on the spot for his provincial team.121 Suppose that his men sent to Edo had to make two or three journeys to work for the Osaka project in 1620–1629. The administration’s calculation could have been that, given the expensive costs of travel between the provincial town and Osaka, the employment of workers from the city’s labor market would have paid off, even if three times more workers had to be employed on a daily basis.

118 Kuroita 1929: 76. 119 Oishi 2002: 103–104. 120 Wakita 1991: 11. 121 Wakita 1994: 236. 400 lucassen, saito and shimada

Table A.2 Castle town projects carried out under the ‘service for the realm’ schemes, 1601–1636

Castle (province/city) Year/period No of daimyos involved

First wave Zeze (Ōmi) 1601 1+ Nijō (Kyōto) 1601–06 1+ Fushimi (Yamashiro) 1601–06 3+ Kano (Mino) 1602–05 1+ Edo 1603 66 1604 28 1606 20 1611–12 n.a. 1614 34 Hikone (Ōmi) 1606 36 (including bannermen) Nagahama (Wakasa) 1608 n.a. Sunpu (Suruga) 1609 8+ Sasayama (Tanba) 1609 8 Kameyama (Tanba) 1610 7 Nagoya (Owari) 1610–12 46 (including bannermen) Takada (Echigo) 1614 11+ Second wave Edo 1618 n.a. 1620 7 1622 3+ 1628–29 108 1636 105 Osaka 1620–29 77 Nijō (Kyōto) 1624 19

Source: Shiramine 1998: chs. 1–2, with additional information from Ban 1974: 151–153, and Kitahara 1999: 51. Note: ‘1+’ indicates that the number of daimyos who mobilized manpower must have been several or more, but only one daimyo’s name is known, and ‘n.a.’ stands for ‘not available.’

Presumably, all the daimyos called upon combined the first with the second option. Given the paucity of data, however, it is unlikely for us to be able to find any clue concerning which market solution they opted for. We therefore simply assume that they divided their budgets equally between the two options. We will thus make two hypothetical estimates: the first based entirely on the ‘one per thousand koku’ principle cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 401 and the second entirely on the market solution. Then, each estimate will be given the weight of 0.5. There is one problem with the former calculation, however. While the official fief size is generally an effective guide for this kind of estimation, it should be noted that the shogunate occasionally allowed a daimyo to use a reduced level of kokudaka as the basis for actual mobilization, especially when the daimyo was engaged in another type of service ‘for the realm.’122 Fortunately there are cases for which information is available concerning the aggregated kokudaka figures on which labor mobilization in specific phases of the second wave was based (see Table A.3). The assumptions for our estimates are: first, the highest (0.89) of all reduction ratios of the two kokudaka figures is applied to the 1636 Edo case (10,318×0.89 = c.9,200), because the other two castle projects had already been completed by the end of the 1620s, so that daimyos who served with reduced kokudaka must have been fewer. Secondly, it is arbitrarily assumed that only 20 daimyos were mobilized for Edo between 1618 and 1620 since the works in 1618–1620 seem to have been of a substantially smaller scale than in 1628–1629 and 1636. Thirdly, to arrive at the total reduced kokudaka for the entire second-wave period, the phase-specific numbers of daimyos involved are used: (6,658+9,200+6,6 88+5,048+4,026+2,250) / [(415–20)/415] = c.36,000. In other words, 36 million koku is the estimated total for the second wave. Finally, judging again from the numbers of daimyos involved in the first and second waves (see Table A.2), it is assumed that the size of mobilization was two-thirds of the second wave. This results in 24 million, with the sum of the aggregate reduced kokudaka on which mobilization was made during the entire period amounting to 60 million koku. By applying the ‘one per thousand koku’ principle to this kokudaka figure, we arrive at 60,000 person-years as the total number of those who could have traveled from the provincial town or village to the metropolitan city, whether Edo, Osaka, or Kyōto; alter- natively, the figure might have been as large as 201,000 person-years (= 60,000 × 3.35) if all were employed through market agents. Both are hypothetical estimates, and our guess is in the middle of these two extremes: that the actual number of people mobilized from native places may have been just half the estimate of 60,000, while the rest, again half of the 201,000, were probably recruited at urban labor markets. The former figure of 30,000 may well be regarded as ‘cross-cultural’ migrants who traveled all the way to the metropolitan construction site and then went back home. However, it is not so straightforward for the latter. In this regard, it is interesting to note that Wakita has ventured to speculate about his findings from Daimyo Kuroda’s 1620 mobilization. It is hinted that in the Osaka area at that time there must have existed tens of thousands of day laborers readily available for all kinds of building work, and also that the origin of such a labor pool could probably be traced back to the 1580s:

122 Matsuo 1986. 402 lucassen, saito and shimada

Table A.3 Phase-specific kokudaka information for daimyo involved in the second wave of castle construction, 1618–1636

Castle Year No. of Total kokudaka Total kokudaka Reduction ratio daimyos of fiefs involved based on which involved (000s) labor was mobilized (000s)

(a) (b) (c) (c)/(b) Edo 1618–20 c.20 n.a. n.a. n.a. 1628–29 108 9,149 6,658 0.73 1636 105 10,318 c.9,200 0.89 Osaka 1620 47 7,850 6,688 0.85 1624 59 7,199 5,048 0.70 1628–29 57 6,658 4,026 0.60 Nijō 1624 19 2,533 2,250 0.89 Total 415 c.36,000

Source: Kitahara 1999: 51, 53, 63; Wakita 1994: 228. Italicized figures are our estimates (see text). Note: The sum (163) of the three Osaka figures in column (a) exceeds the figure (77) for Osaka 1620–29 in Table A.2, suggesting that many daimyos were called upon twice or more.

during the Hideyoshi era (1580–1600) the urban population of the Osaka–Kyōto region is believed to have increased strongly.123 As far as the Osaka and Nijō castle projects are concerned, therefore, it is not unlikely that all those employed were supplied from the urban sector. However, the situation in Edo may well have been different. Effectively it was a man-made city: before the coming of the Tokugawa shogunate, it was just a small town with a fortress. The start of town building in 1603, therefore, must have attracted a lot of people, not only from surrounding villages but also from far away. This created a large urban labor market for the first time in the region, although once started, Edo’s labor pool too must have eventually reproduced itself. A majority of those rural-born workers stayed on: they formed a family there and worked for wages to make a living,124 which must have been a contributory factor to city growth in the seventeenth century. Indeed, it is noted that Edo’s commoner population increased from 280,000 in 1657 to 354,000 in 1694.125 Again, the lack of sources for early years prevents us from making an

123 Wakita 1994: 248–250. 124 Oishi 2002: 104. 125 Oishi 2002: 149. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 403 evidence-based estimation. The bold assumption we have adopted is that two-thirds of the total demand of 100,500 person-years were filled by laborers from the existing urban pool, while the rest—33,500 jobs—went to those coming to the urban labor market for the first time. Since the measure here is defined for a person who made at least one cross-cultural move in his or her lifetime, we make a similar assumption for the former estimate of 30,000: one-third were those who were called in for construction work twice, which gives us 20,000 as mobilized cross-cultural migrants. Thus, 53,500 (= 20,000+33,500) is the total of those who are believed to have experienced at least one cross-cultural move in relation to the castle-building projects of the early seventeenth century. They were outnumbered by samurai and non-samurai travelers who accompanied their lords to Edo under the ‘alternate attendance’ system (cf. Table A.1). We have subsumed both the migrants under the attendance system and the building workers under the heading of Temporal Multi-Annual, arguing that the building workers we have discussed here were predominantly recruited in periods of building booms, who after the completion of the works would move to another large project. This distinguishes them from building workers who lived more permanently in cities (and who are counted as ‘To Cities’ migrants) and who were mainly engaged in maintenance and smaller building projects. 404 lucassen, saito and shimada

Appendix B. Estimation of Seasonal Migrants, 1600–2000

One form of migration has long been described as ‘dekasegi’ in Japanese, which literally means going out to work for wages but in practice implies doing so with the intention of returning home. The term is often regarded as synonymous with seasonal migration, but can also be used for any fixed-term migrants ‘with the intention of returning home.’ For example, pre-Second World War female textile workers, most of whom were recruited in farming areas and who normally returned home after two or three years, have been described as dekasegi. Even government statistics in both pre- and postwar years adopted this notion as a particular topic of surveys. The interwar data are available as the biannual counts of dekasegi workers made by employment offices under the Home Ministry, while the postwar Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries published annually their counts of seasonal migrants in the name of dekasegi workers. Both provide us with the numbers of those who were away from home as dekasegi workers, but the definitions do not agree. The postwar statistics focused on those who left a place of residence for a period of between one and six months (later extended to the one- to twelve-month period), while the pre-war definition seems to have included all fixed-term labor migrants ‘with the intention of returning home.’ So far, earlier studies are based largely on the two different kinds of government statistics. Useful as findings from analyses of these sources are, no attempt has been made to link the interwar statistical series to the postwar data. Tables B.1 and B.2 summarize the information available from these government statistics. There are two problems, however. One is the change in definition in the 1970s and the other a gap in the aggregate level of seasonal migrants between the interwar and post-Second World War statistics. The former can easily be solved by applying a ratio derived from the two figures for 1972, and the results of this method are shown in italic in the table. On the other hand, the second is a serious problem since, while the definition adopted for postwar statistics is precise, the interwar series covers not only seasonal but all dekasegi migrants regardless of the contract period. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 405

Table B.1 Interwar dekasegi migrants: Home Ministry data, 1928–1936 (000s)

Year Intra-prefectural migration excluded

1928 906 1930 773 1932 906 1934 1,010 1936 1,230

Source: Nishikawa 1981: 343; Kanazaki 1967: 38.

Table B.2 Postwar seasonal migrants: Ministry of Agriculture data, 1958–1980 (000s)

Year Away for 1–6 months Year Away for 1–6 months Away for 1–12 months

1950 104.5 1969 275.2 1958 194.6 1970 291.5 1959 182.1 1971 266.5 1960 174.8 1972 266.2 341.9 1961 190.1 1973 233.9 300.4 1962 206.0 1974 195.6 251.2 1963 198.1 1975 148.2 190.4 1964 286.6 1976 139.4 179.0 1965 230.2 1977 122.9 157.9 1966 235.3 1978 115.5 148.3 1967 218.7 1979 103.8 133.3 1968 235.9 1980 103.7 133.2

Source: 1950 from Kayo 1958: 167; 1958–1980 from Nōrinsuisan-shō 1982: 232, 332–333. Since the 1950 one was a 5 percent sample survey, the figure shown above is derived by increasing the number in the survey report by twenty.

Table B.3 Dekasegi migrants by sector they worked for: 1928/34 and 1958/60 (000s)

Total Breakdown by sector Primary sector Construction Food and drinks Other

1928/34 899 140 56 703 1958/60 184 53 61 30 39

Source: Kanazaki 1967: 38; Nōrinsuisan-shō 1982: 332–333. 406 lucassen, saito and shimada

Table B.3 looks for a clue to solve this problem. It is likely that the average deka segi period must have varied considerably across the industry where migrants were employed. Keeping this in mind, the table compares three sectors: primary-sector employment, construction and other non-agricultural employments during the interwar period, and the earliest three entries of the postwar series. It is clear that while the number of migrant workers in construction remained more or less at the same level between the two periods in question, there were substantial differences in other sectors. It is likely that living-in farm servants on yearly contracts were included in primary-sector employment and similarly factory girls in the ‘other’ category of the interwar series. In order to link the two separate statistics, therefore, it is assumed that the construction series can be linked without adjustment, while a ratio method may be applied to the primary and other sectors in the interwar series, with ratios derived from the 1958/60 statistics.

Table B.4 Estimated seasonal migrants for benchmark years and sub-periods, 1825–2000 (000s)

Year(s) Annual average Note (000s)

1825 92 Extrapolated with trend 1872–1920 1860 117 As above 1872 128 Linked to the workforce 1880 131 As above 1890 138 As above 1900 146 As above 1910 153 As above 1920 162 As above c.1930 193 Average of 1928, 30, 32, 34, and 36 in Table B.3 1950 104 Table B.3 1950s 184 Average of 1958, 59, and 60 in Table B.3 1961–73 241 Average of annual figures from 1961 to 1973 in Table B.3 1974–80 133 Average of annual figures from 1974 to 1980 in Table B.3 1985 73 Extrapolated with trend in migrant-farm population ratio 1990 48 As above 1995 26 As above 2000 17 As above

Source and methods: See text. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 407

Table B.5 Seasonal migrants by half-century, 1601–2000 (000s)

Weighed Unweighed Weighed Unweighed cross-cultural cross-cultural cross-cultural cross-cultural

1601–50 30 90 1801–50 300 900 1651–00 70 210 1851–00 640 1280 1701–50 140 420 1901–50 990 1980 1751–00 200 600 1951–00 1750 2625

Source: Table B.4. See also text for assumptions.

Table B.4 sets out the results of this exercise, with estimated annual averages for benchmark years and sub-periods. Extrapolation is then made in both directions. First, based on the observation that the ratio of dekasegi migrants to the workforce size, the 1928–1936 series, is extended back to 1872 in relation to the changing size of the workforce.126 Second, with the time trend from 1872 to 1920, this is further extrapolated to 1960 and also to 1825, the mid-point of the first half of the nineteenth century. Finally, the 1974–1980 series is projected to 2000 by using in this case the ratio of seasonal migrants to the farm population.127 The table shows a steady increase from the nineteenth century to the 1930s, which was abruptly terminated by the war. Postwar development started from a much reduced level, a reflection of the devastating effect of war damages on economic activity, but the numbers accelerated when the economy started growing unprecedentedly during the 1960s and 1970s, reaching a level well over 2,000,000. However, this came to an end in the late 1970s. The decline since then has been rapid, bringing the overall average down to a level below 20,000. As for the earlier centuries, there is no numerical evidence. We are thus forced to assume that the average for the late eighteenth century was two-thirds of that of the previous half-century, while that of the early eighteenth was two-thirds of the previous half-century, and that the ratio to be used for the seventeenth century is one-half. In order to convert the estimated annual averages into sums over fifty-year periods, two factors should be taken into consideration. One is the probability of the same migrant appearing in successive benchmark-year estimates, and the other the percentage cross-cultural of the total number of seasonal migrants. First, as noted earlier,

126 The observation was originally made in Nishikawa 1981: 343–344. The workforce data are from Ohkawa & Shinohara 1979: 392. 127 The farm population by a broader definition. Data are from Nōrinsuisan-shō 1982: 250, 308. 408 lucassen, saito and shimada many seasonal migrants working away from home in a given year are likely to have done so for a substantially long period. Senior workers in traditional sake or soy-sauce breweries, for example, may well have worked for the same employer for more than twenty years, but on the other hand, unskilled workers’ experience must have been shorter. Even for the post-Second World War period, there is evidence that many farmers continued migrating seasonally. According to Kenji Oshiro’s analysis of migrants’ age distribution, the dominant age group shifted from 35–39 to 40–49 and 50–59 during the 1960s and 1970s, but in 1982 when he interviewed farmers who had engaged in seasonal migration for more than ten years, they were inclined to retire.128 This suggests that until the late 1970s job continuation had been the norm for some cohorts of the seasonally migratory rural population. Unfortunately, however, there is no other hint in the statistics or literary sources as to a possible average level of job continuation for the entire population. As job mobility tended to increase and the generational interval shortened, it is assumed that until the late nineteenth century the average length of job continuation had been 10 years, which decreased to 7.5 years in the first half of the twentieth century, then to 5 years in the second half of the same century. Second, it should be remembered that not all experiences of seasonal migration were cross-cultural. The traditional pattern was a repeated short-distance trip to the same employer, although whaling and North Sea fishing attracted a substantial number of seasonal workers from far away.129 During the interwar period, especially from the mid-1930s, this pattern started to change as fully fledged industrialization speeded up. The ratio of inter- to intra-prefectural migration was much higher for cotton spinning and manufacturing other than textiles and food industries in comparison with sake brewing (2.1 and 3.3 as against 1.4).130 More noticeable is the general increase in the importance of construction for migrant workers, which accelerated during the postwar boom. Since the late 1950s, together with the rapid expansion of transport networks, the volume of rural-to-urban seasonal migration grew with the weight of construction increasing from 30 percent in 1958 to around 67 percent in the 1970s (with an extraordinary peak of 87 percent in 1963, the year before the Tōkyō Olympic Games).131 It is therefore assumed that in the period from 1850 to 1950 one-half of all the seasonal migration movements had been cross-cultural, which increased to two-thirds in the

128 Oshiro 1984: 151, 156. From this, one can hypothesise that the earlier the younger age group dominated. Indeed, an agricultural survey taken in 1950 confirms that the 20–29 age group had been the largest among that year’s seasonal migrants (Kayo 1958: 167–169). 129 In the end we did not include these migrations, as this was not done for Europe either. 130 Kanazaki 1967: 77–80, 106–107, 118–119. Cotton spinning’s ratio is for 1934, manufacturing’s for 1929 and sake brewing’s for 1934. All the three include ‘long’-period dekasegi migrants as well. 131 Calculated from Nōrinsuisan-shō 1982: 232–233, 332–333. cross-cultural migrations in japan in a comparative perspective 409 period from 1950 to 2000. For the pre-1850 periods, the proportion is arbitrarily set at one-third. However, such a weighing of ‘cross-culturality’ has not been applied to the Euro- pean, Russian, and Chinese estimates and we therefore decided to present both the weighed and unweighed numbers and use the latter for our final calculations. This allows us to compute the aggregates of seasonal migration moves from 1600 to 2000 by half-century (the weighed and unweighed estimates are set out in Table B.5). Although what the table shows is a seemingly steady rise in seasonal migration over the four- century period, it should be stressed that, as Table B.4 has revealed, the extraordinarily dynamic changes took place within the last fifty-year period. section five Conclusion

∵ Illustration 5 Arrival of the family of an Italian guest worker at Amsterdam Central Station, 1961 Source: Nationaal Archief/Spaarnestad Photo/ Theo van Houts. SFA Summary and Concluding Remarks1

Jan Lucassen & Leo Lucassen

Expanding the CCMR Method to Eurasia

As we explained in the introduction, the field of (historical) migration studies suffers from a lack of clear definitions as to what constitutes ‘migration.’ Some include people who move from one village to another, whereas others would classify such relocations merely as mobility. The same holds true for temporary moves, whether over short or long distances. In particular, the dominant political perspective, which assumes national boundaries and one-way moves as key elements, privileges scholarly interests in international over internal migrations, thus excluding, for example, the hundreds of millions of Chinese who currently migrate, often over long distances, from the countryside to booming urban centers. Even less attention is paid to seasonal or other temporal forms of migration, as exemplified by the blind spot in almost all studies with regard to soldiers and sailors as cross-cultural migrants. With a phenomenon that changes its guise so often, it is very difficult, and often impossible, to systematically compare its different expressions over time and between areas. This lack of agreement is reflected in the diversity of typologies, which further adds to the definitional and analytical confusion. In this volume we therefore developed a comprehensive definition and typology of cross-cultural migrations that offers a comparative framework for measuring and qualifying such movements, in this case restricted to Eurasia in the past half-millennium for practical reasons. The flexibility of this cross- cultural migration rate (CCMR) method enables us to encompass regional and historical variations in the ways humans have moved across cultural boundaries. We first applied this approach to Europe in the past half a millennium and then asked specialists on Asia to test its usefulness and relevance for their part

1 We thank Ulbe Bosma, Dirk Hoerder, Gijs Kessler and Jelle van Lottum for their valuable criticism on an earlier version.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2014 | doi 10.1163/9789004271364_015 414 lucassen and lucassen of the world. Although we expected that the method would turn out to be too ‘European’—as that was the first continent that served as a testing ground— to our surprise most of our colleagues had no major problems in applying this method to other parts of Eurasia, especially pertaining to the three great empires Russia, China, and Japan. This does not imply that the patterns they found were similar to those in Europe. On the contrary, in terms of both the development of total rates over time and the different types of cross-cultural migrations, important and interesting differences became evident. Not unimportantly, and similar to our earlier conclusions for Europe, overall rates in Asia were much higher than had so far been assumed, at least before the mid-nineteenth century. In this sense, the volume confirms our earlier conclusion that—in contrast to the basic assumption of the ‘mobility transition’ as put forward by Wilbur Zelinsky in 19712—in most parts of Europe and Asia cross-cultural migration rates were already relatively high long before the Industrial Revolution. At the same time, throughout Eurasia there was a significant increase in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, which was caused by a combination of an acceleration of the urbanization process, the transport revolution, and the emergence of a global economy. This can be interpreted as a ‘Zelinskian take-off,’ but one that started in societies that were already highly mobile. Furthermore, this volume has shown the importance of war throughout the past five centuries, but especially during the first half of the twentieth century, throughout Eurasia. Many types of migrations which contribute to the CCM rates for Russia, China, and Japan, as reconstructed in this volume, have so far been underestimated or completely neglected in the literature that focused predominantly on Asians working as indentured workers in the western hemisphere.3 The large Russian and Chinese empires in particular had significantly greater shares of ‘colonization’ (to land) migrations than western European countries, where rural to urban as well as the military migrations (‘temporal multi-annual’) stand out. For Russia the movement of people to cities in great numbers lasted until the early twentieth and for China until the late twentieth century, a development that started much earlier in Europe. Japan finds itself somewhere in the middle, with a similar urbanization rate to that of Europe in the beginning of the seventeenth century, which, after centuries of stagnation, picked up again in the late nineteenth century. Migration to land in Japan coincided with the expansive imperial ambitions that became evident at the end of the

2 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009. 3 McKeown 2004. Summary And Concluding Remarks 415 nineteenth century, culminating in the military occupations of large parts of East and Southeast Asia in the 1930s and 1940s. For the other two major Eurasian empires in this period, Mughal India (sixteenth to eighteenth century) and the Ottoman empire (fourteenth to twentieth century), a lot of work still needs to be done, but so far we have no indications that the CCMR method of calculating migration rates according to one common taxonomy would not be applicable there also.4 The key question here is to what extent trends between Asian empires converged or diverged in the past half-millennium and why. We know that both Mughal India and the Ottoman empire experienced increasing urbanization in the early modern period, but joined a worldwide decrease in the eighteenth century.5 Around 1800 (Mughal) India as a whole was much less urbanized than Japan or the Middle East (and North Africa), but it did not lag far behind Europe and was ahead of China, Africa, and North America. A century later this ranking had not changed much, in spite of the explosive acceleration of rural to urban migrations (both internal and intercontinental) in western Europe and the United States.6 In the Middle Eastern and North African parts of the Ottoman empire, together with Japan, for a long time one of the most urbanized regions of the world, urbanization rates and likely also migration to cities leveled off in the nineteenth century, but remained well above the world average. These partly converging and diverging trends between empires and parts of the world in the past half-millennium, which have been uncovered thanks to the CCMR tool, shows that Europe does not represent a master pattern.7 The Eurasian comparison suggests that its range is not specifically European and that it has universal characteristics, which are semi-independent from prevailing idiosyncratic cultural and political constellations. At the same time it should be stressed that this approach does not apply exclusively to large units such as the major empires mentioned here. CCMRs of smaller geographical units, whether organized as strong polities or not, may also be reconstructed

4 On urbanization in the Ottoman empire see Karpat 1985; Faroqhi 2000; Canbakal 2007; Sluglett 2008 and Kuran 2011. For Mughal India see Singh 1991; Hasan 2004; Biswas 2007; Parthasarathi 2011. 5 Malanima 2010: 238. 6 De Vries 1984: 349; Malanima 2009: 242; and Malanima 2010: Utvik 2003: 44. 7 For a fundamental critique on such reductionist and default thinking, see Bin Wong’s argu- ments (Wong 2000). 416 lucassen and lucassen and compared. This has been done already for parts of Europe and may be extended as much as scholarly curiosity allows.8 The comparisons in this volume have also yielded types of migration which, in principle, were covered by the CCMR taxonomy, but were virtually non-existent in the western parts of Eurasia. This concerns especially plantation-bound migrations. With the exception of sugar plantations in Pal- estine, Cyprus, and other Mediterranean islands (up to southern Portugal in the Early Modern period),9 they are not typical for Europe, but widespread in South and Southeast Asia. Plantations and their specific labor recruitment policies were introduced by European powers in parts of Asia in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (and much earlier in the Americas, especially the Caribbean).10 As the chapters of Amrith, Bosma, and Van Lottum show, this landlocked concentration of capital caused millions of Asian labor migrants to trade places and work through various indentured labor schemes.11 The CCMR tool is flexible enough to include the massive temporary and often circular migrations that they engendered in Asia and elsewhere. Depending on the specific form of labor migration, migrants to plantations can be subsumed under ‘seasonal’ (temporal less than a year), temporal multi-annual, or migration ‘to land’ (more or less permanent ‘colonization’).12

Where To Go from Here?

If we can agree that the historical migration taxonomy as it has been developed and tested until now for important parts of Eurasia is useful to measure

8 The European pattern in our working papers (Lucassen & Lucassen 2010 and Lucassen et al. 2014) result from national overviews per migration type, and sometimes even from data on the city level. 9 We exclude the English ‘plantations’ in Ireland since the 16th and 17th centuries, which— notwithstanding the name—were of a different economic order (Canny 2001). 10 Bosma 2013. Although production of sugar cane on peasant farms has a very long tradition in India and China, the sugar cane plantation system seems to stem from the Eastern Mediterranean, from where it expanded. 11 Hoerder 2002: chapters 10 and 15; Mohapatra 2007. 12 Mining areas were also heavily dependent on migrant labor, but it depended on the specific labor regime whether miners settled for good and became urbanites (as in the Ruhr area) or that they were kept outside urban areas and settled as temporary multi-annual migrants in labor camps or compounds without the right to bring over family members, as was the practice in South Africa (Greenberg 1980). Summary And Concluding Remarks 417 and quantify cross-cultural migration rates (CCMRs), then a number of new questions arise:

– How should it be expanded to parts of the world and periods which are not, or insufficiently, covered so far? – Do all cross-cultural types of migration discerned in the taxonomy as such have an equally transforming social and cultural effect on the migrants and on the societies they (permanently or temporarily) join and leave, as assumed in Manning’s initiative theorizing?13 – In particular, to what degree does coercion play a role? – What role do settlement regimes and rules of engagement, and the institutions involved in it, play in the region of departure as well as arrival on the possibilities of cross-cultural contact? – And, finally, what is the explanatory value of migration, expressed as CCMRs, in the major debates in global history that try to explain different economic, social, and cultural performance worldwide, for example the ‘Great Divergence’ debate?

We will try to address these five issues briefly, by way of a possible program for future research, not only in migration history as a subdiscipline in its own right, but also in migration history as an integral part of global history at large.

Expanding the Evidence

First of all we would like to test, and where necessary modify, our approach in the western and southern parts of Asia, which are not, or not sufficiently, covered in this volume, as well as in Africa, the Middle East, and the Americas. Next, it is an open question as to whether the practical considerations that have determined our choice for the past five centuries have restricted our view. Which new theoretical insights could be gained by extending the test further back in time, where possible to the Neolithic revolution and the emergence

13 Manning 2005, 2006, and 2013. Please note that Manning distinguishes between different types of human migrations: apart from cross-community also whole-community migration, colonization (N.B. defined in a different way than in our CCMR method!) and home-community migration. Apart from the latter, our method pertains to all of these, although in our discussion of the transforming effects of migrations our emphasis is on cross-cultural migrations. 418 lucassen and lucassen of agriculture?14 It also should be noted that those parts of Eurasia that have already been covered need much more refined research, as will be clear from a glance at the quantitative data collected so far.15

The Cross-Cultural Impact of Different Types of Migration

A second scientific wasteland is the in-depth (at both the microlevel and the mesolevel) study of under what conditions different forms of cross-cultural migrations lead to social changes as predicted by Patrick Manning, and what the impact of various types of migration is. One determinant is the specific composition of the migrants, in terms of human capital, 16 beliefs, and migration motives. Is it indeed true, as several contributions in this volume have hinted at,17 that migration to cities has a much greater transformative effect than migration to the countryside, as a result of a much greater social and spatial density and cultural diversity of interpersonal contacts? And does it matter whether cities are characterized by an ‘open access order,’18 which creates a much more intense platform for cross-cultural interactions and thus social change? This approach implies the more technical question to be explored of whether we can attribute a certain ‘weight’ to the six main types of cross- cultural migration and what determines such a weight? By ‘weight’ we mean the propensity of migrants to interact with inhabitants of the region of destination and vice versa, as well as the chance this will offer for cross-cultural (ex) change. Before we start our concise attempt at answering these questions, which are at the heart of migration history, we have to distinguish between different time perspectives. The settlement process of migrants during which cross-cultural interactions take place, and thus may be ‘weighed’ or measured, extends over many years, if not over many generations. At least three time horizons may be distinguished: the initial propensity of migrants at their arrival to interact with inhabitants of the region of destination and vice versa; the development of this propensity during the migration process and the life of the migrant him-

14 Using Manning (2013) as point of departure. And further Lucassen, Lucassen & Manning 2010. 15 See Lucassen & Lucassen 2010 and Lucassen et al. 2014. These results will be integrated in the Clio-Infra database of the IISH. 16 Van Lottum 2011. 17 Especially the chapters on Russia, China and Japan. 18 North et al. 2009. Summary And Concluding Remarks 419 or herself; and this development over generations. Let us give one example that actually dominates the public debate in western Europe: the interaction between ‘guest workers’ from the Mediterranean and the receiving societies of western Europe. Initially both migrants and society at large supposed that the interaction would be only temporal and encounters mostly superficial, but not unfriendly. After the oil crisis and the ensuing ‘family reunification,’ while at the same time the guest workers themselves fell victim to unemployment in large numbers, relations deteriorated. This had a negative impact on the willingness and possibility of both first and second generation migrants to integrate into western European societies. The ‘integration pessimism’ in Europe received an extra stimulus over the past decade which has led, it seems, to the outright rejection of ‘western values’ by some of the second or even third generation youngsters. This is certainly also a form of cultural interaction, but definitely of a completely different nature from that at the start of the process in the 1960s.19 This is not to say that cross-cultural exchange is absent here. As this example demonstrates, the experience of exclusion by migrants and their descendants, as well as the experience of feeling excluded, in itself is a highly transformative cross-cultural experience for all those involved. In other words, cross-cultural exchanges can have very different outcomes and the nature of the process can vary widely. If we strip Manning’s argument to the bare bone, we might say that without cross-community migration there is far less chance of cross- cultural exchange. In the framework of this last chapter only the first time perspective—the mutual propensity to interact immediately after the moment of migration— can receive full attention. In order to do this, we have to consider first the degree of freedom or compulsion involved in the migration process itself.

Degrees of Coercion and the Cross-Cultural Impact

The taxonomy used here tells us nothing about the degree of freedom or coercion involved in migrations over cross-cultural boundaries. At this general level of analysis this is on purpose: we have to know first who is migrating before we can investigate why and to what effect this is happening. However, in order to measure the cross-cultural impact, it is important to consider the degree of freedom to move. Those who move more or less out of free will may

19 Lucassen & Lucassen 2011 and 2014. 420 lucassen and lucassen be supposed to be more open to cross-cultural exchange than those who are forced to do so by others. This is true at least initially, as after settlement this propensity may increase. The opposite is also an option: immigrants may lose the will to interact because of bad experiences in the encounters with the populations they join, as we mentioned previously. Freedom and coercion are difficult categories to apply. In many migration studies compulsion is highlighted because scholars assume that humans normally like to stay put and that, consequently, all migration is forced, if only because migrants are convinced that they do not earn enough or that their job or occupation does not meet their ambitions. The contrary position is found among scholars who maintain that freedom is a relevant concept and that individuals in situations of compulsion, within limits, also make their own choices.20 As there is no consensus about where the line between free and unfree labor migration should be drawn, most scholars prefer a middle position: perceiving a sliding scale of different types of unfree migratory labor, while acknowledging that some distinctions need to be made. One is between capture, abduction, and (chattel) slavery, on the one hand, and coerced migrations and various recruitment systems leading to coerced labor conditions, on the other. Recruitment systems by definition involve the consent of the migrant or their parents. ‘Forced migrations’ overlap to a certain extent with migration by abduction, as is the case for example with prison work camps and more generally the requisitioning and deportation of labor for modernization and the population or repopulation of areas. Another subcategory of coerced labor migrations consists of convict migrations: deportations of convicts are usually also a feature of global coerced labor movements. Again, if one is engaged by a recruiter, even if this is to escape from hunger or severe oppression by relatives or local authorities, it still involves a choice. Besides, the nature and origin of the compulsion determine to a great extent the will of the migrants to stay or eventually to return, and thus the chances of interaction. Economic compulsion and the ensuing disappointment in the chances at home may be a good basis for open encounters in the region of destination, whether conceived as temporal or permanent. Compulsion in the form of enslavement and forced migration may lead to the will to escape the new situation (the marrons) and if not feasible, at least to the impossibility of cultural exchange at an equal level between the society of free masters

20 Lucassen & Lucassen 1997; Hoerder 2002; McKeown 2004; Manning 2013. Summary And Concluding Remarks 421 and unfree slaves.21 Forced displacement of religious communities or of entire populations may lead to the will to stick together in order to survive culturally in the hope of eventual return. The studies in this book and previous studies on Eurasia provide a number of examples of more and less compulsion involved in different types of migration (see Figure 1).22 In this scheme we distinguish first relatively free migrations, to be followed by a distinction between different types of unfree or coerced migration, on the one hand, and abduction resulting in slavery, on the other. Free migration may of course still contain an element of coercion for the individual. In this respect, we can refer to the ‘new economics of migration’ which, in contrast to the neo-classical economic theories of migration, foregrounds that migration decisions are made collectively, usually at the household level and often to spread economic risks or generate remittances for investments.23 For this reason we prefer to speak about a ‘high degree of freedom’ rather than ‘free migration.’ Finally, the threefold typology in Figure 1 is helpful in making a distinction between the effects of cross-cultural migration in the short and long run. In particular, the third category (slavery), over time, often leads to processes of creolization, when convicts and slaves settle, which is much less the case with coerced migration.

Institutions at Arrival and Departure

A combination of the qualities of the migrant and the degree of freedom or compulsion under which he/she migrates over cross-cultural borders determines the chances of cross-cultural exchange. But that is certainly not all: the ‘receiving society’ is equally crucial, as it sets the boundaries for the intensity, nature, and equality of interactions between migrants and the established population. The more segregated the relationship, the less chances at transformative effects. In a recent volume on membership regimes in different parts of the world in the past two millennia, institutions in the receiving societies take

21 Here an important task is ahead for migration historians of Eurasia. Most studies of slavery refer to the situation in the Americas, but we should not forget the economic role of slavery and migration in southern and Southeastern Europe (cf. Lucassen & Lucassen 2010) as well as in particularly, but not exclusively, the Muslim parts of Asia. For some literature on the Ottoman Empire see Toledano 1982, 1998, and 2007, Clarence-Smith 2006, and Zilfi 2010. For India see Chatterjee & Eaton 2006, and Campbell 2011. See also Ennaji 2013. 22 Lucassen & Lucassen 1997; Hoerder 2002; McKeown 2004; Manning 2013. 23 Stark & Bloom 1985; see also Massey et al. 1993: 436. 422 lucassen and lucassen

High degree of Intermediate degree High degree of freedom of freedom (coerced compulsion migration) (abduction resulting in slavery) Emigration (High) skilled non- Various kinds of refugees; Captives taken into slavery organizational migrants organizational migrants from southern Russia to the (soldiers, missionaries, Ottoman empire and diplomats, expats working subsequently southern for transnational Europe companies) Immigration (High) skilled non- Colonial migrants during Slaves from Africa to organizational migrants the First World War (southern and southeastern) Europe Colonization Farmers invited by empires Subjects sent to the Inmates of the Gulag and of states frontiers of empires similar concentration camp (Russian/ Ottoman). systems Indentured laborers on plantations. To cities In western, central and Limitations in eastern Labor corvées in road southern Europe Europe maintenance, hauling and carting for state purposes, etc., such as in Russia. Furthermore domestic slavery (e.g. Dutch East Indies) Temporal: seasonal Seasonal workers in Peasant serfs sent to other Possibly nonexistent Europe feudal employers (Russia) Temporal: Mercenary recruits in Compulsory military Janissary recruits (Ottoman multi-annual general service empire)

Figure 1 Types of migration and degrees of compulsion to migrate: examples from Eurasia, 1500–2000

center stage.24 In situations in which migrants join rather than take over existing polities, we can conclude that ‘open access’ societies that allow newcomers to take part in core institutions (work, education, politics, religion) have the greatest propensity to social, economic, and cultural change. This is irrespective of whether such changes are seen, by migrants or the established popula-

24 Bosma, Kessler & Lucassen 2013. Summary And Concluding Remarks 423 tion, in terms of loss of gain.25 In most cases, however, institutions (at the city, national, or imperial level) tend to have differential effects and often exclude newcomers to some extent, which may also influence the migration behavior and patterns. In India and sub-Saharan Africa, for example, rural migrants often do return to their village of origin and foster ethnic ties. Here circular migrations are the result of the necessity to spread social, economic, and emotional risks.26 The outcome, in the shorter or longer term, also depends on the characteristics of the migrants in terms of human, social, and cultural capital, and not least in terms of gender. Our mentioning of the gender issue is not a lame excuse or a feeling of remorse at the end of a book in which it has not received much attention. The breakdown of the numbers in gender and age categories is a task in itself after overall numbers have been reconstructed. Only for the emigration and immigration figures do we have enough information,27 but these figures are unfortunately less interesting when comparing big entities like Europe, Russia, China, and Japan. In some migration categories we may expect more or less equal numbers, for example in colonization.28 Among migrants to cities numbers vary greatly, as the abundant literature shows, and overall conclusions for Eurasia are not available yet. Seasonal migrants in western Europe were mostly male, and the same may be true for other parts of Eur- asia, but this we simply do not know yet.29 Temporal, multi-annual migrants are highly gender-specific across all Eurasia: sailors were male, soldiers too, although this does not apply for the huge numbers of camp-followers before the nineteenth century, or the tramping artisans, whereas migrant domestic servants were mainly—but not exclusively!—female.30 Apart from the level and transferability of human capital, cultural dispositions and institutions also play an important role. Religious beliefs of migrants, for example, can be an obstacle as well as a stimulus for interactions with members of the host polity and so can family systems, which set rules for marriage

25 For a recent example see Lucassen & Lucassen 2011 and 2014. 26 L. Lucassen 2013. 27 Schrover & Moloney 2013. 28 In these cases states or empires were primarily interested in attracting or relocating entire families. 29 Lucassen 1987. 30 Parennas 2001; Moch 2003; Ehmer 2003; Gabaccia 2006; Moya 2007; Hahn 2008; Zürcher 2013. 424 lucassen and lucassen patterns which, in turn, can have a considerable influence on the intensity and (gendered) nature of interactions between newcomers and natives.31

Migration History and Global History

Finally, the explanatory value of migration, expressed as CCMRs, in the major debates in global history, tries to explain the differences in economic, social, and cultural performance worldwide. Migration can either be used as explanandum or as explanans. In the latter instance CCMRs may contribute to explaining economic growth or its absence,32 changing labor relations, changes in political systems, social developments, but also various cultural changes. On the other hand, economic, political, or cultural factors can be identified to explain the volume and nature (the positive and negative effects for the different parties involved) of cross-cultural migrations. In the remainder of this conclusion we will show how a more explicit use of migration as a dependent or independent factor can enrich current debates and why in a number of cases it could prove to be the missing link.

From Analysis to Explanation: Migration, Markets, and State Formation

In the current debates in comparative global history about the performance of societies, two types of explanations stand out: the success of markets in institutional economic history and the success of states in political history, whereas cultural explanations, for the prevailing centuries, have lost much but not all of their attraction.33 The economic and political explanations may also be combined as in Charles Tilly’s characterization of ‘capital intensive’ and ‘capi- talized coercion’ paths of state formation in western Europe since the Middle

31 Kok 2010; Moch 2007. 32 E.g. Lucassen 1987; Foldvari, Van Leeuwen & Van Zanden 2013; Van Lottum 2011. 33 Judging by the harsh criticism David Landes’ magnum opus from 1998 received (e.g. Mokyr 1999). For recent (albeit different) cultural models see e.g. McCloskey 2010 and Clark 2007. See also Davids 2013. Summary And Concluding Remarks 425

Ages.34 Recently, attempts have been made by institutional economic historians to combine economic and political explanations.35 By looking carefully at the relationship between types of state formation and types and patterns of migration, many of the chapters in this book show that migration matters. Two solutions, involving different types of migration, are represented in the Eurasian case since about 1500. Both urbanization migration (‘to cities’) and military migration (‘temporary multi-annual’) fit Tilly’s explanatory model for European states since the Middle Ages. One type of society fostered the position of city dwellers, who had enough surplus to be taxed in order to pay professional, migratory soldiers. The other type, putting much greater stress on migration to land (‘colonization’), seems to be a typical feature of empires and thus of the ‘coercion intensive’ state formation path, so visible in what Barrington Moore called the peasant empires of Russia and China.36 The coercive element in Tilly’s work referred to the centralist power of state authorities over (urban-based) merchants and landlords, which curtailed urbanization and (agricultural) commercialization. This power constellation involved not only low rates of urbanization and high rates of ‘colonization’, but it also finds expression in the systemic use of force to move people to land in the (perceived) interest of the central state. The most extreme cases were Rus- sia under Stalin and China under Mao, but these twentieth-century coercive expressions have deep imperial roots and path dependencies. As we have observed earlier,37 it is striking that in larger debates on economic growth, state formation, and social and cultural changes over time, migration does not play a role. As far as migration is mentioned (in whatever form), it is assumed to be an omnipresent ‘natural’ phenomenon that needs no further explanation. At most it is regarded as a consequence or corollary of other (more interesting) developments, such as urbanization, wars, and imperialism. Although it is certainly legitimate to use such a ‘proxy perspective,’ it obstructs the development of a causal perspective, in which specific forms of migration and certainly also their long-term effects (as indicated above) have a semi-autonomous dynamic which cannot just be interpreted as

34 Tilly 1990. 35 Van Zanden & Prak 2006; Acemoglu & Robinson 2006; North et al. 2009. Van Zanden 2013. We do realize that institutions are to a large extent the reflection of cultural dispositions. Recently Ian Morris (2013) has brought the economic and the political together, combined with social characteristics. 36 Moore 1966. 37 Lucassen & Lucassen 2009. 426 lucassen and lucassen a reaction to larger forces. In other words, our plea is to study migration both as a dependent (explanans) and as an independent (explanandum) factor. A telling example in this book is the recent mass migration to Chinese cities, which was enabled by political decisions in the late 1970s, but once under way developed a dynamic of its own which not only makes it almost impossible to roll back, but which also fundamentally changes the socio-cultural (family systems) and economic characteristics of Chinese society and more broadly the global economy. Another example is the path-dependent continuity in labor recruiting schemes that have survived European colonialism, as the current situation of millions of Asian migrants in Malaysia and the Middle East shows.38 Finally, we point to the transforming experience of migration for the people involved: the migrants, the people they join, and those to whom they may return. As Joshua Sanborn has convincingly argued in his study on Rus- sian soldiers during the First World War, the mobilization and the experiences at the front changed these men profoundly, and their uprooting and military socialization contributed considerably to their support for the Russian Revolu- tion.39 Others have pointed to the transformative experiences of soldier migrations for the societies they return to. The best example is that of the hundred thousands of African American soldiers based in postwar Germany, whose stay abroad made them realize that Jim Crow segregation in the American South was not normal; an experience which, after their return to the USA, contributed importantly to the support for the Civil Rights movement.40 Finally, to the extent that migration historians will come up with answers to these questions, their results will be taken seriously in the larger debates on the determinants of economically, politically, and culturally ‘successful’ societies. A good example is the ‘Great Divergence’ debate, which centers around the question of why Europe (or more precisely northwestern Europe, followed by North America) surpassed China (or India) in the eighteenth century (and even earlier) and became a global power, whose influence is only waning in the past decade or so.41 The migration trends provided in this volume seem to suggest that Asian empires do not so much lack cross-cultural migrations as such, but rather are characterized by coercive and less commercial types, whereas in Europe we see more of the opposite pattern (migration to cities and free mercenary migrations), with Japan and the Middle East in between. We therefore argue

38 Hoerder 2002: 536–550. 39 Sanborn 2005. See also Moch & Siegelbaum 2014 (forthcoming). 40 Höhn & Klimke 2010. 41 See e.g. Pomeranz 2000, Rosenthal & Wong 2011, Vries 2013 and Bosma 2014. Summary And Concluding Remarks 427 that institutional arrangements, as stressed by Tilly, North, Acemoglu & Rob- inson, and Van Zanden,42 should also be studied in relation to migration, both as influencing who moves and in what way, and also as being influenced by different types of migration. This is not the place to perform this task. However, in the future the cross- cultural implications of both (coercive-intensive and capital-intensive) solutions will have to be studied in detail. As to their economic implications, we have to distinguish between the supply and demand of migrants as producers in the receiving society and the opportunities for cultural exchange with the receiving population. We would like to suggest here that the positive outcomes of mass migrations to cities have been of primary importance. The effects of migratory mercenary work may have been more indirect, as it liberated the population at large from military obligations, leaving them free to produce. The income transfer to the regions of origin of mercenaries (Switzerland, southern Germany, Ireland, and Scotland, to mention some important ones) does not seem to have played an important role. Forced colonization in the Russian and Chinese cases has had an extensive rather than an intensive effect on the development of these economies. If this interpretation holds true, it follows that what matters for economic growth (as suggested by the history of the USA as interpreted by Zelinsky) is not so much the sheer levels of mobility, but rather the composition of the types of migration. As the economic developments in the early (Russia) and late (China) twentieth century show, the specific imperial path dependencies of these countries did not prevent spectacular urbanization waves, and—certainly in the case of modern China—concomitant high growth rates. On the other hand, the Chinese put up various barriers pertaining to migrants moving to cities. First, the hukou system, which prevented internal rural migrants from enjoying the same rights and benefits as the native urban population and treated them as second-rate citizens, who for this reason had to maintain their attach- ments with the rural regions they came from.43 Secondly, foreigners (including Africans) have recently been allowed to settle in China as traders and experts, but it is impossible for them to become citizens and acquire permanent residence permits.44 When we assume that equal and prolonged cross-cultural interactions in urban settings are crucial for cultural changes and innovations, these barriers in the long run may slow down economic growth and limit the

42 Tilly 1990; North 2002; Acemoglu & Robinson 2006 and 2012 and Van Zanden & Prak 2006. 43 See the chapter of Shen in this volume, and L. Lucassen 2013. 44 Pieke 2012. 428 lucassen and lucassen full potential of this type of migration for the region of destination. This does not exclude, in the short run, low production costs because underpaid workers without rights may be profitable, but does result in the neglect of the opportunities provided by inter-cultural exchange. This brings us to the relationship between the human, cultural, and social capital of migrants and social change, as defined by Manning,45 in the societies of both destination and origin (through return migration(s)). Whereas Man- ning is not very explicit about the way cross-cultural migration forges social change and seems to be primarily interested in changes over very long stretches of time, this volume is more concerned with changes over decades and centuries, instead of millennia. Moreover, our methodology offers a more layered approach, by distinguishing at least four different types of cross-cultural migration: to cities, colonization, seasonal, and temporal multi-annual. By combining the results and methodological rigor of this volume with the focus on membership regimes in the previous volume in this series,46 we have a potentially strong analytical instrument to compare specific configurations of migrants (and their various forms of ‘capital’) with the possibilities to develop this further at destination and interact with the ‘natives.’ This varies from total exclusion (chattel slavery) to complete ‘open access’ and being on a level playing field with those already present. This is an important extra layer in the CCMR tool, as it introduces power relationships as well as migrants’ agency and characteristics. It is also the logical place to add gender, which in this volume has largely been left implicit, but which is an essential variable once we move from the macro-perspective of this volume to the meso- and microplane. Finally, we hope that such an approach will enable us to free migration studies from its own, specialist, confines and integrate it into global history. When we want to understand the relationship between specific ‘membership regimes’ and types of migration, on the one hand, and the development of societies, on the other, migration is an essential ingredient. And, to use a culinary metaphor, when added to the right mold, quantity and (at the right moment) globally comparative migration studies will improve the quality of the ‘dish’ considerably. With this volume we therefore make a plea to include migration as an important variable in global comparative history and to combine (new) institutional approaches in (economic) history with the varying cultural effects of cross-cultural interactions between diverse human communities.

45 Manning 2005 and 2006. 46 Bosma, Kessler & Lucassen 2013. References

All the migration data used in this volume will be published on: http://socialhistory .org/en/projects/global-migration-history-programme.

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Abeyasekere, Susan 200 Dubernard (Abé) 227 Acemoglu, Daron 427 Durrenberger, Paul 221, 242 Ades, A. F. 271 Dyke, P. A. van 204 Ahuja, Ravi 125 Alatas, Syed Hussein 128 Ehmer, Joseph vii, 3, 18 Amber, M. 93 Eichmann, Adolf 24 Amrith, Sunil 51, 416 Enriquez, Colin 223, 237 Anderson, J. 236, 237 Faroqhi, S. 91, 93 Ferenczi, Imre 9 Baker, Christopher 142, 143, 144 Francis, William 102 Bandala, Panembahan 203 Fraser, James 234, 238 Banerjee, Anuradha 100 Barbosa, Duarte 108, 119 Geertz, Clifford 151, 256 Bleeker, Pieter 158, 162, 165 Geoghegan, John 127 Blussé, Leonard 362 Gillogly, Kathleen 221, 223 Boomgaard, Peter 175 Glaeser, E.L. 271 Boserup, Esther 369 Goantinag, T. 261, 274 Bosma, Ulbe vii, 3, 30, 43, 249, 251, 256, Gommans, Jos 28, 93, 99 261, 413, 416 Gooszen, Abrahamina 162, 259 Bradley, David 215, 221, 225, 234 Gottschang, Thomas 313, 320, 329 Bulag, Uradyn 215 Green, Nancy 4 Gros, Stéphane 215 Cao, Shuji 283, 290 Grover, B. 97 Carey, Peter 155 Guilmoto, Christophe 124, 130, 131 Catherine the Great 55–57, 59, 62, 64–70, Guofan, Zeng 296 81, 307 Chandler, Tertius 292 Habib, Irfan 99 Chettiar, Nalli Chinnasami (see Nalli) Hajnal, John 51 Chetty, Nalli Kuppusami (see Nalli) Hengzhabeng 226, 227, 229 Chiang, Nora vii Hideyoshi, Taikō (Toyotomi) 364, 365, Chiang Kai-Shek vii 398, 402 Chicherov, A. 97 Hirosaki 373 Clark, Gregory 87, 88 Hitler, Adolf 47 Cohen, Nicole 379 Hobsbawm, Eric 44 Conrad, Yves 221 Hoerder, Dirk 413 Cooper, Thomas 229 Hongkai, Sun 233 Hugo, Graeme 151, 156, 157, 177, 248, 251, Daendels, Herman Willem 156 252, 261, 266, 274, 275 Date (daimyo) 399 Hutheesing, Otome K. 215, 220, 221, 241, Davis, Kingsley 37, 122, 140 243, 244 De Vries, E. 165 De Waal Malefijt, Annemarie 168 Ieyasu (shogun) 364, 398 Dessaint, A. 221–223, 227 Ifekwunigwe, Jayne 246 Dessaint, W. 221 Douglas, R. M. 23 Jiaqing 226 name Index 483

Kashyap, Sandeep 116 Moreland, W. 100 Kessler, Gijs vii, 3, 31, 46, 287, 413 Morris, Ian 425 Khazanov, A. 28, 29 Morse, Eugene 223, 238–241 Kinoshita, Futoshi 370 Munivar, Bhavanandi 108 Kliuchevskii, Vasilii 56, 57 Kōnoike (merchant house) 373, 374 Nagata, Mary Louise 50 Krugman, P. 270 Nalli, Chinnasami Chettiar 103 Kulottunga Chola III 104 Nalli, Kuppusami Chetty 107 Kumaragupta 110 Ngwâme, Avòunda 221 Kumarans (family) 107 Nitisastro, Widjojo 158, 161, 274 Kuroda (daimyo) 399, 402 Noiriel, Gerard 5 Kumar, Dharma 123, 142, 143 Norihoko, Yuchido 111 North, Douglas 427 Landes, David 424 Nuniz, Fernao 101 Lary, Diana 320 Nurhaci 310 Li, Fengxiang 233 Livas, R. 270 Oshiro, Kenji 408 Lucassen, Jan 58, 59, 71–73, 75, 82, 83, 84, Ota, Atsushi 29 86, 93, 101, 132, 151, 209, 215, 268, 274, 280, Ottakuttar 120 298 Lucassen, Leo 58, 59, 71–73, 75, 82, 83, 84, Paes, Domingo 101 86, 132, 151, 209, 215, 268, 274, 280, 298 Paramore, Kiri 362 Luo, Ergang 295 Pargas, Damian 3 Parthasarathi, Prasannan 92, 126 Maeda (Daimyo) 373 Pelzer, K. J. 172 Maine, Henry 97 Perry, Matthew 375 Maitra, Asim 224 Peter the Great 61, 62, 65 Mangammal, Rani 121 Pomeranz, Ken 293, 298, 299 Manning, Patrick vii, 3, 13, 28–30, 218, Pot, Pol 41, 339 245, 259, 417–419, 428 Pothees (family) 107 Mao Zedong 4, 5, 41, 226, 335, 336, 339, Powell, Baden 97 360, 425 Pulavar, Chokkanatha 114, 115 Mark, Ethan 362 Punea, Milap 116 Mazard, Eisel 215 Mazard, Mireille 29, 41 Ramamurthy Kanalu, Naveen 121 McKeown, Adam 3, 28, 34, 37, 82, 87, 88, Ramaswami, Vijaya 39 91, 152, 180, 215, 307, 309, 313, 316, 320, 335, Ramanathadeva (king) 106 359, 361 Ravenstein, Ernst Georg 10, 11 Meijer Ranneft, J. W. 159, 163, 168 Ravideva, Dandanayaka 106 Meyer, Eric 127 Ray, H. P. 91 Michiko, Nakahara 148 Reid, Anthony 365 Milone, Pauline 174 Reillo, G. 93, Misra, Varun 116 Riddell, J. B. 250 Moch, Leslie 3, 9, 151 Robinson, James A. 427 Mohapatra, Prabhu 37 Roy, T. 93 Moore, Barrington 425 Rozman, Gilbert 290 Moosvi, Shireen 93, 100 Russell, J. 241 484 name Index

Salisvara (deity) 108 Valentijn, François 174 Sambuvaraya, Rajanarayana 105 Van den Haak, Martina vii Sanborn, Joshua 426 Van Lottum, Jelle 3, 413, 416 Scheltema, A. M. 173 Van Schendel, Willem 29, 217 Scott, James 29, 215, 217, 218, 220, 229, 246 Van Zanden, Jan Luiten 427 Segers, William 173 Vaporis, Constantine 397 Shneiderman, Sara 215 Vikrama Chola (king) 105 Skinner, William 290, 292, 299 Vink, Marcus 195 Smith, John 8 Vredenbregt, J. 171 Snouck Hurgonje, Christiaan 170 Somesvara (king) 109 Wakita, Osamu 399, 402 Stein, Burton 99, 122, 123 Ward, W. 227 Stolypin, Petr 69, 78 Warren, James Francis 208 Suharto 247, 252, 262, 272 Weiner, Myron 379 Sukarno 247, 265, 272 Willcox, Walter F. 9 Sunderland, Willard 29, 71, 81 Win, Ne (general) 241 Swancutt, Katherine 215 Wong, Bin 298, 415 Wong, Lin Ken 210 Tennekes, J. 165, 166 Thaw, Sara Bâ 238 Yermak 81 Thurgood, Graham 233 Thurston, E. 108 Xiaoping, Deng 308, 336, 360 Tilly, Charles 424, 425, 427 Timmarajayya, Mahamandalesvara Zelinsky, Wilbur 9, 17, 58, 84, 151, 153, 158, Chintagupta 105 173, 177, 247, 268, 269, 414, 427 Toyotaka, Kawamura 180 Zheng (family) 297 Trocki, Carl A. 206 Turnbull, C. M. 190, 194 Geographical Index (Not included are Asia and Europe)

Abruzze mountains 11 Bac-Bo 366 Aceh 40 Bagelen 154, 160 Afghanistan 29, 32, 45 Baghdad 193 Africa 5, 7, 24, 30, 37, 38, 49, 54, 87, 92, Balaramapuram 107 195, 246, 289, 303, 344, 346, 364, 377, 415, Bandung 175, 263 416, 417, 422, 423 Bangka 202, 209, 213, 257 Ahmadnagar 49 Bangkok 171, 216, 287 Aichi 376 Bali 154, 166, 181, 185, 195, 199, 200, 207 Akita 376 Balkans 52 Akyab 133 Baltic 47, 59, 64 Algeria 24 Bangaluru 116 Alikyang (river) 235 Bangka 181, 202, 209, 213, 257 Allahabad 43 Bangladesh 38, 48 Amakusa 377 Banten 152, 154, 160, 162, 163, 169, 176, 194, Ambon 181, 199, 366 198, 366 Americas Banyumas 154, 160, 168, 176, 177 America, Latin/South 7, 26, 38, 41, 49, Banyuwangi 154, 160, 166 77, 362, 377, 378, 380, 383, 416, 417, 421 Baoshan 216, 238 America, North 4, 8, 12, 13, 17, 23, Baruva 133 38, 49, 77, 87, 210, 211, 245, 287, 288, Batak Areas 181, 185 293, 303, 304, 362, 377, 380, 388, 393, Batavia (see also Jakarta) 36, 40, 150, 154, 415–417, 421, 426, 427 155, 160, 161, 167, 171, 175, 176, 179, 181, 182, Amoy 183, 198 194, 195–201, 208, 209, 261, 287, 366 Amritalur 105 Bawean Island 154, 171 Amur (river) 71, 73, 87, 310, 311 Beijing 227, 292–294, 308, 310, 338, 339, Andhra region 94–96, 98, 99–101, 346, 351, 356, 357 103–105, 107, 108, 111, 116, 117, 120, 132 Belgaum 108, 117 Andhra Pradesh 96, 98, 100, 116, 132 Belgium 39 Anhui 341, 351, 352, 357, 358 Belitung 257 Annur 104 Bellary 116 Antilles 49 Benculen 169 Aomori 376 Bengadong 206 Apennines 11 Bengal 40, 94, 113, 125, 127, 128, 131, 133, Arabia 30, 152, 170, 171, 179 134, 141, 146, 147, 148, 185, 210 Arcot 105, 109, 141, 142 Besuki 154, 160, 162, 164–166, 176 Argaritic 109 Bhamo 237 Argentina 11, 41, 382 Bharatapuzha 106, 117 Arunachal Pradesh 216, 225, 241 Bihar 40, 141 Assam 140 Bijapur 49, 93 Astrakhan (khanate) 73 Biluo mountains 220, 225 Australia 23, 210, 266, 287, 377, 382 Bimlipatam 133 Austria 8, 35, 77 Birmingham 10 Avinasi 104 Black Sea 55, 66, 80, 81 Ayutthaya 39, 297, 366 Bohai (Sea of) 308, 310, 320 486 Geographical Index

Bojonegoro 176 234, 237–240, 265, 274, 279–361, 364–367, Bombay (Mumbai) 40, 90, 141, 146 369, 372, 374, 375, 377, 378, 381–384, 386, Borneo (see also Kalimantan) 181, 185, 388, 393–395, 414–416, 418, 423, 425–427 202–209, 257, 259, 266, 275 Chingleput 103, 106, 109, 116, 117, 141, Brazil 32, 41, 362, 378, 380–382 142 Brunei 181, 193, 211, 212 Chishima 388 Buitenzorg 154, 176, 200 Chittoor 116, 142 Buladi 232, 233 Chongquig 388 Burhanpur 116 Chūbu 376 Burma 28, 38, 44, 49, 98, 122, 125, 126, Chūgoku 375, 376 130–134, 136, 138, 141, 142, 147, 148, 215, Circars district 125 16, 217, 219, 221, 223–225, 232, 234, 235, Cirebon 154, 155, 158, 160, 176 237–242, 245, 382 Cochin China 211, 365, 366 Busan (see Pusan) 36, 367, 383 Coconada 133 Coimbatore 93, 103, 108, 116, 119, 140, 142, Calcutta (Kolkata) 40, 133 146 Calicut (see Kozhikode) Colombo 40, 133, 146 California 241, 375 Coorg 102, 140 Calingapatam 133 Coromandel Coast 93, 112–114, 197 Cambodia 27, 41, 194, 211, 339, 366 Crimea 65 Cameroon 344 Cuddalore 109, 133 Campagna Romana 11 Cyprus 416 Canada 23, 245, 246, 344, 382, 383 Czechoslovakia 23 Canton (Guangzhou) 36, 183, 198, 202, 213, 299, 338, 346 Dali 238 Caribbean 27, 49, 131, 214, 416 Dalian 312, 319 Carnatic 96 Danube 59 Caucasus 63, 71 Danushkodi 133 Celebes (see also Sulawesi) 257, 259 Dapu 204 Central Black Earth Region (Russia) 43, Dasapura 110, 111 63, 64, 80 Deccan 92, 93, 100, 120, 121 Central Industrial Region (Russia) 80 Dehong 220 Ceylon (see also Sri Lanka) 38, 98, 122, Dejima (see Deshima) 126, 127, 129–143, 146, 147, 382 Delhi 49 Changchun 338 Deli 168 Chenjia Tun 323 Deqin 228 Chennai (see also Madras) 103, 105, 109, Deshima 35, 367 115, 117, 128 Dharmapuri 92, 93, 103, 108, 116, 119 Chennapatnam 103, 115 Dharwar 102, 108, 117 Chettinad 98 Djatiroto 166 Chiang Mai 216, 219, 241, 242 Dniepr 73 Chiang Rai 216 Dongbei 307 Chiba 376 Dongguan 346 Chihengdi 232, 234 Drung valley 231 Chikabhallapur 116 Dutch Republic, The 19, 35, 36, 38, 370 China 4, 12, 13, 19, 25–28, 31–35, 38, 40, 41, Dutch East Indies, The (see also Indonesia) 44, 46–50, 53, 54, 77, 82–88, 182, 183, 192, 48, 49, 151–178, 201, 210, 364, 422 194, 198, 202, 203, 210–222, 225, 228, 229, Dzungaria 76 Geographical Index 487

East Indies (see Dutch East Indies) Gongshan 231 Eastern Salient (of Java) 152, 153, 157, 163, Gopalpur 133 165–167, 177, 179 Gorontalo 181, 208 Echigo 400 Gresik 175 Edo (see also Tōkyō) 27, 45, 364, 368, 371, Guam 375 373, 376, 387, 389–391, 396–403, 408 Guangdong (Kwantung) 183, 184, 192, 203, Ehime 376 204, 285, 319, 342, 344, 346, 351, 352, 356, England 35, 37–39, 98, 303, 304, 369, 370 357, 382, 383 Erdaohezi Tun 323 Guangxi 183, 285, 351, 357, 358 Erode 103, 117 Guangzhou (see Canton) Eruvellipet 143 Guizhou 229, 339, 342, 351, 357, 358 Ettchū province 373 Gujarat 45, 93, 101, 104, 110, 117, 119, 121 Ethiopia 49, 93 Gulf States (/region) 37, 44, 179, 267 Evil Peaks 222 Gunma 376 Ezo (see also Hokkaidō) 367, 368 Guntur 105, 108, 117 Guyanas 27, 41 Fengtian (province) 318, 323 Fiji 27 Habsburg empire 47, 65 Finland 52 Hadhramaut 193, 201 Flores 267 Hainan 183, 340, 351, 356, 357 Florida 241 Hakata 364 France 5, 10, 35–37, 48, 53, 55, 131, 227, Hampi 94, 101, 106 368 Harbin 311 Frankfurt am Main 10 Hardwar 43 Fugong 230 Hawaii 362, 375, 377, 380–383 Fujian 183, 192, 194, 285, 351, 352, 356, Hebei 286, 308, 316, 324, 325, 340, 342, 357 356, 357, 358 Fukui 376 Heilongjiang 308, 310, 311, 339, 340, 351, Fukuoka (City) 364, 365, 376, 399 352, 357, 358 Fukushima 376 Heishan 323–326, 328 Fuzhou 183 Hejaz 170, 171 Henan 340, 342, 351, 352, 357, 358 Gaiping 323–328 Hetmanate (Kiev) 60 Ganjam 116, 141, 142 Hilai 203 Gansu 340, 351, 357, 358 Hirado 366 Gaoligong 220, 227, 231, 235, 240 Hiroshima 375, 376 Gayong 181, 207 Hkamti Long plain 232, 235 Geneva 9 Hoi An 36, 297, 365 Georgetown 186, 187, 208 Hokkaidō 362, 367, 368, 374, 376, 384, German Democratic Republic (GDR) 385, 390 24, 32 Hokkien 183, 184, 190, 192 Germany 7, 10, 24, 47, 48, 77, 426, 427 Hong Kong 267, 335, 343–346, 351, 382, Ghat 140, 141 389 Gifu 376 Hongpu 228 Goa 27 Honshū 373 Gobi Desert 310 Hosa Kottai 120 Godavari 116, 142 Hoysala 105, 106 Golconda 39, 93 Huangjiawobao Tun 323 488 Geographical Index

Huhan 351 Jilin 308, 310, 311, 351, 357, 358 Hunan 340, 342, 351, 352, 357, 358 Johor 193, 202, 205, 206, 211 Hungary 8, 23 Jolo 212 Husa 236 Hyderabad 102, 109 Kachin (state) 239 Hyōgo 376 Kagawa 376 Kagoshima 36, 365, 376 Ibaraki 376 Kalimantan (see also Borneo) 181, India 23, 27, 36, 38–40, 42, 45, 48–50, 52, 202–209, 259 53, 91–148, 151, 185, 195, 198, 201, 202, 205, Kanagawa 376 210, 211, 213, 215, 217, 241, 242, 364, 382, 415, Kanara 102 416, 421, 423, 426 Kanchipuram region 94, 101, 103, 105–107, Indian Ocean 40, 102, 147, 195, 305 117–119 Indochina 48, 131, 225 Kandahar 43 Indonesia (see also Dutch East Indies) Kandaradittam 106 24, 28, 30, 38, 40, 43–45, 48, 98, 151–180, Kangpu 228 247–273, 275, 344, 345 Kannadas 39 Indore 117 Kannur 118 Inner Mongolia 310, 318, 340, 351, 352, Kantō 376 357, 358 Kantōshū 382 Iraq 45 Karafuto 388 Ireland 11, 416, 427 Karaikkudi 98 Irrawaddy 220 Karikal 133 Ishikawa 376 Karimata Islands 207 Istanbul 46, 292 Karnataka region 94, 96, 101, 102, 104, 108, Italy 12, 25, 39, 52 111, 116, 117, 120 Iwate 376 Karuvur 104 Kasargod 118 Jakarta (see also Batavia) 194, 261–263, Kassang 184 270–273, 366 Kaveri basin 94, 141, 143 Jambi 169, 366 Kaveripakkam 115 Japan 4, 5, 8, 10, 21, 26–28, 31–43, 46–50, Kazakh Steppe 63 52–54, 73, 148, 180, 210, 220, 239, 307, 311, Kazan (khanate) 73 312, 319, 332, 346, 362–409, 414, 415, 418, Kedah 181, 185, 186, 189 423, 426 Kendawangang 181, 206 Japara 154, 160, 176 Kediri 154, 158–161, 164, 165, 168, 176, 177 Java (see also Eastern Salient) 30, 41, 125, Kedu 154, 158, 160, 162, 167–169, 176, 177 151–181, 193, 194, 198–200, 202, 203, 207, Kerala 94, 96, 106, 117–119 210, 249, 256–264, 267, 271, 272, 274, 286, Kerbala 43 288, 366 Ketapang 181, 206 Java Sea 171 Kiev 10, 59, 60 Jayankonda Cholamandalam 104 Kilakkula 111 Jeddah 170, 171 Kinki 376 Jember 164–166 Kobe 390 Jerusalem 43 Kōchi 376 Jiangnan 326 Kolkata (see Calcutta) Jiangsu 340–342, 351, 352, 356, 357 Kongu 93, 94, 96, 103–106, 108, 116, 119 Jiangxi 285, 296, 338, 351, 357, 358 Kongunad 141 Geographical Index 489

Korea 27, 28, 35–37, 45, 47, 49, 52, 53, Madagascar 195 308, 312, 319, 323, 341, 346, 362, 367, 374, Madiun 154, 160, 161, 168, 176, 177 377–379, 381–383, 386, 388 Madhya Pradesh 117 Kozhikode (see also Calicut) 106, 117, 118 Madras (see also Chennai) 40, 97, 98, Krawang 154, 160, 161 100, 102, 105, 109, 112, 113, 117, 123–125, 128, Krishna 108, 117 133–135, 137–146, 148 Krishnagiri 116 Madura 153, 160–162, 166, 167, 176, 178, Kshetralampuram 143 179, 260, 264, 274 Kubu 181, 207 Madurai region 94, 101, 102, 104, 109, 111, Kumamoto 365, 375–377 112, 117, 119, 121, 142, 146 Kumbakonam 112 Makassar 181, 185, 195, 200, 261 Kunming 224 Malabar 102, 106, 108, 113, 117, 119, 141, 185 Kunshan 346 Malacca 184, 258 Kuroda 399, 402 Malang 159, 176 Kwantung (see Guangdong) Malappuram 118 Kyoto 368, 371, 376, 391, 398–402 Malay Archipelago 180–214 Kyūshū island 366 Malaya 27, 28, 30, 48, 122, 126–142, Kyūshū region 365, 375–377, 390 146–148, 170, 171, 180–213, 266, 275 Malaysia 44, 98, 134, 152, 179, 266, 267, Laccadive Island 102 426 Lakshadweep 96 Mali Hkai (river) 235 Lampung 152, 154, 168, 169, 173, 258 Malwa region 117 Lancashire 126 Manchukuo 308, 309, 313, 317, 319, 321, Lanzhou 351 322, 331 Laos (also Indochina) 27, 215, 216, 225 Manchuria 4, 28, 34, 47–49, 82, 283, Lata region 110 284, 286, 289, 294, 303, 305, 307–354, 374, Latin America (see America) 381–383, 387, 388 Lesser Sunda Islands 181, 195 Mandalay 216 Liao river 323 Mandasor 109–111, 121 Liaodong Peninsula 310, 382 Manila 287, 366 Liaoning 308, 310, 311, 318, 351, 352, 356, Masulipatnam 39, 109, 112, 113 357 Matan 205–207 Liaoyang 323–326, 328 Mataram 152, 166 Liaozhong 323–328 Matsumae 367 Ligor 366 Mauritius 27, 143 Lijiang 216, 224, 225, 227, 229 Mecca 30, 43, 152, 167, 169–172, 177 Lincolnshire 8 Medina 30 Lingga 181, 185 Mediterranean 49, 416, 419 Liverpool 10 Meixiang 183, 204 Lombok 267 Mekong 220, 224–230, 243 London 10, 237, 293, 368 Melaka 180–186, 190, 192, 208, 209, 213 Lourdes 43 Mempawa 181, 203 Low Countries 52 Mengjiapu Tun 323 Lufeng 203 Mesopotamia 237 Lumajang 165 Mexico City 270, 382 Micronesia 90, 383 Macau 346, 382 Middle East 27, 30, 38, 39, 42, 43, 46, 49, Machilipatnam 109 54, 272, 415, 417, 426 490 Geographical Index

Mie 376 Niligiris 140 Minahasa 181, 208 Ningbo 198 Minangkabau 181, 202 Ningxia 351, 357, 358 Mino 400 Nishijō village 371 Miyagi 376 Nmai Hka river 227, 232, 235 Miyazaki 376 Nōbi plain 396 Mogok 237 North Korea 362, 378, 379, 383 Moluccan Islands 266 North Sea (East Asia) 408 Monghyr 100 Nu Mountains (see also Bilao) 225, 227, Möngla 236 231 Möngmien (Tengchong) Nujiang 219, 220, 230, 232, 234, 235, 239, Mongolia 285, 308, 310, 318, 319, 340, 351, 240, 245 352, 357, 358 Monterado 181, 204 Oceania 13, 383 Moscow 60, 62, 80, 85 Ogawa 373 Mozambique 185 Ōita 376 Mugujia 230, 233 Okayama 376 Mukden 310, 313, 387 Okinawa 362, 375–377, 385 Multan 100 Ōmi 400 Mumbai (see Bombai) Ommelanden 195–200, 209 Myanmar (see also Burma) 174, 215, 217, Ontario 245 220, 222, 243 Orissa 116 Myitkyina 216, 238 Osaka 368, 371, 373, 374, 376, 390, 391, Mysore 102, 116, 140 396, 398–402 Ottoman Empire 8, 12, 28, 36, 37, 43, 46, Nadu 94–98, 100, 104–106, 108–110, 47, 49, 50, 65, 76, 91, 93, 281, 288, 289, 415, 116–118, 128, 141 421, 422 Nagano 376 Outer Islands 153, 167, 172–174, 177, 179, Nagapattinam 133, 142 255–261, 264, 272, 274 Nagasaki 35, 365–367, 376, 377 Owari 400 Nagulapura 106 Nakhon Si Thammarat (see Ligor) Pacific 71, 82, 307, 377, 381, 382, 383 Nalgonda 108, 117 Pacific Islands 377, 382 Nanjing 338 Pakistan 23, 38, 48 Nara 376 Palakkad 118 Negapatam 133 Pale of Settlement 77 Nellore 116 Palembang 169, 181, 193, 202, 206, Nepal 38, 126 261 Nerkunram 105 Palestine 416 Netherlands, the 7, 8, 10, 21, 39, 48, 53, Palk Strait 126 152, 263–265, 393 Pamanukan 162 New Caledonia 266, 275 Pamelang 163 New Russia 63, 66 Pampas (Argentina) 11 New York 146, 242, 243, 344 Panarukan 166 Newchwang (see Yingkou) Panshan 323–326, 328 Nigeria 344 Panwa 237 Niigata 376 Paris 4, 8, 368 Nijō 399, 400, 402 Pasisir 152, 161 Geographical Index 491

Pasuruan 154, 157, 159, 160, 162, 165–167, Rome 43, 101 175, 176 Russia 5, 16–18, 21–28, 31–43, 46–49, Patani 366 53–88, 281, 286–289, 305, 307–312, 319, 331, Pathan 39 332, 342, 368, 374, 377, 383, 384, 393–395, Pattisvaram 112 409, 414, 418, 422, 423, 425–428 Pearl River (Delta) 299, 345 Rutlam 117 Pekalongan 154, 158, 160, 163, 175, 176 Ryūkyū Islands 36, 37, 362, 367, 374, 375, Peking (see Beijing) 384, 385 Penang 127, 128, 131, 133, 143, 146, 180–182, 185–190, 192, 207–209 Sadon 237 Periyanadu 97 Safavid (kingdom) 40 Persia 77, 93 Saga 373, 376, Peru 32, 378, 382, Saitama 376 Philippines 36, 38, 174, 193, 378, 382 Sakhalin Island 382, 383 Pittsburgh 10 Salem 93, 103, 108, 116, 119, 120, 141, 142, Poland 12, 23, 39, 64 146 Pondicherry 96, 133 Saliyar 94, 103, 106–108, 117, 199 Pontianak 181, 202–204, 206, 207 Salween valley 219, 220, 224, 225, Port Swettenham 133 227–232, 235–240, 243, 244 Portugal 24, 48, 416 Sambas 203 Priangan 152–156, 159–161, 163–165, 167, Sanda 236 176 San Thome 113 Primorsky 310, 311 Santiago de Compostella 43 Prince of Wales Island 128 Sarawak 211 Probolinggo 154, 157, 160, 165, 166 Saskatchewan 245 Prussia 35, 65 Satpura mountains 96 Pudukottai 144 Satsuma 35, 367, 375 Pulau Bintam 211 Scandinavia 39 Pulicat 113, 115 Scotland 427 Punjab 126 Semarang 154, 158, 160, 161, 167, 175, 176, Pusan 36, 367 179, 261 Putao valley 219, 240, 241 Sendai 399 Shandong 235, 286, 308, 311, 316, 320, Qinghai 310, 338, 340, 357, 358 324, 325, 327, 328, 340, 342, 351, 352, 356, Qiansankuaishi Tun 323 357 Qiansunjiawo Tun 323 Shanghai 304, 308, 338, 339, 342, 346, 351, Quighai 351 352, 356, 357 Shangpa 232 Rajahmundry 116 Shantou 183, 202 Ramanathapuram 142 Shanxi 285, 351, 357, 358 Ramnad 144 Shaanxi 351, 357, 358, Rangoon 133, 146 Shenyang (Fengtian) 310, 323, Rayalaseema 99 Shenxi 285 Rembang 154, 160, 164, 176 Shiga 376 Rembau 181, 185 Shikoku (Island) 43 Riau (Islands) 181, 190, 192, 193, 202, 205, Shimabara 377 206, 209, 211–213 Shimane 376 Riau-Lingga 185 Shizuoka 376 Romania 8, 23 Siak 181, 206 492 Geographical Index

Siam 39, 148, 171, 182, 188, 189, 203, 204, Taliamaner 133 211, 266, 275, 366, 367 Tamil Nadu 94–96, 98, 100, 104–110, Siberia 27, 49, 56, 59, 60, 63, 68, 69, 71, 116–118, 128, 141 73, 81, 82, 288, 304, 307, 309, 377, 381–383, Tanba 400 387, 388 Tangelang 201 Sichuan 216, 228, 229, 283, 285, 288, 295, Tanjavur 104, 105, 108, 109, 120, 297, 303, 342, 351, 352, 357, 358 142–144 Sikoku 376 Tanjore 154, 158, 160, 163, 175 Sima 237 Tegal 154, 158, 160, 163, 175 Singapore 27, 40, 98, 128, 133, 143, 146, 170, Telangana 99, 102 171, 173, 180–184, 186, 188, 190, 192–194, 203, Telugu 39, 40, 96, 97, 102, 117, 132 208–214, 267, 288 Tengchong 220, 236 Singkawang 181, 204 Tengger 164, 165 Sivagangai region 98 Tengyue 230, 236 South Africa 5, 344, 416 Terenggam 212 Soviet Union (see also Russia) 12, 32, 62 Thailand 27, 48, 98, 215–217, 219–221, 223, Spain 4, 36, 37, 39, 72 225, 227, 236, 242, 243, 245, 366 Sri Lanka (see also Ceylon) 38, 98, 126, Tianjin 304, 338–340, 351, 356, 357 147 Tibet 13, 224, 238, 297, 310, 341, 351 St. Petersburg 62, 68, 79, 80 Tiruchi 125, 143, 144, 146 Straits Settlements 127, 129, 135, 146, 180, Tiruchirapalli 105, 106, 109, 117, 142 182, 184, 192, 210 Tirukkanapuram 105 Sukadana 181, 203, 205 Tirunelveli 106, 108, 111, 142–144 Sulawesi (see also Celebes) 181, 193, 199, Tiruppalanam 106, 120 200, 205, 207, 209, 267 Tirupakkadal 104 Sumatra 98, 131, 152, 167–169, 171–173, 178, Tirupati 98, 106, 116, 119 181, 192, 193, 202, 203, 206, 256–260, 263, Tochigi 376 264, 267, 366 Tōhoku 376 Sumba 181, 195 Tokushima 376 Sumbawa 185 Tōkyō (see also Edo) 364, 373, 376, 390, Sumenap 162 408 Sunda, street 152, 169 Tondaimandalam 104, 105 Sunda (see Lesser Sunda islands) Tosa (domain) 397, 398 Surabaya 154, 160, 162, 175, 176, 261, 263 Tottori 376 Surakarta 152, 154, 158, 160, 165, 168, 175, Toyama 376 176 Toyin Yashiki 35 Surat region 109, 111, 113, 117, 198 Travancore 140 Suriname 49, 173, 258, 266, 275 Tsukari 373 Suruga 400 Tsushima 36, 367 Sweden 10 Turkey 12, 16, 24, 48, 77 Switzerland 427 Tuticorin 133, 142 Syria 45 Udaiyavar 106 Tabira 366 Ukraine 12, 59, 60, 68, 73, 80, 288 Taipei vii, 346 United Kingdom 7, 8, 11, 23, 35, 38, 48, Taiping 283, 284, 286, 296, 320 107, 210, 266 Taiwan vii, 10, 28, 47, 49, 183, 284, 285, United States 4, 8, 10, 24, 37, 38, 41, 343, 288, 343, 346, 351, 374, 377, 379, 380–383, 362, 381, 415 386, 388 Uraiyur 109, 111, 117 Geographical Index 493

Urals 60, 63, 68, 71, 81, 82 Xiamen 183, 198 Ushiku (domain) 398 Xinjiang 340, 341, 342, 352, 357 Xinmin 323–326, 328 Venice 36 Vientiane 216 Yamadano 373 Vietnam (see also Indochina) 24, 29, 36, Yamagata 376 38, 45, 48, 344, 345, 366 Yamaguchi 375, 376 Vijayanagara Empire 93–96, 98–101, 106, Yamanashi 376 107, 116 Yamashiro 400 Vindhya mountains 96 Yamato (river) 374, 396 Virginia 8 Yangon 216 Vishakapatnam 141, 142 Yangtze river/delta 225, 243, 283, 284, Vizagapatam 133 285, 286, 290, 296, 299, 303 Vladivostok 10, 77 Yemen 193 Volga 60, 63, 76 Yezhi 227, 228 Yingkou (Newchwang) 311, 327 Waegwan (in Pusan) 36 Yogyakarta 152, 154, 158, 160–162, 165, 167, Wakasa 400 168, 175–177 Wakayama 376 Yokohama 390 Wales 39, 98 Yugoslavia 23, 45 Wangjing 346 Yunnan 215, 219, 221, 222, 224–226, 228, Wayanad 118 229, 231, 238, 239, 242, 245, 340, 351, 357, Weixi 226–229 358 Wellesley (province) 127, 181, 188, 189, 209 West Indies 48, 127 Zhejiang 340, 342, 351, 352, 356 Westphalia 53 Zhongdian 228 White Sea 59 Wonolongan 159 Wuchang 304 Subject Index

Aid workers 242 Colonial circuit 8 Aisin Gioro (clan) 310 Colonization (see Migration) Amsterdam Trading Society (HVA) 167 Communism 41, 226, 239–241, 246, 306, Apartheid 5 336, 344 Army train (see Migration) Concentration camps 7, 418 Artisans 7, 8, 14, 18, 19, 20, 44, 45, 97, 101, Consumption 182, 211–214, 242 104, 192, 208, 209, 294, 372, 423 Conversion 36 Augustinian Church 39 Convicts 187, 191–193, 420, 421 Aussiedler 48 Coolies (see Migration) Corvée labor 155–157, 159, 163, 372, 396, Bannermen 294, 400 397, 422 Borderlands (see Borders) Cultivation System (Java) 153, 157, 159, Borders 6, 10, 12, 27, 29, 31, 33, 36, 41, 161, 163, 164, 167, 175, 177, 180, 256, 257 44, 46, 49, 59–61, 63, 68–71, 76, 81, 87, 93, Cultural Revolution (China) 339, 360 96, 97, 99, 103, 107, 116, 117, 125, 126, 128, 131, 148, 153, 158, 163, 165–167, 209, 217, Daimyo 364, 369, 372–374, 387, 391, 218, 220, 226, 237–239, 240, 241, 248, 255, 396–402 257, 258, 280, 281, 284, 285, 288, 289, 291, Decolonization 20, 247, 248, 250–255, 293–295, 298–306, 308, 311, 312, 323, 327, 263, 265, 267, 272 331, 339–341, 349, 354, 359, 360, 365, 384, Dekasegi (seasonal migrants) 390, 391, 393, 421, 422 404–408 Bracero Program 37 Dhows (ship) 171 Brahmins 102, 110, 121, 122 Domestics 7, 9, 18–20, 44, 123, 127, 132, Brick making 42, 78, 79, 192 152, 175, 179, 185, 200, 209, 267, 294, 370, British India Steam Navigation Company 378, 403, 423 (BISNC) 133 Dutch Royal Shipping Company Buckingham Palace 237 (KPM) 170 Burma Rifles 235 East India Company (English) 40, 98, 109, Caste system 28, 52, 94, 98, 102, 108, 112, 112, 113–116, 125, 185, 202, 213 115, 119, 120, 121, 132, 142, 143, 306 East India Company (Dutch) (VOC) 50, Chalukya dynasty 109 98, 109, 112, 153, 155, 185, 194, 195, 198, 199, Champa rice 372 203, 205, 209, 364, 366, 367 Chaudeswari Amman (deity) 120 Eight Banners 27, 310, 311, 318 Chettis (merchants) 98, 102, 104, 107, 115, Ethnic Groups 119 Acehnese 40, 186 Chinese Communist Party (CCP) 239 Achang 236 Chinese Eastern Railway 312 Afaquis 92, 93 Chola empire 94, 96, 99, 104–106, 109, African Americans 7, 426 120, 123 Africans 30, 92, 219, 246, 289, 346, 427 Chosun Korea (kingdom) 367 Agambadiyar 99 Chungdi (technique) 109 Ainu 368, 384 Citizenship 38, 362 Ambonese 197, 199, 209 Civil Rights Movement (US) 426 Americans 7, 33, 388 Civil servants 127, 151, 159, 168, 265 Anishinaabe-Cree 245 subject Index 495

Anung 219, 220, 227, 230–235, French 7, 9, 24, 39, 109, 227, 238 239–240, 244, 245 Gaundar 119 Arabs 39, 40, 52, 178, 179, 186, 190, 193, Germans 7, 10, 23, 31, 36, 48, 66, 81, 201, 206, 207, 266 427 Arakanese 39, 50, 195 Ghati 90 Armenians 12, 39, 40, 45, 186, 190, 193 Golla 99 Baba 183 Gujaratis 192 Balinese 191, 195, 197, 199, 209 Gurkhas 27 Banajigas 104 Gypsies 6, 45 Banians 45 Hainanese 184 Bataks 186 Hakka 184, 202, 203 Bedouins 170 Hmong 218, 224, 244 Belgians 10, 24 Hmong-Miao 224 Bengali 40, 186, 187, 192 Hokkien 183, 184, 190, 192, 201 Blackfoot (Canada) 245 Hoklo 202, 203 Boyanese 191 Idaiyar 102, 103 Bretons 4 Indians 37, 45, 50, 52, 91–148, 184, British 10, 44, 82, 96, 125, 127, 131, 141, 186–193, 196, 197, 199, 201, 209 147, 156, 185, 186, 190–194, 202–214, Indonesians 45, 179, 196, 200, 201, 209, 229–232, 235–239, 245, 266, 267, 382 212, 257, 266, 274, 275 Bugis 190, 191, 193, 197, 199, 205–209, Iranians 380 212 Iranun 206–209 Burmese 187, 235 Janrawar 115 Canadians 239 Japanese 32, 148, 151, 220, 239, 245, Cantonese 190, 192 259,266, 312, 313, 318, 319, 322, 331, Chaliyar 108, 119 362–409 Chinese 40, 44, 71, 128, 129, 131, Javanese 30, 40, 151–153, 155–158, 160, 136, 137, 140, 150, 152, 156, 167, 170, 166, 167–172, 174, 175, 177, 178, 188, 190, 178, 180–214, 219–222, 224, 226, 236, 192, 194, 197, 199, 255, 256, 258, 259, 245, 246, 257, 258, 264–266, 272, 275, 266, 274 281–361, 365, 367, 377, 379, 380, 409, 413, Jawi-Pekans 186 426, 427 Jawi-Paranakan 193 Chulia (Tamils) 39, 186, 187 Jedara 94, 108, 115, 116 Cochin-Chinese 191 Jinghpaw 235–237, 239, 240, 244 Cossacks 55 Julaha 94 Cree 245 Jurchens 310 Dai 224 Kachin (see Jinghpaw) Dalit 142 Kaikkolar 94, 99, 102–106, 112, 114, 116, Danes 39, 109 120 Dayak 204, 206, 207 Kalmyks 76 Devanga 94, 96, 103, 108, 109, 116, 119, Kamma 99 120 Kammalar 104 Dutch 8, 19, 24, 35, 39, 43, 82, 99, 109, Kannadas 39, 103 112, 151–179, 182, 193–196, 199–203, 205, Karen 218, 222, 227, 238, 244 206, 208, 219, 247, 251, 256, 261, 264, Kham Tibetans 225 265, 266, 270, 272, 273, 364, 367 Klings (from Kalinga, India) 188 Endehnese 195 Komati 104 English 39, 109, 111, 125 Koreans 36, 45, 52, 53, 77, 312, 319, 323, Filipinos 45, 378, 380 346, 362, 365, 367, 377–380, 386 496 subject Index

Madurese 153, 162, 165, 166, 266 Scots 66 Makassarese 195, 197, 199, 200, 205, Senguntar 103, 114–116 209 Serbs 66 Malays 40, 183–186, 189, 190, 192,193, Shan 235, 236 197–207, 209 Siamese 39, 187, 191, 367 Manchus 36, 284, 294, 295, 310, 311 Sulu 207 Mandar 208, 209 Sundanese 169, 194, 200, 266 Mardijkers 195, 196, 199 Swiss 66 Mongols 39, 225, 226, 294 Taiwanese 343, 346, 377, 379, 380 Moors 36, 41, 197, 199 Tamils 39, 105, 127, 132, 138, 140, 143, Moroccans 7 146, 148 Mosuo (Na) 228 Telugu 39, 40, 122 Na 225, 226, 228, 229 Thais 242 Native Americans 245 Tibetans 225, 226, 228, 231, 238, 341 Naxi (Na) 226, 230, 231 Tikos 202 Nattukottai 98, 102 Tsarong Tibetans 228 Nikkeijin 26, 32, 362, 378 Turks 7, 39, 49 Nuguan (see Nu) Velama 99 Nu(su) (people) 219, 220, 222, 224, Vellalar 102, 103, 119 226, 227, 230–235, 238, 239, 244, 245 Vikings 13 Oji-Cree 245 Wa 244 Orang Bugits 206, 207 Wajin 384 Orang Betawi 200 Yadavas 99 Orang Laut 206–209 Zainichi Koreans 362, 378, 379 Orissans 39 Eurasians 40, 182, 184, 186, 187, 190, 191, Padma-Saliya 103 201 Pallar 102 Parsis 186, 192 Falkenberg & De Haas (company) 167 Pattu-Saliya 103 Family systems 4, 46, 51–53, 108, 111, 132, Pattunulkarar 94, 101, 102–104, 217, 229, 234, 244, 331, 332, 370, 423, 426 109–112, 117–119, 121 Famine 41, 105, 112–115, 123, 126, 240, 283, Peguans 40 304, 338 Peranakan (locally born) Chinese 193, 201, 202 Gambir 188, 193, 206, 209–211 Persians 39, 40 Gender 4, 11, 18, 19, 40, 51–53, 110, 126, 140, Portuguese 24, 39, 99, 101, 108, 119, 182, 155, 157, 167, 168, 173, 185, 188, 192, 193, 195, 184, 186, 187, 190, 287, 364, 365, 367 200, 201, 203, 204, 215, 219, 222, 231–240, Punjabis 192 265, 340, 362, 374–378, 381, 412, 419, 423, Rajput 39, 49 424, 428 Rawang 240 Great Divergence Debate 46, 47, 54, 87, Reddy 99 417, 426 Saora 141 Great Leap Forward 12, 41, 240, 241, 338, Saale 94, 101, 103, 106–108, 117–121 360 Salewar 115 Great Post Road (Java) 156 Salige 108 Great Wall (China) 310, 320 Saliyar (see Saale) Green Standard Army 295, 296 Sambuvarayas 105 Guest worker (system) 20, 24, 37, 412, Saurashtrar 94, 101, 102, 104, 109–111, 419 117, 121 Gunboat diplomacy 46, 375 subject Index 497

Hajj (see Religion) Kuki 217 Hukou system 336, 347–350, 352–355, 427 Lahu 224, 227 Human capital 19, 354, 356, 418, 423 Lipo 224 Lisu 215–246 Imperialism 51, 131, 133, 363, 425 Malayalam 97, 102, 117 Indian Mutiny (1857) 125 Marathi 119 Intermarriage (and intermixing) 48, Mizo 217 52, 53, 94, 166, 183, 184, 188, 190, 192, 196, Nahkawe (Saulteaux) 245 199–204, 206, 207, 209, 227, 232, 233, 236, Nusu 219, 220, 227, 230–235, 239, 244, 250, 294, 343, 364, 374, 245 International Labour Office (ILO) 9, 51 Patnuli 117, 119 Persian 39, 40 Jajmani system 97 Sanskrit 40, 110 Jannisaries 12 Sundanese 152 Jim Crow (legislation) 426 Tai 217 Jin (dynasty) 310 Tamil 96–98, 102, 114, 117, 119, 120, 122 Jōkamachi (castle towns) 385 Telugu 96, 97, 102, 105, 116, 117, 119, 120, Junk (trade) (see alsoTransport) 190, 142, 146 194, 198, 204, 211–213, 288, 296, 297, 312, Teochew 184, 192, 193 320, 367 Urdu 40 Yawyin (see Lisu) Kachin Independence Army 241 Lashkars 27, 45 Kafirs (non-Muslim natives) 187, 190, 191 Laukeh system 168 Kamakura shogunate 363 League of Nations 51 Kangany system 132, 137 Lebensraum 23 Khans 65, 73 Lisu Autonomous Prefecture 220 Kinship (see Family Systems) KNIL (Colonial Dutch Army, East Mahratta 49 Indies) 178, 265, 266 Malaria 165, 168, 198, 240 Kongsi 193, 202–205 Malava era 110 Kuomintang 231, 239, 242 Malthusian pressure 46, 87, 88, 30, 33, Kulaks 12 69, 372 Manchus (rulers) 36, 226, 237, 294, Ladang system (see also swiddening) 151, 295–297 156 Maoism 226 Land reclamation 41, 373, 374 Marriages (see Family systems) Lanfang (kongsi) 203, 204 Marrons 420 Language 13, 40, 77, 95–98, 102, 116–120, Martial races 125 147, 152, 200, 201, 216–220, 224, 228, Mataram, cempire 152, 166 232–235, 238, 240, 243–245, 294, 310 Meiji era 374, 375, 377, 380, 384 Bai 220, 226, 227, 229 Mercantilism 35–37, 249 Cantonese 192 Mestizos 196 Chin 217 Middle Ages 16, 39, 41, 49, 52, 99, 101, 313, Drung 220, 231 368, 425 Gujarathi 119 Migration Hakka 192, 204 Army train 18, 34, 75, 294, 297 Hindustani 40 Circular 119, 133, 138, 143, 147, 173, 416, Hokkien 192 423 Kannada 96, 97, 102, 116, 117, 119 498 subject Index

(Post) Colonial 7, 9, 26, 27, 32, 40, 280, 294, 296, 297, 363, 365, 367, 388, 47–49, 148, 151–179, 182, 184, 186, 187, 389, 393, 413, 423 190, 191, 201, 247–275, 287, 362, 378, 422 Seasonal 6–8, 11, 14–20, 22, 23, 25, 26, Colonization 14, 17, 20, 23, 25, 26, 30, 34, 35, 41–43, 74–80, 85, 84, 124, 126, 30–36, 41, 46–48, 54–56, 59, 61, 66, 129, 140, 153, 155, 164, 166, 167, 169, 173, 68, 69, 71, 74–76, 81–88, 125, 166, 178, 176–178, 199, 218, 232, 249, 252, 275, 208, 218, 219, 245, 246, 248, 251, 255, 280, 285, 294, 298, 299–304, 309, 258, 259, 261, 272, 280, 284–289, 291, 316–318, 331, 359, 361, 363, 368, 370, 293–295, 298–303, 305, 307, 309, 390–392, 394, 404–409, 413, 416, 422, 316–318, 322, 327, 331, 332, 361, 362, 374, 423, 428 377, 384, 392–394, 414, 416, 417, 422, Slaves 4–7, 12, 30, 40, 49, 50, 51, 76, 92, 423, 425, 427, 428 93, 113, 123, 170, 181, 185, 186, 195, 196, Coolies 90, 159, 168, 169, 173, 177, 178, 199, 200, 201, 206–209, 217, 219, 220, 194, 198, 203, 211, 214, 258, 259, 264, 267 225, 228, 231, 244, 249, 288, 294, 365, Emigration 9, 14, 17, 20, 23, 25, 32, 420–422, 428 34–37, 41, 58, 59, 74–77, 81, 83–86, 122, Sojourners 6, 8, 13, 44, 132, 390 124, 127, 128, 130, 131–143, 146, 148, 153, Soldiers 2, 8, 14, 15, 17, 18, 20, 22–24, 157, 161, 162, 169, 172, 173, 176–178, 192, 26, 31, 32, 39, 44–47, 54, 75, 86, 92, 218, 240, 250–254, 258, 266, 272, 274, 93, 152, 155, 178, 191, 192, 199, 209, 218, 275, 180, 184, 287, 288–305, 312, 315, 335, 219, 225, 226, 228, 237, 239, 241, 242, 343, 344, 359–361, 365, 367, 374, 375, 249, 250, 252, 265, 266, 280, 284, 294, 377, 380–383, 392–395, 422, 423 295, 297, 301–303, 318, 321, 340–343, Ex-pats 4, 6–9, 153, 263–266, 422 359, 360, 362, 363, 374, 377, 383, 384, Immigration 9, 14, 17, 20, 23–25, 30, 386–389, 413, 422, 423, 425, 426 32, 34, 35, 37, 74–77, 81, 85, 86, 111, 125, Temporal Multi Annual 14, 17, 18, 22, 133–136, 139–141, 146, 147, 152, 161–167, 23, 25, 34, 35, 43, 74–77, 85, 86, 281, 294, 174, 176–178, 193, 194, 197, 218, 226, 229, 360, 361, 387, 389, 392, 394, 403, 414, 250–254, 258, 259, 263–267, 272, 274, 416, 422, 423, 428 280, 288, 302, 311, 313, 321, 322, 327, To Cities 7, 14, 16, 17, 20, 22–26, 28, 329, 343, 344–346, 359–362, 367, 377, 32–35, 38, 53, 76, 77, 85, 86, 119, 133, 144, 379–381, 392–394, 422, 423 178, 182, 208, 218, 251, 253, 255, 260–262, Indentured 12, 27, 30, 44, 51, 127, 131, 267, 268, 272, 274, 280, 290, 192, 294, 132, 137, 153, 167, 170, 185, 249, 375, 414, 301–303, 336–339, 352, 359, 360, 361, 416, 422 370, 375, 385, 386, 392, 394, 395, 403, Missionaries (see Migration) 220, 223, 414, 415, 418, 422, 423, 425–428 227, 234, 238, 239, 241, 364, 422 Trafficking 7 Nomadism 18, 28–30, 42, 53–70, 75, Transhumance 18, 42 190, 193, 245, 306, 311, 365 Migration Stock Rate (MSR) 252 Pilgrims 28, 30, 31, 43, 54, 64, 91, 123, Mines 47, 48, 65, 129, 181, 183,184, 192, 152, 168–173, 179, 252, 275 202–205, 207, 209, 210, 213, 214, 257, 258, Refugees 12, 20, 23, 24, 34, 37, 40, 194 265, 301, 309, 312, 317, 325, 340, 377, 416 Return 198, 199, 237, 241, 266, 285, 294, Ming dynasty 12, 36, 46, 224–226, 229, 309, 313, 317, 320, 322, 331, 338, 339, 341, 282–285, 290, 295, 299, 300, 310, 311, 365 344, 345, 362, 363, 365, 366, 371, 374, Missionaries (see Migration) 377, 378, 379, 380, 383, 384, 386, 387, Monasteries 60, 78 390, 395, 404, 420, 421, 423, 426, 428 Monetization 50, 153, 177, 364, 370 Sailors 8, 14, 15, 17, 18, 20, 27, 31, 44–46, Mughals (rulers) 36, 37, 44, 50, 99–101, 75, 86, 125, 178, 199, 209, 218, 219, 252, 415 subject Index 499

Muharram cult (see Religion) Qing dynasty 46, 195, 220, 224–226, 228, Mukden Incident 313, 387 229, 237, 281–285, 287, 288, 291–297, 299, Muscovy state 56, 61, 68, 81, 83 300, 305, 307, 309–311, 313, 317–320, 323, 324, 331, 332, 335 National Bureau of Economic Research (NBER) 9–10 Railways (see Transport) Nationalism 9–11, 25, 37, 147, 170, 217, 218, Raj (British) 44 224, 226, 232, 238, 263, 265, 343, 345, 350, Religion 13, 31, 42, 52–53, 91, 111, 121, 123, 375, 378 199, 201, 220, 228, 240, 417, 418, 422, 423 Nayaka kingdom 112 Buddhism 43, 53, 91, 228 Nazis 24 Catholicism 43, 238 Nikkeijin 26, 32, 362, 378 Christianity 36, 53, 220, 239–242, 246, Nomadism (see Migration) 365, 367 Church of Christ 239 October Revolution (Russia) 37 Dissenters 31 Olympic Games (Tōkyō 1964) 390 Evangelism 238–239, 242 Opium 36, 37, 204, 210, 211, 213, 221, 223, Hajj 30, 43, 152, 169–173, 252, 275 238, 240, 242, 311 Hinduism 39, 40, 43, 53, 120, 121, 125, Orientalism 51, 362 128, 166, 196, 197 Otkhod (seasonal migrants) 77 Huguenots 36 Islam 30, 39, 53, 92, 121, 170 Pariahs 143 Jain (shrines) 43, 91 Pallava rulers 94, 107 Jews 12, 36, 37, 39, 77, 190, 193 Pannaiyal system (serfdom) 123 Muharram cult 120, 121 Passenstelsel (travel permits) 156, 163 Muslims 37, 39, 40, 43, 60, 91, 94, Passports (internal) (see also Borders) 106, 120, 121, 125, 128, 166, 191, 193, 196, 58, 67, 79, 156, 163, 171, 375 197, 199, 200, 202, 228, 283, 296, 319, People’s Liberation Army (PLA) 341, 342 421 Persian court culture 94 Protestantism 220, 238, 239 Pilgrims (see Migration) Russian Orthodox Church 43 Piracy 206, 207, 296, 365, 389 Shaiva 123 Plantations 30, 44, 47–49, 98, 125–133, Shamanism 231, 240 137, 140–142, 151–153, 155–157, 159, 162, Sikhs 27, 192 164–170, 173–178, 180, 182, 184, 188, 189, Sufis 91, 92, 121 193–195, 201, 206, 209–214, 249, 256–258, Reconquista 47 264, 375, 416, 422 Retornados 9 Population Exchange (‘Partition’ Romusha (forced labor scheme) 266 India-Pakistan) 23 Royal Geographical Society 10 Population Exchange (Turkey-Greece) 48 Rural-urban migration (see Migration/To Port cities 40, 77, 101, 128, 141, 146, 155, 159, Cities) 168, 169, 171, 175, 176, 179, 188, 190, 194, 204, 205, 208, 209, 214, 261, 327, 363, 365–367 Sailors (see Migration) Prairies (see also Steppes) 41 Samtiaokioe (kongsi) 203 Prisoners of war 7 Sangam period 104 Production and Construction Corps Sankin kōtai system (alternate attendance in 340–342 Edo) 396 Proto-Industrialization 41, 42, 371, 372, Satavahana dynasty 91 393 Self-Defense Forces (Japan) 388 500 subject Index

Serfdom 49, 56, 60–62, 64, 66–68, 78–81, Trans-Siberian Railway 68 84, 85, 123, 289 Sheikh (Java) 170, 171 United Nations 51 Shinden 373, 374 Urbanization (see also Migration/To Shipping (see Transport) Cities) 17, 19, 25, 32, 33, 38–40, 46, 54, Shoguns 363–367, 372, 374, 387, 391, 84, 101, 122, 144, 146, 151, 173–175, 247, 248, 396–399, 401, 402 250, 251, 253, 255, 260–262, 268, 272, 273, Shunzhi (dynasty) 323 280, 290–293, 303, 305, 337, 338, 361, 363, Sinicization 309, 310, 312, 322, 331 364, 368, 371, 374, 378, 385–387, 393, 395, Slavery (see slaves) 414, 415, 425, 427 Slaves (see Migration) Soesman Immigration Office 167 VOC (see East India Company, Dutch) Sojourners (see Migration) Soldiers (see Migration) Wakō pirates 365 St. David (fort) 109, 115, 116 Wars 4, 7, 10–14, 16, 20, 22–25, 29, 32–34, St. George (fort) 109, 112, 113, 115, 116 36–38, 41, 43–50, 58, 61, 62, 65, 70, 72, 75, Steppes 28, 41, 55, 59, 61, 63, 65, 68, 70, 76, 77, 85, 87, 97, 105, 131, 134, 147, 148, 156, 165, 80, 81, 310 166, 171, 194, 199, 205–207, 218, 220, 225, Sulu 207 226, 228, 237–239, 243, 248, 250, 263, 266, Sung (dynasty) 372 282, 284, 285, 295, 297, 302, 304, 305, 307, Svadeshi movement 112 308, 310, 311, 313, 335, 341, 343, 363, 364, 377, Swiddening agriculture 28, 29, 31, 41, 151, 378–381, 383, 386–388, 390, 393, 395, 404, 156, 217, 220, 243 405, 407, 408, 414, 422, 425, 426 Anglo-Burmese War 131 Taiping Rebellion (1851–1864) 286, 296, Anglo-Dutch War (Fourth) 199 320 Chinese Civil War 44, 194, 300, Tang dynasty 224, 310 302–305 Thaikong (kongsi) 203 Cold War 24 Third Reich 47 Colonial wars 24 Timurid court culture 93 First World War 37, 134, 237, 422, 426 Tokugawa (dynasty) 363–366, 368, 370, Java War 156 372, 373, 375, 387, 391, 392, 396–399, 402 Korean War (1950–1953) 45, 341 Tourists 30, 232 Opium Wars 36, 37, 238 Toyotomi regime 364–366, 398 Pacific War 381, 383 Trafficking (see Migration) Russo-Japanese War (1904–05) 311, Transhumance (see Migration) 380, 387 Transmigration (see also Second World War 22, 24, 37, 43, 45, Colonization) 258, 259, 261 49, 147, 148, 248, 263, 266, 307, 308, 335, Transport 30, 49, 58, 70, 78, 79, 84, 88, 126, 343, 390, 393–395, 404, 408 131–133, 151, 155, 159, 163, 200, 219, 223, 261, Sino-Japanese War (1894–1895) 377, 263, 265, 270, 279, 298, 304, 305, 312, 313, 380, 387, 388 331, 351, 408, 414 Sino-Japanese War (1937–1945) 313 Shipping 7, 11, 16, 39, 45, 64, 128, 133, White Lotus Uprising (1796–1804) 295, 134, 136, 155, 163, 168, 170, 175, 176, 178, 296 185, 193, 195, 198, 199, 204, 206, 209, 211, Winter Palace (St. Petersburg) 55 297, 365, 367, 377, 389, 390, 393 Railways 64, 68, 75, 82, 148, 153, 159, Yuan empire 224, 310, 313 166, 167, 178, 179, 307, 308, 312, 313, 323, 331, 390 Zomia 29, 215, 217, 218, 221, 243–245